The Angel. Tiffany Reisz
good and the evil.
“Two nieces, one nephew. And—” she held up three fingers “—three sisters. Two American sisters, one in Denmark.”
Michael looked up at the ceiling.
“Wow.”
“Can you imagine having him—” she pointed at the closed door, behind which stood one of the more intimidating men alive “—as your brother? Terrifying, right?”
“I don’t envy the boyfriends.”
They laughed together even though Nora knew Søren hadn’t gotten a chance to have any of the normal brotherly experiences with his sisters. He and Freja had grown up in separate countries and Claire was fifteen years younger than him. And Elizabeth … well, Elizabeth was another story.
“Come here and let me look at you,” Nora said, tearing herself away from the dark trajectory of her thoughts. “How tall are you now?”
Just thirteen months ago he’d been only a few inches taller than her.
“Five-ten.” Michael obediently moved to stand closer to her.
“I knew you weren’t done growing,” she said, remembering how she’d studied him as he slept that night. “You grew into your hands. Haven’t put on much weight though.”
He grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”
“None of that teen angst now, Angel. You’re tall, thin, have perfect porcelain skin and supermodel cheekbones. And unlike mine, your long black hair behaves itself. You, young man, are prettier than any guy I’ve ever seen.”
Nora studied him. Poor kid probably got ostracized at his school for his looks. He wasn’t at all effeminate, but he had passed pretty boy miles ago and landed straight in the middle of beautiful. The girls no doubt envied him for waking up looking lovelier than they could after an hour of primping, and the boys probably hated him for inspiring homoerotic thoughts in their fevered teenage brains.
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. And I’m always right about these things. Aren’t you legal yet, jailbait?” she teased.
“Turned seventeen last month,” he said, blushing.
“That’s legal in this state,” she said and winked at him. The blush deepened and Michael started to say something. But before he could speak, the door to Søren’s office opened. Without a word, Søren crooked his finger at both of them before disappearing back inside.
Nora took a deep breath.
“That’s our cue.” Standing up, she held out her hand. Michael hesitated only a second before slipping his trembling fingers into her grasp.
Hand in hand they entered Søren’s office. Despite knowing Søren for almost twenty years, she’d spent relatively little time in his office. Every member of Sacred Heart knew “Father Stearns’s Rules”—no children under sixteen were allowed in his office without a parent present, no one was allowed alone in his office without the door being left open, private conversations were for the confessional alone, and no one, absolutely no one, was ever allowed at the rectory. Ever.
Except Nora, of course.
The rules were stringent but necessary in the controversy-wary Catholic Church. And in all his years at Sacred Heart, Søren hadn’t caused even the barest whisper of scandal.
Nora and Michael sat in front of Søren’s desk. Glancing around, Nora noted little had changed in the office since he took over Sacred Heart nearly twenty years ago. His neat and elegant office was replete with books and Bibles in nearly two dozen languages. On his huge oak desk sat a framed photo of his beautiful niece, Laila. Laila must be Michael’s age by now. Nora hadn’t seen her since their last trip to Denmark. Nora loved their rare excursions out of the country together—only on another continent could she and Søren walk down the street holding hands. But he was a priest when she gave herself to him, and he’d warned her before she made her commitment that theirs would never be a normal relationship. At eighteen it was nothing to promise him she didn’t care about the sacrifices she’d have to make. At thirty-four she would still make the same decision she had back then, but maybe she wouldn’t make it quite that easily.
Nora turned her eyes to Søren. She still held Michael’s hand for comfort. But whether he was comforting her or she him, she couldn’t say.
“Eleanor, Michael,” Søren began. “We have a situation.”
“Fuck, I knew it,” Nora swore and didn’t even receive the slightest scolding from Søren. Now she knew it was bad, very bad, for Søren to lift the “no swearing on Sundays” edict. “Someone rat us out? I swear to God, I’ll kill them—”
“Eleanor, calm down. I said we had a situation, not a crisis. The priest visiting today—”
“The one who gave me and Michael the stink eye?”
“That one,” Søren said with barely concealed amusement. At least one of them could find this whole nightmare funny. “That was Father Karl Werner—”
“God, I hate German Catholics,” Nora, born Eleanor Schreiber and possessing not one but two German Catholic grandparents, said with venom.
“Father Karl,” Søren continued, pretending not to hear her, “is rather conservative. If he gave you a dark look, Eleanor, it was only because your reputation precedes you.”
“And Michael?” she asked. Michael was only seventeen and apart from scandalously choosing public over Catholic school, he was a model teenager at Sacred Heart: quiet, hardworking and about to graduate at the top of his class.
Michael sighed, flipped his palms upward and thrust his wrists out meaningfully. She didn’t need to see his scars to know that’s what he meant.
“Yes,” Søren said with sympathy. “Father Karl is not pleased that we are home to—”
“A walking mortal sin?” Michael completed for Søren. Nora wrapped her fingers around Michael’s wrist. She slipped her index finger under his wristband and lightly stroked the raised white scar she knew lurked underneath. A little over two years ago, when Michael was only fourteen, his conservative father had found out that Michael had a real and burgeoning interest in BDSM. Much like her when she was a teenager, Michael often hurt himself simply for the sexual thrill of it. Unlike her, it was his own judgmental father, not his empathetic priest, who caught him at it. Michael’s father had laid such shame and guilt on him that Michael had slit his wrists one day and nearly died. Some Catholics, especially of the older generation, considered suicide the most dire of all sins. No doubt Father Karl thought Michael should attend another church. Preferably one that didn’t still sport Michael’s bloodstains on the hardwood.
“Father Karl’s opinion of you both has nothing to do with his visit today,” Søren continued, making it clear in his tone he couldn’t care less about Father Karl’s opinion on anything. “The reason for his visit today had only to do with me. As you both may know, Bishop Leo has colon cancer and will soon retire.”
“And Father Landon is replacing him, right?” Nora asked.
“Father Landon was replacing him. Until three days ago when certain allegations came to the fore.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Nora groaned. “Why priests can’t keep their holy cocks inside their goddamn pants is beyond me.”
Michael inhaled sharply and Nora grimaced. She looked at Søren and smiled apologetically. Søren arched his eyebrow at her.
“Present company excepted, of course,” she said.
“Of course.”
Søren stood up and came around the desk. Nora looked up at him and stared at his face. Everything about him was so aristocratic and aquiline. Even in Denmark, where pale blond hair and blue eyes were the rule and not the exception like here in America, Søren