Epilogue

In a dim, smoky bar just outside of Moab, Utah, a young man with heavily tattooed arms sat in the corner, tossing his switchblade into the wooden table again and again. His name was Spence Maclean, and he’d spent the whole night sending death glares at Hank West, and thinking about how he was going to corner that fat son of a bitch in the bathroom and cut him up like a Christmas ham. Nobody was going to take away his bike, even if it was lost fair and square in a bad hand of Texas Hold ‘Em.

West laughed one more time with the rest of his buddies, and then made his way toward the men’s room in the back. Time to move. Spence pocketed his knife and stood up, crossing the barroom with slow, steady strides; a prowling tiger going in for the kill.

As he passed, a man seated at the bar casually stuck his left foot out in front of Maclean, and the young thug tripped and fell on the floor with a loud bang.

All conversation grew quiet and every eye in the room turned to stare at Spence, who lurched from the floor with a snarl and shoved the man at the bar, hard.

“You got somethin’ you wanna say to me, pal?”

“Sure do,” replied the man, raising calm eyes.

Spence invaded the stranger’s personal space, going nose to nose with him in challenge. “You sure ‘bout that? ‘Cause I don’t think you wanna fuck with me right now, partner.”

“Really? I think now would be the perfect time.”

Before Spence even saw it coming, a fist landed in his stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. Never had he been hit by anything so hard. He gasped and doubled over, only to have the other fist connect with his cheekbone and send him sprawling to the floor. The bar patrons watched with silence as the screaming, cursing young man was hauled to his feet by the stranger and dragged out the back door, flailing helplessly.

Behind the Haulin’ Hog Roadhouse, Johnny Blaze punched Spence one more time and slammed him up against the side of the building. Though the younger man drew his knife, he lost it when Blaze pinned his wrist against the wall and kneed him in the groin. Spence lost his bravado and began to wail like the cowardly bully he’d always been.

“Don’t kill me, man,” he choked as Johnny lifted him off his feet by the collar of his jacket. “Please don’t kill me!”

“You’d beg for your own life,” Johnny growled, his skin turning a bright red, “and take another’s. Right, kid?”

Spence didn’t reply. He could only stare in terror as the man in front of him burst into flames, the flesh melting off his face and revealing a grinning white skeleton with hellfire eyes.

“Do you know what happens to murderers and thieves?” the Ghost Rider snarled, staring at the wayward youth. “They go to Hell. And they burrrn.”

Spence, mesmerized by the demon’s eyes, felt his soul ignite in a fire that burned like acid and needles. Every sin he’d ever committed flashed before his eyes: stealing his neighbor’s car, setting fire to his stepmother’s trailer, robbing a convenience store, sending a cop to the ER with multiple stab wounds, the would-be murdering of Hank West in the men’s room . . .

“But I didn’t kill nobody!” Spence wailed, wriggling helplessly in the demon’s iron grip. “I’m innocent! I didn’t kill no one!”

“Yet,” the Rider muttered, and released the young man. He fell to the ground, trembling and cowering, fearing for his life.

“Keep it that way. If you don’t, I’ll be there to take you to Hell myself.” The demon crouched down eye-to-eye with Spence, who recoiled as far as the wall would allow him. “Look into my eyes. See my wrath. See what sin becomes.” He slowly stood, and the flames dissolved around Johnny Blaze’s stern, hard face.

“Now go,” he ordered, pointing away from the bar. “Go and sin no more.”

Wiping the half-dried blood from his mouth, Spence clambered to his feet and ran. He jumped into his beaten pickup truck in the parking lot and started it frantically, then roared away into the night, spewing gravel and dust from beneath his tires as he thundered down the road, never to be the same person again.

Blaze watched until the red taillights disappeared from view, then sighed heavily. He trudged across the lot to his bike, a beautiful shiny black chopper with the name “Faith” airbrushed onto the tank in flaming red lettering. The bike started with a rumble, and Johnny steered Faith onto the pavement once more, heading west.

Heading home.

† † †

The end-of-school bell rang at Fortuna Junior High, and Elizabeth Becker ran from her last class to meet her best friend at her locker. “Oh my God I hate home ec,” she muttered, juggling an armful of text books as she opened her own locker. “I just got my grade back on those raisin cookies and it was a C. My mom is going to kill me.”

