Florian (Augarten Book 4) Read online

  "No, Flor. I don't ever want to divorce you. I am so happy to be with you. Are you happy with me? When I'm not being neurotic, I guess?"

  I chortled, and at just that moment, the waiter brought our food. Michel pulled back and thanked him. I took the chance to calm my flaming cheeks.

  "Of course. I don't want to get divorced either. I just worry about you. It hasn't been easy watching you stress out about this." I didn't have the words I needed to express how his worries had rubbed off on me.

  Michel ignored his food in favor of taking my hand again. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over my knuckles. "I love you, Flor."

  "I know sweetie, and I love you, but our food's going to get cold."

  "You can eat with one hand. I know you're talented enough."

  I laughed. "One of my secret abilities."

  "Mm-hmm."

  I spooned my soup while Michel just stroked my hand. He didn't seem interested in his food in the least, instead watching me with love in his eyes, a calm acceptance in his countenance he hadn't shown in months.

  "Your food's going to get cold."

  "It's fine, Flor. Just eat, darling."

  "Okay."

  The minutes dragged on, but he didn't seem to tire of watching me eat soup. I didn't know what was going on with him. Maybe we'd take a walk along the Seine, sit at our park bench and make out like we used to, then go home and make love. We'd both get a good night's sleep, and everything would be okay tomorrow.

  Michel let out an exhalation, more of a contented sigh. I was about to ask him what he was thinking about when noise erupted further down the lane. Shouts of alarm, and then a harsh sound ripped through the air. Only belatedly did my mind attach that sound to automatic gun fire.

  I gasped as the screams got closer. "What's going on?"

  "Flor!"

  Michel threw our table out of the way, ruining everything in a messy crash. Before I could take a breath, he tackled me to the ground, knocking the wind out of me. My head smacked against the patio wood, but Michel's arms broke most of my fall. I saw stars and nearly blacked out. I couldn’t convince my lungs to draw air. Then chaos overwhelmed us.

  Vehicles drove by—I did not know how many—and someone fired a machine gun out of it, mowing down people in the cafes all down the street, shattering glass everywhere to kill the rest of us.

  My lungs finally breathed, and my vision spread out to take in my husband on top of me, his hair in my face. "Michi."

  Finally feeling my arms again, I tapped his back to rouse him, but my fingers felt wet. I held my hands up and found them covered in blood.

  "Michel! Sweetie, say something!"

  Once the shattered glass fell, the roar dimmed to the sounds of people crying and moaning, children shrieking for their parents. I thought Michi must have fainted. If I could just get him to wake up…

  That was when I saw them.

  I gasped as the air took on a texture, like running one's fingertips over craft paper. What I'd thought was the reflections of light from pieces of broken glass, like that of a disco ball, was actually the phantasmagoric glittering of the air itself. I heard the rustling of massive wings, as if gigantic eagles were swooping over us. The angels moved on the edges of my vision, and as they went from person to person, sighs of relief lingered over the painful cries. But these sighs were not sounds of this world, not utterances my human ears should be able to hear. It was like souls sighing, the gentle comfort of finally returning home.

  "Michel," I whispered, carding bloody fingers through my lover's hair. "The angels are here. You've got to wake up. They will help us."

  More moans and cries, but one by one, more sighs of relief, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a person with angel wings carrying someone in their arms. The angel held the person close, with loving care, walked out of the café and took flight down the lane. They were carrying dead souls to heaven.

  Then a great power entered the café with a bright flash of light. The air became pregnant and heavy, such that I felt compelled to hold my breath in wait. Even the crying people fell silent, and only then did I realize that Michi was not breathing against me.

  I heard footsteps headed in our direction, and then the light blazed directly overhead, forcing me to blink on reflex.

  A man stood over us, eyes blazing with fire, his hair blowing in the wind of his own power. Enormous wings on his back. This was an archangel.

  Michael.

  I panicked and gripped Michi with all my might. "Please, don't take him."

