Chapter 4

With a final twist of the screwdriver, Blaine braced his fingers against the light fixture and gave it one last shake. It held firmly into the ceiling. Perfect handiwork.

The job had taken him an hour to complete. He waited until Katlinne left, assuring her that he wouldn't attempt such a task until he was sober enough to stand straight. After a small meal, he flipped the breaker switch in his bedroom, and got to work with the last bit of sunlight straying through his window.

A part of him was anxious to see how it looked, while the voice in his head repeated the same warning that Katlinne had said: what if he shocked himself and no one was around to help him? No, he wouldn't worry about it now that the job was done. He could only hope that he'd done a good job with the wiring.

He eased down from the ladder, flipped the power back on, and prepared to flip the light switch. With a cross of his fingers behind his back, he flicked the switch, and a beam of white florescent light splayed across the sculpture from the ceiling.

“Yes,” Blaine whispered.

Surprised, and feeling little arrogant, he strode over to study his efforts. Katlinne would have to eat her words when she saw this. The lights didn't flicker, nor did the bulb catch fire. He had hooked up the spotlight correctly.

Then he noticed the way the white granite statue glowed under the bright light, highlighting each and every feather Augustus had carved. Its once dull, lifeless eyes, now fully eloquent under the vivid illumination. There could be presence within those eyes. Movement under those fine, delicately carved lips.

Blaine reached up and slid his fingers across every elaborate detail of the angel's chest. His fingertips tingled with excitement as he continued to trace a path down to its smooth stomach and stopped just above its hip.

Augustus had left the sculpture exposed, choosing not to cover the angel's lower half. Blaine focused in on the angel's flaccid member, remembering his father talking about the work Augustus had put in to that element.

“It took him a good three months just to sculpt that thing,” his father had spoken to mother about the particulars.

“Does he think he's the next Michelangelo?” his mother groaned, uninterested.

Blaine had often wondered that himself. Augustus surely had the skill for what he did, so why not sell his artistry instead of keeping it locked away?

When Blaine brushed against that unusual rough spot at the base of the statue, he froze. It hadn't been there before, had it? He felt the way the granite curved under his fingers, like something was carved there. He huffed a breath, blowing the dust away from the spot. In the shining light, four eloquent words appeared.

“Solvo pro umquam magis,” Blaine attempted to sound out the foreign letters.

As the last word spilled from his lips, a loud pop sounded from deep inside the statue. Blaine straightened and stepped back, sucking on his bottom lip in dread. That might have been the wrong thing to do.

At first, the wings’ delicate stone cracked. The din growing louder and louder. Each granite feather burst from the statue. The stone crumbled to the floor, breaking into smaller bits around the base. White dust built up as the face began to snap. Blaine stepped back, his heart racing, seeking the opposite wall with his palms tight to his ears.

“What the...” As he moved backwards, his heel caught on the carpet and he tripped, falling to his ass.

The angel’s face collapsed, next came the chest and the body.

Blaine quickly pressed himself to the wall with arms crossed over his head to shield from the debris. Slamming his eyes shut, he couldn't watch the fate of his precious statue, surely another unlucky omen.

The vibrations rattled through his feet. His ears began to ring with each horrid grind. As the stone parts crashed to the floor, the dust spread, and Blaine coughed and hacked to the dryness seeping into his nose. When the last immense piece of granite fell to the floor, the atrocious noise ceased.

Blaine peered out from under his arms at the cloud of ashen dust filling his living room. He struggled to flip off the light switch above his head, then went back to shield himself again for the moment.

Small particles hovered in the air across the room. Blaine covered his nose with his hand before peeking out at the chaos, again.

A gray silhouette came into view as the dust settled. Blaine blinked in confusion. On the floor lay a pale body with long, pitch black hair tangled messily on its head. Curled, damaged wings protruded from the creature's back.

Blaine couldn't move. He couldn't risk picking himself up and confirming it—that—was real. There was absolutely no way that thing was his... statue. He flicked his eyes at what was left of the base; the square plaque in which the angel once stood on. That couldn't be his angel.

A stirring made him turn his attention back to the figure laying on the floor. The creature attempted to rise to a kneel. Its wings drooped. Feathers brushed each other to create a brief whoosh in the air. “I'm...” a voice echoed from the creature's lips. “Alive?” It held its pale hands out in front of its, now animated, eyes.

It had to be a hallucination. Maybe Blaine's fever came back when he was working on the electrical wiring, and he threw his hand to his head to check.

The angel straightened and turned towards Blaine. “You spoke the words?”

The angel's slender, yet built, naked body stood in the middle of Blaine's living room. The creature's pure black wings spread out behind him in the familiar arch which they had been carved. His pale skin highlighted in the remains of the sunset peeking through the window, and Blaine immediately spotted the angel's flaccid member, pure and virtuous, just as the sculpture had been.