“Don’t feel so bad,” said Milly Black, shutting her locker and giving Liz a hopeless look. “I made a D on my biology project.”

Liz opened her mouth in shock as she and Milly walked down the hall. “Oh crap, your brother’s gonna go ballistic when he finds out!”

“If he finds out,” Milly corrected. “I’m not telling him.”

The two 13 year-old girls stepped out of the school and into the bright California sunlight, and walked down the sidewalk toward the waiting buses. Something sparkled at Milly’s neck: a simple silver ring on a sterling chain. She had it tucked carefully beneath her blouse, the same way she’d worn it for the past four years, safe and secret, just as she’d been advised.

“Um, yeah, speaking of your brother,” Liz said as casually as she could, “is he coming to pick you up today?”

“No. He’s working so I’m taking the bus.” Milly narrowed her eyes at her friend suspiciously. “Why do you wanna know?”

Liz shrugged and smiled. “Oh, no reason. He’s only like the cutest guy I’ve ever seen in real life-”

“Eeww!”

“Seriously! When he shows up on his motorcycle wearing that leather jacket and those sunglasses, I could just keel over and die-”

“You’ve got a crush on my brother? Gross!”

“I know he’s too old for me, but still, he is hot . . . And don’t tell him I said that!”

“You’re a perv! I’m gonna tell him everything!”

“You wouldn’t!”

The girls continued to chatter and squeal as they boarded the big yellow school bus, taking their seats together. Liz pulled out her mp3 player and handed one earbud to Milly, and the two of them listened to pop music and gossiped about their families and classmates and teachers until the bus ground its gears and started on its familiar route. The typical ending to a typical day of school; nothing special, nothing ominous, nothing bad.

Just another day to Malinda Black, the girl who had forgotten who she had been.

† † †

A sleek black motorcycle turned off the paved road and onto a long gravel driveway that led through the trees, rumbling slowly up the path to a stone carriage house set back in a grassy, tree-lined clearing. Ivy crept up the front face and wrapped around the three windows on the second floor, trimmed back to keep from crawling up the broad, steep roof. Tangled bushes of wildflowers littered the front garden, lacking symmetry and pruning but nevertheless lovely — and filled with butterflies. The lawn was a bit shaggy and the shutters needed a new coat of paint, but the shabbiness of the house and yard made it somehow comfortable and appealing.

The doors of the garage were wide open, and the familiar tune of Are You Lonesome Tonight greeted Johnny’s ears. He put up the kickstand and walked to the garage door, his boots crunching on the gravel, inaudible over the warm, melodious vocals of Elvis Presley. Johnny looked inside and watched, not making his presence known, wanting to see what things were like when he wasn’t there.

The interior of the garage was littered with easels, paint cans, airbrushing tools, and work desks covered with rolls of canvas and lumber. Posters of classic cars and hot rods hung on the walls beside drying oil paintings. Spattered drop clothes lay crumpled on the floor, and in the center of this chaos stood Blackheart, scratching careful amounts of paint onto a large canvas with the palette knife. His shirt, jeans and hands were speckled and streaked with a muddy rainbow of colors, his blue eyes entirely concentrated upon his work. His hair was longer now, dark bangs falling across his brow and wispy ends curling at the back of his neck. A five o’clock shadow covered his jaw, but it only made him look that much more human. He seemed slimmer than the last time Blaze had seen him, but Blackheart had always been rather lanky; that long black coat he used to wear was good at hiding his slim physique.

From his vantage point, Johnny watched with amazement as a single brush of the palette knife created depth, dimension, and life. In its own way it was a form of magic: making something out of nothing, bringing life to a flat piece of blank canvas, a talent possessed by few. Blaze didn’t have to wonder what had brought on this inspiration — the visit to the Sistine Chapel was all it had taken to spark a fire of obsession. Like Michelangelo, Blackheart was driven by an urge to compose and create, a desire to make beautiful things with which to fill the world. Perhaps it was a way of atoning for his dark, destructive past. Perhaps it was an outlet for all the emotions that now swam in the turbulent sea of his heart, including the grief that he still felt for his lost mother. Whatever Blackheart’s reason, it was obviously his destined path. He’d told Johnny years ago that he wanted to try painting, and now it seemed as if the fledgling art student had found his niche.

Johnny grinned crookedly. “Your mom would be so proud of you.”

