by Ivy Asher
I watch the black and white vehicle make its way slowly down the road, like the cops inside are checking addresses. It stops in front of the house across the street, and I narrow the gap in the blinds that I’m looking through so I don’t get caught spying like a creep.
I chuckle when the cops get out of the car and are immediately soaked through. It’s funny because they have these plastic covers on their hats, but it’s not doing much good for the rest of them. But my amusement immediately dies away when they don’t jog toward the McNeal’s house like I’m expecting. Instead, they run across the street and right up the sidewalk to my front door.
The blinds snap shut as I lean back on the couch, and my heart trips when the doorbell sounds off. Why would the cops be here? I push up from the sofa and look through the peephole just in case I saw things wrong, just as a firm knock reverberates through the door.
I open it, and the smell of rain slams into me along with cool wind as the storm works itself into a fury outside. Lightning crackles, lighting up the tree in the front yard to be an eerie bright white.
“Are you Delta Gates?” an older officer with a gray mustache asks me, his blue uniform soaked and dripping.
“Yes,” I answer, not sure what to think of this. Am I in trouble for something?
Nothing immediately comes to mind, but that doesn’t seem to stop the fear and adrenaline from kicking in. The mustached officer pulls a rain speckled notebook out of his pocket and flips it open. He thumbs to a different page and then squints slightly at whatever is written there.
“Are you the daughter of a Ray Gates and a Tanya Gates?” he asks.
“Yes...” I confirm, and suddenly the fear and adrenaline pumping through me isn’t for me anymore. “What’s going on? Are they okay?” I ask, worry soaking my tone like the rain did their uniforms.
“We’re very sorry to tell you this, miss, but both of your parents perished in a car collision that occurred approximately two hours ago.”
The officer keeps talking, but I can’t seem to hear him. All I can hear are the words both of your parents perished over and over again. A flash of lightning streaks across the sky, and a boom of thunder follows quickly on its trail. The other officer ducks slightly like he’s expecting the sky to fall down on top of him.
I push out of the door, past the officers and out into the storm. I don’t even know why. It’s like I’m searching for their car to be parked there, even though I know it’s not. I stand in the middle of the driveway, already soaked through. The smell of rain fills my senses, and it pours down, stealing my warmth like the police officer’s words just stole my happiness, stole my breath, stole my...life.
Lightning strikes.
Very sorry.
Thunder booms.
Both of your parents.
Rain pelts.
Perished in a collision.
Thunder yells down at me from the sky again as I collapse on my knees.
I’m crying, sobbing, my soul leaking out through my eyes, but the rain is battling my tears, the thunder drowning out my wails.
Lightning flashes and wind whips past me, stealing my shock away like someone wrenching a blanket off you in the frigid cold.
The officer’s words settle into me against my will, and the next thing I know, an agonized keening is leaking out of my mouth like a dying animal baying at the moon.
The officers are beside me, and I think one of them is trying to get me to stand up from the puddled ground and help me back into the house, because I feel myself rise up from my knees. More lightning and thunder fills the sky, and I look up at it as the cop once again flinches away at the sound.
Fall. I just want it to fall.
“Fall!” I beg the sky on a sob as I stare at the furious storm. My mom and dad are gone, and I just need the sky to fall and swallow me whole. I need to go too.
I just need it to fall.
“Please…”
In present reality, I feel cool hands wrap around my arms and hear my name being spoken through calm lips, somehow pulling me to the surface of that drowning, devastating memory. Somehow helping me out of that night when my parents died and I wanted to go with them.
I come up for air like I’m breaching the surface of the puddle I knelt in that night, gasping for oxygen. That overwhelming smell of rain is still surrounding me like noxious fumes, and I can practically feel the electric current in the air from the lightning that’s pummeling the world all around me, though it feels like it’s striking directly into my heart.
Devastation wants to pull me under again, and no matter how hard I kick, I can’t quite break free.
“Delta.” My name comes again.
I open my eyes—or maybe I’m just able to focus—and see that I’ve somehow ended up on one of the white chairs. The storm is raging, but so are my biological parents. They’re demanding to know what’s wrong with me, standing over me like gods demanding penance for my wrongs and insisting on explanations.
“Well? What’s wrong with her?” Nefta demands, hands on hips as she stares down at me like a defective soldier.
Taz scoffs. “There is nothing wrong with her! She’s my progeny!” he says, completely insulted at the idea that any child of his could be seen as anything less than perfect. “Besides, if anything is wrong with her, it would most definitely come from your side.”
They start yelling at each other, facing off, like their words are being lobbed from slingshots back and forth with rapid-fire hits that Bart Simpson would be proud of.