Blaine lowered his arm. Fever or not, he wasn’t hallucinating. A tremble ran through him. “Who...” His words trailed, a lump building in his throat. He hacked, cleared his lungs, then tried again. “What's going on?”

“The words,” the angel repeated, as he tried to stand, only to stumble back to his knees. “You spoke them.”

“On the front of the statue?” Blaine asked.

“Yes, the decree of abandon,” the angel confirmed, trying again to balance himself.

Blaine staggered to his feet watching as the angel continued to struggle. He shook his head ferociously, still hoping that it was all some kind of illusion. When he stopped, the angel was still there. “What the hell do you mean?”

The angel's black wings ruffled, stretched wide behind his back, then curled around his sides once he gained his balance. “Do not speak that insolent word. You have offended me.” The angel threw his hand to his face, plump lips in a pout.

“What the—“ Blaine stopped himself. “Fine. What are you talking about?”

With a sudden amount of adrenaline, the angel dashed to Blaine, and took his hands in his. “You spoke the words on the front of the statue.” The angel’s lean chest heaved with rapid discovery. “That means... Blaine?”

Blaine's eyes widened. “How do you—“

“You are? That's wonderful. Then the rumors were true. Augustus completed the statue and I...” The angel lowered his head, distraught set into his face. “How many years have I missed?” He pulled away, biting on a fingernail in concern.

Blaine waved his hands in front of him. “Hold up, now. Let's start at the beginning. How about names, okay? Somehow, you know my name is Blaine. What's your name?”

The angel snapped his head up in excitement. “Lynsael.”

“Okay,” Blaine said. “Now, how is it that you know my name?”

The angel shook his head. “Uh huh, a guardian is not allowed to... Oh, no.” He slapped his hand across his mouth. “I gave away my name.”

“You're my guardian?” A sticky sweat developed on Blaine’s palms. Not only was this thing claiming to be his guardian, but he was sexy as hell. Blaine stepped away toward the mess of stone on the floor.

“I was. But then again,” Lynsael's voice hitched to a whisper. “Not anymore. At least, I don't believe so anyway. You’ve grown so much since then.”

Blaine began to pace across the floor. He could feel his heart thump in his temples as he tried to get a handle on what had happened. “Okay, I'm a little lost. What do you mean you were my guardian?”

Lynsael turned his lean back to the man, and Blaine couldn't help but stop and gaze at the creature's firm, sculpted ass. “I was your guardian until I was bound to that slab of granite.” He seemed to stare at the remains. He nodded his head, then focused his eyes to the floor. “I've lost so many years,” he sighed, shoulders drooped.

Blaine should do something, anything. He thought of consoling Lynsael. He'd wanted to know more. But maybe he should just insist this was all some strange delusion from the fever that apparently came back while he was working, and lay down for a bit. He could claim this thing, that happened to break out of his statue, was some weird stalker who thought it was Halloween. That wouldn't sound right to the cops, though. And when he thought of it more, he just couldn't bring himself to kick Lynsael out.

“Augustus must have known,” Lynsael whispered.

“Augustus Dominiquez? You mean to tell me that my father's weird ass friend knew you were trapped in there?”

“Maybe not,” Lynsael twisted around, black hair curling over his shoulders to lie across his sculpted chest. “But Augustus knew the language of the gods. He could have carved the scripture into the base.”

“I really don't think that—Wait. How do you know about Augustus?”

“We know of everyone, Blaine. Especially those close to our ward.” Lynsael clasped onto Blaine's shoulders. His hands warming through Blaine's shirt, and a tingle shot through Blaine's spine. “I must find out how this came to be.”

Blaine crooked an eyebrow. “Yeah, you do that.” He shrugged away. “I'm going to go lay down. I think I'm getting sick again.” He turned, prepared to leave the room.

“You must help me, Blaine.”

“Yep, will do, but not until morning.” Maybe a little sleep and he would feel better, with no more strange, but handsome, hallucinations of naked angels standing in his living room.

“You promise me?”

“Sure. Goodnight.”

Blaine strolled into his bedroom and stopped just as he passed the door. Maybe he should close it? Or better yet, if he turned around now, would that angel be gone? He looked over his shoulder. The pale skinned, black feathered angel stood at the door, like he'd been watching Blaine's every move.

“What?” Blaine clenched his fists, irritation replaced the panic. He still hoped the angel was nothing but a delusion and it wouldn’t answer him.

“I'm sorry, but where should I sleep?”

“On the couch,” Blaine mumbled. Where else did he think he'd be sleeping?

A moment of silence followed until Lynsael's soft voice asked, “You don't believe, do you?”

“No, Lynsael,” Blaine's tone grew dense. “I really don't believe there is an ass naked angel standing right behind me claiming to be my long lost guardian.” Silence followed and Blaine took that time to close the door behind him.