Blackheart turned around, his eyes wide with shock. “Johnny,” he said breathlessly, dropping his palette and knife on the table. He broke into a wide smile and strode forward quickly. “Johnny!”

“Kiddo,” the man answered, catching him in a hug so tight it seemed as if their bodies would never come apart. Blackheart smelled faintly of linseed oil and cologne, he felt warm and solid — not a dream, real. “How’ve you been?”

“All right,” Blackheart lied, pulling back and grinning at Blaze. “Business as usual.”

Johnny hooked his arm around Blackheart’s shoulders and admired the current work-in-progress: a hazy, choppy ocean of gray stretching toward a horizon of shattered glass. Dream-like birds flew above the grim sea, soaring in and out of the jagged, broken sky. “This is amazing, kiddo. I don’t know how you do it. Another commission, right?”

“Yeah. Some designer down in Frisco wants a dozen of these. He made me an offer on my Butterflies series, but I had to turn him down.”

“Aah,” Blaze nodded. The seven large paintings that Blackheart had first made, each one a tribute to the last few days he’d spent as the Prince of Hell, were deeply personal and beyond priceless to him. Dealers all over California had come to see them at local exhibits, and every time Blackheart had refused to sell them. That alone was enough to drive art enthusiasts wild, and the angel had found himself a job that would pay better than automotive airbrushing down at the Bass Fortuna Garage. But he was good at that, too, evidence by the lettering on Faith, which Blackheart himself had painted on four years ago.

Four years. Had it really been that long?

“I don’t think I ever thanked you for helping me out in the beginning,” Blackheart said quietly. “I wouldn’t be where I am now without you, Johnny.”

“Ah, kiddo.” Blaze smirked and gave the young man a squeeze. “There’s no need to thank me. I basically pushed you into the water and told you to swim or sink. And you swam like a fish.” He chuckled. “Now you’re the famous Cory Black, greatest artist in northern California, and you’ve got no one to thank but yourself. I always knew you had the strength to stand on your own.”

“It would have been easier if you’d been there to stand with me.”

Johnny gave his head a weary shake. “Trust me, you were better off. If I’d stuck around like you wanted me to, you’d probably still be down at the Fortuna Garage, wasting your talent on hot rods and motorcycles.”

Blackheart gazed at the empty canvases stacked against the wall. “I almost wish you had stayed,” he murmured. “What’s a few paintings in exchange for true happiness?”

Johnny felt his throat tighten uncomfortably, and a knot formed in his stomach. “So, uh, where’s Mills?” he asked as casually as he could.

“She’s probably just getting out of school,” Blackheart said, breaking away to tidy the mess and clean his brushes.

“Ah.” Blaze stuck his hands in his pockets. “How’s she doing?”

Blackheart carefully washed his tools and brushes in the small sink set up in the garage. Diluted paint and water swirled down the drain. “Better,” he answered. “The nightmares seem to have stopped for now. At least she doesn’t wake up screaming about demons and dragons anymore.”

Johnny nodded. “Can’t blame her. I still have dreams myself . . . How is she fitting in here?”

“Fine. Better than I am. She’s in junior high now, plays on the school softball team . . .” Blackheart dried his hands off on a paint-stained towel. “She’s a pretty normal kid. Her science grades could use some improvement, but she’s doing well in all other subjects. I think she plans to try out for chorus with her friend Elizabeth next year.”

“Really? That’s good. How old is she now? Twelve?”

“Thirteen, going on fourteen.” Blackheart looked up and gave Johnny the tired, helpless grin of a much-hassled older brother. “I’ve heard the teen years are the worst.”

“Nah, you’re close enough to her age that she’s not gonna go through the hate-her-parents phase. She’ll be fine. Couldn’t be any worse than when she was the Antichrist.”

Blackheart dried his hands off on a paint-stained towel. “I hope so. Last January she . . .” He made a strained expression and ran his fingers through his raven hair. “Well, she officially, uh . . . became a woman, if you get me.”

“Oh?” Then Johnny eyes went wide with the realization. “Oh. Jeez. I don’t know what to say.”

“Neither did I,” Blackheart admitted, leaning against the table. “I’d forgotten all about that part of human development. So much for being the only person she could talk to about anything.” He shook his head. “I had to call Sabbris to help me out. Sisters don’t want to talk to their big brothers that kind of stuff.”