But their shouting, accusatory words just boom in sync with the thunder, and my brittle nerves feel ready to snap. I shove my hands over my ears, trying to block out the sound, and my wings come out of their own accord, like they’re trying to barricade me from the whole world. That would be a nice touch, if they didn’t freak me out so fucking much, so that just makes everything even worse.
“Stop!” I choke out as I desperately try to bat them away. But they don’t listen. If anything, the next shaking thunder that rattles the windows makes the purple appendages curl around me even tighter. Wracking gasps take over, and in my panicked haste to get them to get the fuck away from me, I rip out some of the feathers, making me cry out from the sharp pain.
More voices are yelling, more of the storm unleashes around me, and black dots enter my vision like my brain is threatening to shut the fuck off.
But then, there’s a cool, soft touch.
I shudder when I feel fingers gently petting my wings, which seem so panicked and unsure of what to do. The touch strokes gently on the arches, until my feathered appendages shiver and then finally relax, allowing the gentle but firm hands to fold them back.
And then Iceman is there, taking up the entirety of my waning vision. Chilled hands come up to cup my face, and his icy eyes are level with mine as he kneels down in front of me, blocking everything and everyone else out.
“We’ve got you, Delta. We’re right here.”
20
The arguing is still going on, and even though Taz’s and Nefta’s voices are obnoxiously loud, somehow, Iceman’s tone cuts through the entire room like a dagger.
“Everyone stop talking right this instant and give us a moment.”
Composed. Unruffled. Completely dominant. Authoritative, despite the fact that here, he’s just a lower male on the totem pole of angelic and demon hierarchy. I don’t know how he does it without raising his voice or even looking away from me, but immediately, the voices stop shouting. My shoulders sag in just an inch of relief, but it’s something.
“There,” he murmurs to me, his frosted thumbs stroking over my fevered cheeks, wiping away the tracks of tears left behind. “Just breathe, Maverick,” he tells me, and I latch onto his voice like it’s a lifeline, a buoy that will make sure I stay above water.
I feel the rest of my guys standing around me, helping to further shield me away. Someone is running a palm over my back, another is gently threading fingers through my hair, while someone e
lse continues to keep my wings calm and folded back.
“Breathe in,” Iceman directs, as if he somehow knows the black dots in my vision are still threatening to spread.
It’s difficult, but I manage to take in a short, shaky inhale.
“Good,” he praises quietly, his eyes still not leaving mine. “Breathe out and in again for me, slower this time.”
I do as he says, this breath slightly less restrictive than the last. We do this several more times until the last of the black dots recede and I’m no longer in danger of blacking out or worse, raging out.
“Good girl,” he tells me as his thumb catches another tear that falls free. “Tell me what happened.”
“The storm…” I say, trying to swallow around a thick tongue. “My parents crashed during a storm like this. The road was flooded, and the car that hit them couldn’t stop, and they…”
When my breath hitches, he moves one of his hands to circle my neck and lets his thumb caress the length of my strangled throat until the rocks gathered there can be swallowed down. “They died and...I wanted to die too,” I say, feeling both shame and relief at the admission. “I hate storms. They trigger me. Like I feel the pain and loss all over again with every raindrop and thunder clash. No matter how hard I try to stop it, the storms bring me right back to that night almost ten years ago,” I finish, feeling defeated, hating how I have to relive that over and over again.
I hate how I must look to him at this moment. Weak. A blubbering mess. A pathetic puddle of grief and pain, set off by something as natural as a rainstorm.
“Look at me, Delta,” Iceman says, and I immediately lift my eyes to his. I ready myself for the it’s okay or the I’m sorry or even the pull it together, we’re in fucking Purgatory pep talk.
But Iceman doesn’t say any of that.
Ice-blue eyes look at me like he can see right down to my very soul. “We will weather the storm with you. Always.”
My eyes fill.
How can this demon, who’s only known me for a short time, speak such perfect words?
He leans forward and presses his lips against both cheeks, like he’s happy to take on the bitterly brined streaks of my sadness.
I practically fall forward against him, hugging him hard, settling my ear against his chest. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, not just to him, but to all four of my guys. “I’m so embarrassed,” I admit, keeping my face buried against Iceman, not yet ready to face the rest of the room. I’m utterly humiliated to have had such a personal, acute breakdown in front of all of these people.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Iceman tells me.
“He’s right,” Echo says, and I lift my head up enough to see that he’s kneeling on the ground too, while Crux is sitting beside me on the chair, and Jerif is standing, arms crossed and face pissed as he looks out at the room, like he’s just daring anyone to say anything. I love him for that.