  Michael paid me no heed, not even a glance. He placed a flaming hand on Michel's back—into his back—and pulled. I stared in horror as a blurry, airy duplicate of my husband rose slowly out of Michi's body, starting with his waist, then his legs. The blurry form oozed and dripped, but as Michael's flaming hand pulled further and further back, it consolidated and took shape. Finally, Michi's head was pulled out. He looked at me with eyes alert, the message clear.

  I panicked. "No, honey! You can't do this! Please!"

  Michi's eyes grew sad, his smile sympathetic. Bye, Flor. I'm sorry.

  I screamed.

  I reached for the misty form of my husband, my fingers grasping but they slid through him while Michel's physical body still weighed me down. My vocal cords tore, but I kept screaming till blood filled my throat and gurgled. Frantically, I reached my bloody hands in the air and thrashed, but the archangel pulled my husband into his arms and disappeared.

  I froze with my arms in the air, willing my eyes to see them again, just right there, so close.

  All of a sudden a shimmering figure materialized next to me, golden tears streaming down its cheeks. As I screamed in agony, I felt something rip deep in my chest. The figure reached between my bloody arms and touched my forehead.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter Eight

  The grim reaper must have pressed his thumb to my forehead and kept me under a good long while. That was the only explanation I could come up with for being conscious yet unable to wake or think about anything. The only thought that would walk through my head occasionally, like a lazy security guard only making the rounds because he had to, was I am waiting to wake up. I waited for drawn-out minutes that turned into hours, then stretched into a long night.

  I woke in a cordoned off section of a larger room, just my bed and a curtain around me. A heart monitor beeped and I had an IV in, but I didn't know how I'd gotten to a hospital. Where was my husband? I remembered being at work, remembered shift change and handing things off to James, but everything got blurry after that.

  Somehow, when I wanted to panic that Michel was not near me, I could not bring myself to. The IV must have been keeping me calm. I looked around and found one chair on which lay my wristwatch and a strange official-looking box with the tail end of a plastic bag hanging out. Underneath the box was a piece of cloth, either a bag or covering of some sort. I wondered about that.

  It took me several minutes to piece together that I needed to find the nurse call button. Twisting my neck around made me feel groggy, so I fumbled until I realized someone had placed the switch in my non-IV hand and used a plastic bracelet to band it in place. That was nice of them. I pushed it and waited. The larger room I was in sounded busy; the professionals talking with patients sounded stressed and tired.

  Eventually, a young nurse came in to greet me. She had dark circles under her eyes and sunken cheeks. The poor thing looked like she had just lived through a nightmare.

  "Monsieur Schwarz, my name is Isabella. You have a concussion, but luckily the doctor does not think it is very severe. I will run some tests and the doctor will decide if anything more needs to be done."

  "Was I in a coma?" I croaked.

  Isabella shook her head. "The IV was to help you sleep. I will take it out now."

  "Yes, please." I couldn't think clearly with the IV, but if I had a concussion, I would probably miss the pain relief once it wore off.

  Isabella ran a few te
sts, having me follow her fingers with my eyes, report different colors, and turn my head carefully.

  "Monsieur Schwarz, do you have a family member we can contact for you? There was no one under your emergency contacts for us to call."

  That was certainly strange. "My husband, Myrddin Emrys Jones. He goes by Michel." Michi was the only one I'd ever bothered listing for things like that.

  "Anyone else?"

  "…Klaus Berger is a friend and my husband's coworker." I couldn't remember Klaus' phone number in the fog, but I told her where he worked, and she promised to track him down.

  "A social worker will be in soon," Isabella said with a sympathetic expression.

  Okay? "Thank you, madame."

  Isabella left a glass of water and two pain pills by the bed. Thankfully, she said that over-the-counter pills should be enough, and that the doctor didn't think I would need a prescription. Less to worry about while I figured out what had happened. Had I fallen at work? Maybe I'd finally used too much mop solution on the tiles behind the counter and wiped out. But if I'd slipped and hit my head, why wasn't Michel here with me?