“Sounds like you had a hell of a day.”

“Yeah. Made the Apocalypse look like a birthday party.”

“But everything’s okay now, I guess?”

“Yeah, Sabbris got her to stop crying, talked with her a bit, and by dinnertime everything was normal again. I don’t know what I’d do without that angel — I wish she’d visit us more often.”

“She and Milly get along okay?”

“Yeah, they’re great together. Sometimes better than me and Milly.” Blackheart paused and stood up. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t keep you standing out here. Want to come in and sit down?”

“Sure. Let me get my bag.”

Johnny went back to his bike and unstrapped his all-purpose leather satchel, shouldered it, and followed Blackheart up the stairs to the second story, which ended at a door that led to a small, cozy kitchen. There was a small dining table set off to one side, bare except for a few of Milly’s fashion magazines and a bowl of fruit: four bananas and a handful of large, plump blueberries. Three stained glass butterflies dangled in front of the large kitchen window, catching the sun’s rays and sending colored light dancing across the counter top.

Blackheart went to the stove and turned the kettle on. “You want anything to drink? Coffee, tea . . . ?”

“Water would be fine, thanks.”

Blackheart grinned. “Right. Always water.”

“I’ve become that predictable, huh?” Blaze joked.

“It’s not a problem,” Blackheart insisted quickly. “It’s good to know that some things haven’t changed.”

Johnny smirked and moved over to stand in front of the refrigerator. It was covered with a variety of magnets, many of them holding snapshots of Milly and who Johnny guessed was her best friend Elizabeth. Blackheart was in a few photos: grinning at the camera with Milly sitting behind him on his motorcycle; wincing as he was smacked with a water balloon while Milly screamed with laughter; standing on the front steps with Milly on Halloween, wearing a cowboy hat and a familiar pair of black snakeskin boots while his sister was dressed in a gypsy costume. There was even one of Sabbris and Blackheart decorating Milly’s 11th birthday cake. They were both covered in powdered sugar and Sabbris had blue icing in her hair. Blackheart was grinning, his arm slung casually around her neck, and Sabbris was flashing a peace sign. Johnny felt a small pang of jealousy in his heart. Everybody looked happy. A happy family of angels and misfits.

“Nice pictures,” he commented, joining Blackheart at the table. He took a long sip from his ice water while Blackheart stirred a cup of freshly-brewed tea. “A few more than the last time I was here.”

Blackheart smiled thinly. “A lot happens in four years.”

A brief silence fell between them, lonely and full of unspoken thoughts.

“So . . . have, uh,” said Johnny awkwardly, “you found anyone special yet?”

“Special?”

“Yeah, you know.” Blaze winked. “Special. Like a girl, or-”

“What? No, no,” Blackheart suddenly chuckled and went red. “No girl. No one special.”

“Really? Not even Sabbris? I mean, you two just seem so close . . .”

“No, it’s not like that. Sabbris and I are friends and nothing more. And she’s . . . Well, you know, she’s got her angel things to do. She’s barely around more than you are. Besides, Milly would think I was sick if I suddenly started going out with ‘Cousin Abbi’.”

Johnny tried not to let his relief show. “Oh. I see. But . . . I mean, not even a girlfriend or someone you like-”

Blackheart put his cup down. “No,” he said firmly, looking annoyed by all the personal questions. “No girlfriends. No casual dates. I don’t need it. I’m a contract artist now and all my free time is spent with my sister and myself.”

Blaze leaned back and gave the angel a tender look. “Maybe you should make time,” he said gently.

“Maybe you should,” Blackheart rebutted.

A tense silence fell, and Johnny realized that he was pushing too hard. He knew, as Blackheart obviously did, that forming relationships with normal people would be difficult, if not impossible. He knew this because he had been through the same thing with Roxanne. There would always be the fear of the truth being discovered, the fear of the government catching up with you and locking you and your loved ones up in some place like Area 51. And the last thing Blackheart and Milly needed in their lives was more trauma and pain. Being orphans was difficult enough.

But perhaps even more difficult was the concept of moving on. Because sometimes, when you loved someone enough, the thought of a life without them seemed unimaginable.

“You’re right,” Johnny admitted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to press.”

