She had hair as dark as midnight, eyes that swallowed you like quicksand, and Mediterranean skin hot as a Sicilian summer. Vines of ink climbed from spine to collar; trails of roses and barb wire lacerated her arms. The soft half moon of naked flesh rose from the sheets; the words "Veritas" in languid black letters glinted like angel script in the dim candlelight.
He stared as the supple flesh rose and fell in sleep. An impotent cigarette rested between his fingers as the dying trail of smoke drifted higher. Who was she? The name, the face, none of it matched what his guts told him. She lied with her voice. But her body, the way she danced beneath the sheets, told him the truth.
He would have to kill her.
The cigarette blazed in the dark as he inhaled. Her body shifted, forcing the sheets to whisper like a sinning priest, before she settled. How to do it? His eyes stuck to the half moon and inked words. "Veritas".
He exhaled. Then he knew.
This angel would fly.
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