  After a while, a middle-aged woman with dark hair and large brown eyes came in with her own stool and sat beside the bed. "Monsieur Schwarz, my name is Candace. I am a social worker and grief counselor."

  Grief counselor? "Bonjour."

  Candace scooted close and put her hand on the railing, as if she were offering to hold my hand should I want it. "Monsieur Schwarz—can I call you Florian?"

  "Sure."

  "Florian, do you remember what happened last night?"

  I frowned. "Is my husband in the hospital too?"

  She took a deep breath. "Florian, I am so sorry to tell you this, but your husband passed away last night. There was a terrorist attack, and he was gone by the time the paramedics arrived."

  With a gasp, the chaos of last night rushed in. I felt Candace take my hand and squeeze softly. Sound erupted from down the lane. Michel shoved our table out of the way and tackled me. His body grew heavy against me; he wouldn't reply or move. Then the angels filled the café, and the Archangel Michael took my husband's soul.

  I blinked and the curtains of my hospital stall and Candace's tired face came back into focus. I couldn't process what was happening. I should be crying, but I wasn't. It was like I was trapped inside my body but somehow acknowledging last night as an outside observer, as if I were an actor reciting lines instead of having lived it myself. "Can I see his body?"

  "Florian," Candace repeated my name gently, grounding me. "This hospital was overwhelmed with people needing help, and the morgue ran out of space. Those who did not have family members to state burial preferences were taken by a funeral home and cremated to make room for more bodies."

  I stared at her, only belatedly putting together that Michel's emergency contact would have been me, and I had been unconscious. Candace nodded to the chair across from her, on the other side of the bed. I looked at the box again. "What is that?"

  "Those are his ashes, Florian."

  "…that's him?"

  "Yes. I'm so sorry for your loss."

  For some reason, I couldn't look at the box, so I swiveled back to Candace. My neck hurt with the movement—I would need those pain pills soon.

  Candace covered her other hand so that both were on top of mine on the bed rail. "Do you have family who can come pick you up? I can call them for you and fill them in on what happened."

  "My parents are in Vienna." I told her about the nurse contacting Klaus.

  Candace let go long enough to write some things in a small notebook, then took my hand again. "Can Klaus come get you? The hospital has a policy of making sure patients who have suffered a loss don't get discharged alone."

  I scanned her eyes, trying to figure out what she wasn't saying. Then it occurred to me—I'd just lost my spouse. I could become suicidal. Having me go home with family or friends was a way to mitigate that risk.

  "Klaus would come." James would too, but if he was at work covering for me, he wouldn't be able to leave.

  Candace nodded. "In the meantime, we have a priest and rabbi here for spiritual counsel and prayers for those affected. Can I send one of them to you?"

  "No, thank you."

  Once Candace left, I finally chanced a look at that box again. Such a small box for a fully grown man, and they had surely cremated him with his clothes on so the ashes would include whatever Michel had been wearing. Then I caught myself: what a strange thing to think. Why wasn't I losing it? I should be screaming myself insane right now. Instead, I felt like my brain had turned into some kind of project manager, like I was about to have a meeting with the accounting team at the library, pull up my slideshow and go over some budgeting spreadsheets.

  I found I wanted to speak to the box, so I switched to German, though Michi had only ever made it to lower-advanced levels of proficiency. Still, that would afford us some privacy.

  "Hallo, Michi," I said softly. "I think the reason that I cannot fully understand that that's you over there is because your spirit is still here with me. Is this your ghost? I feel you here." I touched the amulet on the silver chain around my neck.

  No answer, but no change in the presence I felt, either.

  Now that my IV was out, I wanted to get away from the crowded hospital and head home. At least if I were home, I could fix myself a cup of coffee and have some breakfast, then see where to go from there. Maybe I'd go into work and see James. Then Klaus could take me out to dinner. All kinds of options. I could think about the fact that my beloved husband was a box of ashes later.

  "Let's get out of here, shall we, honey?"