“It’s okay.” Blackheart shrugged one shoulder, dismissing the subject. “No harm done.”

“I just . . . I just want you to be happy, that’s all.”

The angel’s smile faded. “I am happy,” he murmured, staring at Johnny. “At least now.”

Blaze stared back into those blue eyes, his heart growing hot and sore with need. He reached across the table and laid his hand on Blackheart’s, on the cool soft skin that was still spattered with stubborn paint, and relished the feeling of the bond between them reconnecting.

So much time, so much distance. From the deserted train yard where they first met to San Venganza where they last parted as enemies; from an icy tomb in Hell to a mother’s warm embrace; from an overflowing tub in a motel bathroom to a rattling, rumbling train car; from bloodstained bandages in Phoenix to warm, bare skin in Rome. Each memory arose within Johnny like ghosts from the grave, haunting him with their sweet, beautiful whispers. He looked at Blackheart, at the clear blue eyes that belonged to Heaven’s sky, at the soft curving lips he longed to touch again, at the face he had once held and swore to never betray . . . and Johnny knew that there was no going back.

A low rumble faded into hearing from down the road, then the squeal and huff of a school bus engine. A few moments later the rumble picked back up and faded away. Blackheart looked at Johnny and grinned slightly. Then there came a voice from down below: “Uncle Johnny!”

Footsteps pounded up the stairs and the kitchen door was thrown open. Hands quickly pulled apart as Milly burst into view.

She had really bloomed into a lovely young girl; she was tall, angular and slim, like the mother she could barely remember. Her fair skin was lightly freckled, and she had traded her long locks for a shorter, more mature cut. Her shoulder-length red hair fell messily over her collar, her bangs tucked back by a headband. She broke into a huge smile when she saw her beloved ‘Uncle’ and threw herself into his arms.

“I knew you were here — I saw your motorcycle! Cory didn’t tell me you were coming!” she cried happily, hugging the man while he laughed.

“I wanted it to be a surprise. Ow, take it easy on the old bones there, Mills!”

Milly pulled back and sat down at the table between Johnny and her brother, beaming excitedly. “Where’ve you been? Cory told me you’ve been up north. You didn’t bring me anything, did you?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Johnny reached down into the satchel by his chair, dug around for a moment, and pulled out a small package. He passed it across the table to the happily-surprised girl. “Consider it a belated birthday present.”

Milly gave Johnny an adoring look and carefully tore into the present. Johnny and Blackheart exchanged quick glances and smiles with one another, before Milly’s screech of delight made them both wince.

She held up a pair of delicate silver barrettes fashioned into the shapes of butterflies and flowers, carved from mother of pearl. “Oh, Uncle Johnny! They’re beautiful!”

“I got them at this little handmade jewelry shop in Maine,” he explained, smiling. “I saw them and I thought of you.”

Milly, giddy with glee, pulled the headband out of her hair and pinned back her reddish-brown bangs with the new gifts.

“Just as I thought. You look stunning. Bla — uh, Cory’s going to have to lock you up to keep the boys from beating down your door.”

Milly laughed and gave Johnny another hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Uncle Johnny!”

“Anything for you, sweetheart.”

“How long will you be staying?” she asked hurriedly, glancing between her brother and Blaze.

“Um . . . I’m not sure,” Johnny answered, trying to keep his eyes off of Blackheart. “A day or two, maybe.”

“Great! I’m only asking because Lizzie invited me over to spend the night at her house tonight and I already said yes, but that was before I knew you were here.”

“Spend the night? It’s Thursday and you’ve got school tomorrow,” Blackheart said in a disapproving tone.

Milly made a dramatic face and wheedled, “But she lives right down the road. Her mom will get us to school on time, I promise!”

Blackheart crossed his arms and gave her The Look. “What about that science project of yours? Have you gotten the grade back for it yet?”

Milly went white for a second, then hung her head in defeat. “Yeah.”

“That bad, huh?”

“. . . yeah. I got a D.”

Blackheart sighed disapprovingly. “You know the rules about bad grades, Mills.”

“I know, I know. Fine. You win. I’ll just stay at home tonight and be miserable-”

“Aw, Cory, let her go,” Johnny said with a wave of his hand. “You’re only young once. Besides, she’s got her head on straight. She’ll make up for it somehow.”

“I don’t know, Johnny. A D is pretty low.”

