Tied With a Bow

And when. And how.”
    Nathaniel’s scowl deepened. “I don’t know. Being direct and pushing for a quick resolution appeals to me.”
    Merrick shrugged. “Then don’t take my advice. Follow your instincts.”
    Nathaniel narrowed his eyes. “But you don’t think I’ll succeed if I do?”
    “I didn’t say that. If Heaven’s your matchmaker, I’m sure the girl doesn’t stand a chance. But you probably won’t win her over as fast as you’d like.”
    “You have something more to say on this subject. I wish to know what that is.”
    Merrick smiled. “Vampires and demons have seduced their way through entire continents. Both the angels I know could fit what they know about women in a shot glass.”
    Nathaniel frowned. “I don’t believe that learning about women has been my priority. This body was made for fighting.”
    “Yeah, but you’d like to use it for something else, right?”
    Nathaniel took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly, trying to overcome the urge to send his fist smashing into Merrick’s amused face. “Yes, I want her the way men want their wives. The desire runs deep,” Nathaniel said, pausing as thoughts of making love to Kate diverted blood to the lower part of his body and made him ache. “But I won’t compromise my nature during the negotiation.”
    “The negotiation,” Merrick said, and from his dubious expression, Nathaniel knew that wasn’t a word to which women would respond favorably.
    “The courtship?” Nathaniel said.
    “Sure, if we were in Regency England. Listen, archangels have the gift of tongues. You probably speak a dozen dead languages. When in doubt, lapse into one of those. Something like Etruscan, so she’ll have no idea what you’re saying.”
    “Merrick?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Fuck off.”
    Merrick laughed.
    “How was that for use of the modern vernacular?” Nathaniel asked.
    “Not bad.”

     
    Kate’s initial excitement at gaining access to the archives had given way to impatience and fatigue. The pages were so stiff and fragile that she couldn’t quickly thumb through them. And Nathaniel’s heavy ring had caused a cramp in her hand.
    She returned to the metal table with the two last resources on the period when Nathaniel had supposedly lived. Sitting on the uncush-ioned metal chair that was modern, sterile, and incredibly uncomfortable, she carefully examined page after page of the original texts and the corresponding translations. She pictured the modern muses in monks’ robes slaving over the ancient documents. The work must have been so tedious.
    The joint at the base of her thumb ached and she slid the ring forward, rubbing her skin. Then she turned a page and sucked in a startled breath. Pictured in a gilded full-color illustration was Nathaniel, bloody and restrained by men who forced him to kneel; standing over him was the very blond, eerily pretty man who’d held the knife to her throat in her dreams.
    The text seemed to leap out at her, and she had to stare and concentrate to read the words. The white-blond man was identified as Gaius Gadreel Seneca, the brother of Nero’s tutor and advisor. The muse wrote, “His external beauty disguises the darkest of souls. I believe Gadreel to be a demon in human form, for it’s hard to accept that anyone human who was capable of such depravity and malice could be so embraced by reasonable men, no matter what services he’s performed or aid he’s rendered them. His hold is supernaturally strong. I have heard Gadreel boast of using both the young emperor and his mother Agrippina as whores. Nero’s advisors are clearly afraid and in awe of Gaius Gadreel. How can anyone wield such power over the most powerful people in the whole of the Roman Empire? It is unnatural. He is a vortex of evil, and my influence has been no match for his. Murder is rampant, and not only for political gain. For Gadreel, humiliating and destroying good Roman citizens is a ripe plum. Impotent and unable to watch any longer, I am bound for the coast tomorrow. I hope never to lay eyes on his terrible face again. I hope also that my prayers for justice are answered.”
    Staring down at the page, Kate slid the ring back on her thumb. The world seemed to tilt and blur and waves of pain crashed over her. She was on her knees, bloody and battered, swallowing dust. Everything hurt. Bones broken. Flesh torn. She saw her swollen hands in the dirt, but they were a man’s hands. Bruised, calloused, and tan. Memories of a hundred