  I sat up, popped the pain pills and knocked back the glass of water. My wallet was still in my pocket, but I'd been dressed in a hospital shirt and my original shirt was gone. Wallet, keys, wristwatch, jacket. Once I confirmed I wouldn't get dizzy, I stood and approached the box. Sure enough, the cloth underneath was a carrying bag. I tucked the plastic bag inside the box, affixed the lid with the snap clamps, then pulled the cloth bag up and over the whole set.

  When I picked up the box and cradled it to my chest, it felt heavier than I had expected it to be. I smiled down at the box, like I was holding a puppy. In a way I was; Michi had always been my sweet puppy dog.

  "You're heavier than I thought, but that must be your bones, huh darling? Let's go home."

  Stepping into my shoes, I tip-toed out of my curtain stall and shuffled toward the door like I knew what I was doing. No one stopped me, so I walked with purpose. I turned a corner to a hallway, and as was typical of a hospital, I couldn't tell which way I needed to go. I finally found an exit sign, then realized that would take me through the main entrance which surely had a receptionist who would stop me if I didn't have discharge papers, though I couldn't say for sure. I had never before been hospitalized in France.

  Then I heard a nurse say they were going for a smoke break and he stepped out a side exit. Aha. I followed the hallways down a bit more until I saw another door just like it. I pushed it open, then stepped into the sunlight.

  Although I didn't know where in the city I was, I walked until I found the subway and went underground. I had the system memorized after eleven years of living in Paris, so I worked my way toward home easily enough. I unlocked the door to our place and went inside. The air was a bit stale, as Michi normally opened the windows in the mornings briefly to cycle things out, even in the winter time, and then I did so again once I got home from work.

  "Here we go, Michi. Home, safe and sound."

  I set him on the floor in the living room. "I'm going to take a shower, rinse the hospital smell off me." A voice in my head supplied this was also the smell of blood, but I didn't think about that.

  After my shower, I fixed myself an espresso and drank some water. I would need to go grocery shopping, but there was at least some bread in the pantry, so I ate that. I started a load of laundry after changing into a fresh set of clothes. I did a doub
le take in the bedroom when I saw the bed. The sheets were still twisted from when Michi and I had last slept in them, two nights ago. Strange—I knew I should go keep the box of ashes company in the living room, but something pulled me to the bed.

  I slid onto the mattress and hugged my husband's pillow to me, twining my legs in among the sheets. Then I knew what had drawn me: his smell. I could smell my husband here, Michi's scent in our bed linens, back before someone cremated him and sent him home with me in a box.

  I purred in pleasure. "I'm tired, Michi. Let's have sex to help me sleep. I know you're here, come on. I can smell you."

  The silence of the apartment slammed into me like a tidal wave of frigid water. Silence, and then more silence. I stopped breathing, and then there was absolutely no sound.

  I flew from the bed as if it had burned me.

  "Where are you?" I shouted, my vocal cords straining and tearing. "Where are you?"

  I dashed out of the bedroom, knocking against the doorframe and stumbling into the hall. Like a madman I bolted to the living room and found the box sitting in the middle of our hardwood floor. The bookshelves all around spoke of a living person having been here. As always, signs of Michi's brainstorming lingered everywhere in books he'd taken down to peruse for a few minutes that I had yet to put away. This weekend, though, when I put all the books away, Michel would never take them down again. When I washed the sheets, I would lose his scent forever. His body was dead; it would never create a new scent. My husband was dead.

  I pointed at the box in accusation. "Someone must really hate you. You saw all those warnings in your cards and still couldn't evade it. Someone must really hate me, to kill my husband and not give me a chance to kill them back, to show them what that's like."

  I laughed and it sounded hysterical, like a rabid hyena. "You're dead. You're in a fucking box. You're a pile of ashes in a plastic bag. Hah! Mister Plastic Bag, that's not very eco-friendly. And you're the one who wouldn't let us fly on our vacations because you worship a sky god."

  Carefully I sank to the floor, then curled around the box, holding my husband close. I propped one arm under my head tenderly, the hard floor too painful.