“Aw hell, it’s biology. Nobody likes that crap. Give the kid a break.”

“Oh hey,” Milly interjected, “I made a 98 on my history report last week. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

“See? She’s a good student.”

Blackheart’s gaze wandered from Milly to Johnny, then back to Milly again. He sighed in resignation and Milly grinned happily, throwing her arms around her brother’s neck. “Thanks, Cory! You’re the best!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolled his eyes but smiled despite himself. “Get your things together and I’ll drive you over.”

“Can Uncle Johnny take me? I haven’t seen him in forever, you know.”

“Alright, but be sure to wear your helmet.”

“I will. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“And Johnny? No Amazing Blazing stunts, okay?”

“Cross my heart, hope to die.” Johnny drew an invisible X over his heart and smiled at Blackheart. The angel relaxed from his tense state and returned the smile with a hint of melancholy. It was settled. Milly ran to gather her things.

† † †

Johnny returned a half hour later and parked Faith in the garage beside Blackheart’s dark blue Commando. The angel was waiting for him, wearing his snakeskin boots and a black leather jacket to ward off the spring chill still lingering in the late afternoon. He grinned slyly at Blaze and cocked his head.

“We’ve got a few hours to kill before dark,” he said. “The road out to Cannibal Island is pretty nice this time of year. Four mile straightaway, too.”

Johnny smiled. “You know my Harley is no match for your Norton.”

Blackheart zipped up his jacket and strode forward. “I didn’t have racing in mind,” he said, sliding into the seat behind Johnny. “Just a little ride for old times’ sake.”

Blaze smirked and gave Faith a kick. “Better hold on.”

Blackheart’s arms were already around his waist before he’d even finished his sentence. With a dusty roar they left the gravel driveway and hit smooth asphalt, following the long road west. The fresh wind whipped passed them, tossing their hair and cooling their cheeks. The vibration of Faith’s steady purring lent a trove of memories to its riders that came all the way through the seat and straight to the heart.

Blackheart tightened his grip a little and leaned with the bike as it went around a corner, no longer afraid of the pavement passing swiftly beneath them. Johnny let his back sink against the warm body behind him, thinking about how good and how right it felt to have Blackheart riding with him again. It filled him with an exhilarating sense of euphoria as he isolated his mind solely upon this moment: nothing but the road before him, his bike under him, and the love of his life behind him.

Blaze’s gloved hands tightened on the grips.

The love of his life . . . and the inexplicable fear that stood like a brick wall between them, keeping at bay the one piece of true happiness they both longed to possess.

Blackheart seemed to be thinking the same thoughts, and he laid his cheek against Johnny’s jacket and closed his eyes, holding on like he never wanted to let go. “You should stay this time,” he murmured, though his words were stolen by the wind and lost in the thunder of Faith’s engine. “We could make it work.”

“What?” Johnny shouted over the noise. “I didn’t catch that.”

“Nothing,” Blackheart replied. “I’ll tell you later.”

They rode down Redwood Highway without a word, then turned onto the long straight road that led out to the ocean. They parked on a rocky ridge where the pavement ended, listened to the sound of the surf crashing against the shore. Time seemed to pass too quickly as they sat on the rocks side by side, breathing in the salty ocean air, silently watching the sun sink through the clouds and into the Pacific Ocean.

The night wind picked up, carried across the rolling waves, and Blackheart turned to Johnny in the dusky light. His dark hair was battered by the breeze. “It’s getting late,” he said. “We should start heading back.”

“Good idea. This wind is bone-chilling, even for the Rider.”

Blackheart grunted a laugh as he mounted Faith and pressed close to Johnny. “There’s a café in Fernbridge. They’ve got the best apple pie in the Northwest.”

“Hm,” Johnny murmured, “I was kinda in the mood for pizza. How ‘bout you?”

Blackheart grinned, the last fading rays of light caught in his shining blue eyes. “Always.”

† † †

There was a little mom and pop pizzeria on the corner of Main and 10th, and that was where Johnny and Blackheart found themselves that Thursday night. They lingered there for hours, feeding quarters into the jukebox, making several attempts at lighthearted conversation. Johnny told jokes and road stories, and Blackheart talked about Milly and his art career. No matter how hard they both tried, however, their banter always seemed to dry up and go stale, as if they were forcing themselves to talk for the sake of relieving the discomfort between them. It was sad. They used to be able to speak to one another freely — what had happened to those days?

