Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 1

demanded and face God's wrath if he had to, but Cole would live. The power was inside him to purify, to wield the divine fire. He had used it in the past to cleanse his charges' souls right before he accompanied them up to heaven to be fully judged. It was power only used after death, but he needed it now , before that thread of their connection severed forever.
    A bright glow emitted from his hands, growing stronger and stronger until it completely enveloped Cole. Inside, he felt the burn of fire, but it was familiar to him, the small part of the Divine that he always carried inside him. It was that little piece of Heaven God had entrusted to him, and he used it now to eradicate the alcohol, the cocaine, even the hints of tar that had collected in Cole's lungs from the cigarettes.
    It left Cole pure, untouched by any of the toxins he had forced into his body throughout his life. He could sense the wholeness of Cole, and the connection between them flared brightly, reassuring him before the power left him in a rush. His wings drooped, and he chirped weakly, his voice trilling as he panted, "Cole..."
    Raziel felt his arms give out beneath him, and he faltered, his wings flapping in an uncoordinated effort to move him off Cole's still form. He'd never felt so tired, so weak, and while the connection to Cole was strong again, he felt the rest of the world slipping away. Everything blurred around him, and before he could manage to gasp another prayer, the world went black, and he felt himself falling into nothingness.
    ****
    Cole groaned as he shifted on the floor, a beam of sunlight across his face. His back and head hurt, his muscles stiff. What the hell had happened? He slowly sat up and rubbed his face with his hands. Rob. Rob had brought him some coke. Had he overdosed? Or had he just passed out? If he'd overdosed, wouldn't he be dead? Maybe he was dead and this was Heaven. Or Hell. He didn't much like the idea of Hell being his apartment, which smelled of stale cigarettes and booze.
    He looked around, noting the shattered whiskey bottle and the angel asleep beside—
    Angel?
    Cole stared at the naked creature beside him with massive white wings. That was an angel. Angels weren't real, though. He rubbed his eyes again, but when he opened them once more, the angel was still there. Maybe there had been something in the coke. Maybe Rob hadn't gotten the good stuff after all. He reached out and ran his fingers along the feathers. Christ, he'd never felt anything so soft! The wing shivered under his touch, but the angel didn't move.
    It was real. The angel. Was real. Angel. In his apartment. Maybe that was why he wasn't dead. He brushed the angel's blond hair back from the perfect, beautiful face. Male. He had an unconscious, gorgeous, male angel sprawled on his office floor, and his mind didn't quite believe it. Cole cleared his throat and gave the angel's shoulder a little nudge.
    "E-Excuse me," Cole murmured, his voice rough. "Hello?" A pained flutter of a sound escaped the angel, and he hesitated to touch again. He didn't see any wounds on the angel, but maybe his touch was a little too hard. He swallowed thickly and, as gently as possible, pet over the blond hair and the feathers. "Are you all right? Come on. Wake up."
    The wings shifted, and another of those bird-like sounds twittered from the angel, followed by a soft moan. Cole's heart jumped up into his throat, and he scrambled back a little, dodging the feathers of one wing as it lifted and flapped. A sudden pain jolted up through his hand, and he cursed under his breath. He'd forgotten about the broken glass, and now he was paying for it. The cut wasn't too terribly deep, but it stung like a motherfucker, and he cradled his hand against him.
    "Cole..."
    Cole's eyes widened, and he tilted his head, looking around the arched wing to the angel's face. He watched as the angel's pale lashes fluttered, and when they lifted, he glimpsed blue eyes brighter than any he'd ever seen. How did this angel know his name? He fought against a rising panic, against thoughts that maybe this angel was here to bring him his death. But then, if that were the case, wouldn't the angel have had a more dramatic appearance? That's how it always was in the movies; ominous mists and beams of light from above were a lot more intimidating than an angel passed out on his office floor. Still, he felt as if the world was about to drop out from underneath him. Getting his voice to work was a