Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 7

encouragement I received there gave me the courage to strike out on my own and try to make a real go of this.
    Other books by Cody Richardson:
    A Bit of Sunday Gardening
    And Now I Know
    In Purple Candlelight
    The Lynch Pin
    You can find Cody online at:
    Amazon
    Smashwords
    Cody Richardson Books
    Literotica
    ****

OF ETERNITY AND TREMBLING
    by Thursday Euclid

    "When I found the water stained photo in the ashes of the old church, a shiver ran through me. It was him, that strong, quiet guy who had saved me from the muggers last night. But how could it be? The photo was dated 1954. If it was him, then he hadn't aged a day. Somehow, though, I just knew…just like I knew I had to find him again before it was too late."
    ~ Zee

    genre: urban fantasy; paranormal
    tags: religion; angels; bonded; first time; redemption
    word count: 6,773
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    OF ETERNITY AND TREMBLING
    by Thursday Euclid
    The shadows closed in around me as I took the shortcut through the alley between a leather bar and the beignet shop. Even a couple of blocks from the club I'd left, my blood still beat with the rhythm of the disco hits the drag queens had been lip-synching all night. My face burned with pleasure at the memory of the lipsticked air-kisses I'd received as I left, just after midnight.
    It embarrassed me that small signs of acceptance meant so much to me, but I'd learned back home in Warren County, Mississippi that if one was gay, one couldn't expect even the basic social conventions to apply. It wasn't that everyone was awful. It was more that a few people were awful and most others indifferent enough not to interfere with those screaming that I'd burn in Hell. As soon as I got my scholarship to Tulane, I left and didn't look back.
    New Orleans wasn't perfect, but now that I was old enough to drink, I'd gained access to the refuge of gay bars and people who judged me by criteria that gave me at least some chance of success. Judgment was passed no matter where I went, but at least a cute butt counted for something with the men who smiled at me from across the dance floor. Still, I always went home alone. Across the dance floor was close enough for me.
    As I turned into another alleyway, I saw a blur of motion. The darkness poured and smeared like swift-moving ink over black paper. Then I felt hands on me, gloved fingers closing over my mouth before I could even shout.
    Malice emanated from my attacker, a gut-churning disdain for my life that froze me on the spot. In the shadows, he seemed supernatural. It occurred to me with stunning clarity that I was going to die.
    "Just take the money," I tried to say, but the hand over my mouth muffled my voice, stripping me of what little power I had. I'd always talked my way into and out of trouble. Without my words, I was defeated.
    "Finish this." The voice was cold and distant. I turned my head to seek its source and saw nothing but more shadow. My attacker replied with a grunt, and then punched me in the kidney. My legs buckled as pain flashed bright behind my eyelids and lanced along my spine like lightning.
    I wailed against the musty cotton gag of his hand. I couldn't help it. I wanted to go out fighting, but I couldn't make sense of how. My body belonged to the fear.
    My eardrums ached with the sound of sudden thunder, and then I fell. My knees bruised as they hit pavement, the shock of impact ringing in my skull like a hollow-toned bell. I heard nothing else. I was down in a well, alone, blind in the shadows.
    Terror roiled in my belly, the instinctual panic of a small animal in a trap. "Please, please," I prayed, knowing that if I died now, I'd die without dignity. I'd die a rabbit, a chittering, useless sack of meat.
    "Shh." The soundless word entered my mind like an intravenous sedative. My skin felt warm. My thoughts skittered away.
    Arms went around me, lifting me without apparent effort. But I was not a rabbit. I was a twenty-one year old man, one hundred sixty pounds at my last physical. Tall, wiry. This man who'd lifted me carried me as though I was no more than the glittery detritus on the floor of the drag show's dressing rooms.
    "Please," I begged, praying again, praying because Mama raised me to pray. God hated me, I knew it, but I wasn't dead yet. Maybe He'd listen if I prayed hard enough.
    "Prayers haven't worked in this city since the Ursulines came." It was the silent voice again, penetrating my mind, rich like incense and resonant like footfalls in an