They left shortly after closing time, saying goodbye to Mr and Mrs Wilburn and taking the leftover pizza back home in a box.

It was late by the time Faith pulled into the garage. Blackheart locked up downstairs and put the pizza in the fridge, and Johnny stepped into the shower, washing off the grime and dust he’d acquired over three states and two days of travel. A while later he emerged, feeling refreshed but weary from a long day, and began to unpack his bag in the living room, arranging the cushions on the couch to form a makeshift bed.

Blackheart timidly entered in the living room, wearing a loose pair of flannel pajama pants and a thin t-shirt. He crossed his arms and watched Johnny spread a blanket over the sofa. “You . . . don’t have to sleep out here,” he said hesitantly, quietly.

Johnny looked up, pausing. The angel met his eyes briefly and then glanced away, his manner flighty. Blaze muttered, “I think Milly’s bed is a bit small for me.”

“Mine isn’t.”

Johnny’s heart thudded. His mouth went dry. It almost seemed absurd to ask “Then where will you sleep?” but he couldn’t help it — it just came out.

Blackheart didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. Blaze was already standing up and following him to his room.

The door shut quietly behind them. The curtains were drawn back on the window across the room, allowing the blue-silver light of the moon to spill across the floor in jagged rectangles. There was a bed against the far wall, its covers thrown back and inviting. The room was plain, stark, empty save for a dresser and a narrow desk. A painting hung on the wall above the bed, but Johnny couldn’t make it out.

He was about to open his mouth to say something when he suddenly felt a presence in front of him. Blackheart stood before him, a scant inch or two shorter, only the edges of his slim body outlined by the moonlight — everything else was consumed by shadow.

Johnny watched with languid interest as Blackheart slowly raised his arms, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. His hair was a disheveled halo illuminated by the moonlight. Blaze leaned close, breathing deep the sweet scent of ozone and the lingering spice of garlic and tomatoes. He sighed helplessly, giving in, pressing his face into the crook of Blackheart’s neck and bringing up his arms to caress the angel’s smooth shoulders.

“You feel so good,” Johnny whispered, brushing his lips against the warm ear and silk-soft locks of raven hair. “I almost forgot how good you feel.”

“I can feel better,” Blackheart replied, his voice low and husky. He tugged Johnny back toward the bed.

Johnny parted his lips to protest — they shouldn’t do this, it would only open old scars, he wasn’t here to stay, it would only hurt them both and make parting more painful — but Blackheart stole his breath with a hungry, desperate kiss. And Johnny had no choice but to return it just as desperately, wrapping his arm around the angel’s slim form and holding him so tightly that it hurt.

The desire that had been burning deep in the furnace of his soul all evening now billowed up in a fiery blast of unimaginable emotion, a nuclear holocaust of searing, white-hot love, unable to be restrained or extinguished.

Johnny paused, broke the kiss, fumbled madly to remove his pants. Blackheart dropped down onto the bed and hastily slipped off the rest of his clothes in the darkness. He barely had time to finish before Johnny was suddenly there, climbing onto the bed, pushing Blackheart down, kissing any part of him that his lips could find.

The angel allowed himself sink into the pillows, welcoming the man into his arms. He closed his eyes, becoming blind, and arched into the wet, burning mouth that was leaving a trail of saliva down his collarbone, down his chest, his belly, his hip . . .

Blackheart opened his mouth wide and gasped wordlessly, his hands finding Johnny’s hair and clutching it tightly. It felt like the first time, like in Rome, only a thousand times more powerful. It was an unrequited passion that had been simmering for years, a ravenous hunger for flesh at last being satisfied.

Blackheart panted, his cheeks coloring hotly, and moaned when Johnny grasped his thigh and kissed it, kneading the firm flesh with his fingers. “I want,” he murmured thickly, “every inch of you. It’s been so long. So long . . .”

The angel bit his lip to keep from speaking. He would have said that he already belonged to Johnny, that he needed the man even more than he wanted him, that he would have done anything to keep him here tonight. Though the words never made it past his lips, a strained whimper rose in his throat, begging and pleading for more.

Johnny answered by crawling up and taking Blackheart’s flushed red face in his hands, pressing kiss after kiss to his brow, lips, cheeks, whispering to him the three words that couldn’t be said enough. Blackheart bent his knees, letting Johnny’s warm body settle between his legs. He felt the man’s need against his thigh, felt his own pressed against Blaze’s stomach, and smiled up at him in the darkness, his face half-shadowed. Johnny smiled back, dipped his fingers into his mouth, and lowered his hand.

The angel hissed briefly at the fleeting pain, but forgot about it when Johnny pressed a kiss to his lips, his tongue dipping deep into the sweet well of Blackheart’s mouth. By the time they parted he was ready, and Blaze sat back on his legs, taking one last look at the young man spread out beneath him, more beautiful than even God’s mercy.

He pushed inside, gently at first, then harder when Blackheart urged him on. He slid deeper, lowering himself slowly. The angel beneath Johnny groaned and sank his teeth into his shoulder, and with the first thrust they both lost their minds.

Gentle whispers and tender kisses were gone, replaced by an almost violent and destructive passion. In their frenzied desire they clawed at skin, pulled hair, bit flesh, bruised each other with their hands. Johnny rolled, putting Blackheart on top, and let him enjoy the ride. The angel moaned louder than he intended and put his wrist between his teeth to stifle his cries of ecstasy. He lurched and rocked with Johnny’s rhythmic movements, his eyelids fluttering in delirium. And then, not of his own free will, a pair of black wings emerged from his back, stretching up and out until they nearly spanned the room, barely visible in the darkness.

“Christ,” Johnny panted, watching the wings unfold. He’d almost forgotten he was making love to a celestial creature. An angel. His angel. The thought sent a thrilling wave through his body, and he let Blackheart feel it as well, beginning his motions again with increased vigor.

It wasn’t much longer — almost too soon, it seemed — before Blackheart clutched Blaze’s shoulders and arched his back. He shut his eyes tight and screamed with wordless abandon, years of suffering at last being reckoned with this sweet moment of release. Johnny grasped his narrow hips and held him as he bucked, fought and struggled — held him as he too neared the edge and plunged over it with a muted roar.

There was no use denying it any longer. This was what he craved. This was what he needed. Here was where he needed to be. With his angel.

Blackheart gave a final shudder and folded his ruffled wings closed; they disappeared once more, leaving only a few stray feathers to settle to the floor. He collapsed onto the bed beside Johnny almost gracefully, breathing hard, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his face. Johnny rolled onto his side and fumbled for his hand in the dark. Finding it at last, he threaded his rough fingers with Blackheart’s smooth ones.

“I love you,” he whispered, seeing nothing but shadows. He was surprised when he felt fingertips brush against his cheek — Blackheart caressing Johnny’s sun-weathered face as if he were painting a picture only he could see.

“I love you, too, Johnny,” came the answering murmur, close enough that Blaze could feel the warmth of Blackheart’s breath. “That’s why I need you.”

“I know . . .”

“So stay with me.”

“I will. Someday.”

There was a pause. “You can’t live in fear, Johnny.”

“I know. And someday . . . when Milly is grown up and knows who she is, I’ll come back for you.” He slid toward the heat beside him, his blind hand finding a shoulder, a neck. “We can leave this place together, ride out into the desert and never look back. No more pretending. No more hiding. The Spirit of Vengeance and the Angel of Retribution . . . or whatever we want to be, if we want to be anything at all-”

“I don’t think I can wait that long, Johnny. All those years . . .”

“They’ll go quick. We’re immortals. Time means nothing to us.”

“. . . but I still feel it.”

Johnny went quiet, knowing in his heart of hearts that Blackheart was right. Time, unstoppable and eternal, still passed, and even though its power no longer touched him, he was aware of every second that ticked away in Blackheart’s absence. Minutes seemed like hours, and days passed with the weight of years. And years . . . They ceased to matter, the same way that a millennia mattered to a butterfly. Time so broad and unfathomable that it was useless to a creature whose existence spanned only a few days.

Johnny felt Blackheart’s arm slide across his chest as he nestled close and rested his head against Blaze’s shoulder. In this position they remained, thinking and wondering about the future in a place empty of time, until at last sleep dulled their minds and only dreams remained. Dreams of an open road and a cool wind rushing by, a bright sun in the blue sky above, and nothing between here and there but a million miles of memories, waiting to be made.