“Yeah, no apologizing, and don’t be embarrassed,” Crux tells me. I notice that my left wing has curved around him, like it’s trying to hug him close. He doesn’t even flinch when the feathers wrap all the way around to his front, the tips brushing along his crotch like they’re trying to flirt.
I puff out an exasperated breath and try to bat them away. They pull back slightly, like they’re sulking, and Crux’s green eyes glitter with amusement. “I think they like me.”
“Well, at least they like someone. I think they just like to fuck with me,” I mumble before sitting up straight and taking a calming breath.
I wish I had some more of that hump blood to pour on my scythe right about now. Escaping through a portal that makes the ground swallow me whole and letting me run away from the embarrassing panic attack I just had would be nice. But that’s just not in the cards for me. I’m here for answers, and breakdown aside, I need to get them.
I try to comb down my frazzled hair, and I wipe my cheeks with my hand before swiping beneath both eyes. My face feels tight and shaky, but I give them a little smile. “How do I look?” I ask quietly. “Am I sporting the I just had a meltdown in Purgatory look?”
“You look beautiful,” Iceman assures me.
“A little splotchy,” Echo teases.
I reach forward and bat him away with my hand, but I’m inwardly grateful for his levity to break up the heavy moment. He pulls me into him and pecks me quickly on the lips. I smile against his mouth and shed some of the apprehension and embarrassment still floating around me. I can still hear the rain, but at least the thunder has calmed down, and I try to shake away the chills that want to crawl up my skin.
I pull in a deep breath and focus as I scoot to the end of my seat. Jerif hands me my scythe, and I give him a small smile of thanks for watching over it while I lost my mind. Tazreel has once again taken up residence in the chair directly across the room, and Nefta is leaning against the arm of the sofa as far away from him as she can be.
“When did your parents die?” she asks me calmly, and for a brief moment, I’m grateful that she doesn’t do what Taz has been doing, and pretend she’s my parent. She’s nothing more to me than the person who gave birth to me and then walked away.
“I was nineteen,” I tell her, and she nods solemnly.
The vibe in the room is more sober, and as much fun as having a breakdown in front of everyone is, I’m at least glad that Nefta and Tazreel have stopped bickering. Maybe now I can get some answers.
I stare at Nefta expectantly, and like she knows there’s no getting out of it, she sighs and rubs at the back of her neck. “I am not a warm person,” she begins. “It’s not personal, it’s just who I’ve always been. I was made for battles and strategies...not motherhood,” she explains, and I sit back and give her the space to unfold her story. “Playing with Sin is a rite of passage for us angels. Some will pretend like it’s not, but everyone knows what’s up,” Nefta adds, looking at Louquin like she’s challenging him to say it’s not true. He stays silent, keeping his eyes on the ground, away from her heavy stare.
“I thought I was being careful, that my protections against pregnancy worked for the Fallen just like it worked for other angels, but I discovered that wasn’t the case.”
Tazreel snorts at her use of Fallen instead of Abdicated like they prefer to be called, but he thankfully stays quiet.
“When I knew for sure I was with child, keeping you was never an option,” she goes on, not shying away from the truth or doing me the disrespect of looking away in shame. “When I discovered who Sophocles really was, I also knew that I couldn’t hand you over to Tazreel either. So I did what I thought was best. It sounds as though it didn’t quite work out for you as I had planned, and that’s unfortunate, but I’m not sorry I made the choice that I did. It may not seem like it, but I was protecting you. It was by far what was best for you, and—”
“Protecting her?” Tazreel snarls, shooting up to his feet. “What was best? No. What would have been best is telling me the truth and affording me my rights as a Sire!”
Nefta snorts incredulously, not at all cowed or affected by Taz’s rage. “You would have used her, bent her to your prideful will. You don’t even know what you’re talking about. You don’t know what she is at her core. You couldn’t have been a good Sire to her any more than I could’ve been a good mother. She’s not some pawn, which you would have made her out to be.”
“Oh, please,” Tazreel scoffs.
“You wouldn’t know what was in anyone’s best interest, aside from your own, if it scythed you across the throat,” Nefta challenges, cutting him off. “You’re just pissed that I made a decision without you. But what does it really matter? Is this just about your bruised pride? Because we both know you never wanted progeny.”
“You had no right!” Taz bellows, enraged. She obviously pressed the right button for him to be so furious.
“No, you had no right,” she snaps, her beautiful face alight with anger. “You were unworthy of her, just like I was. Get over yourself, Pride. I made the r
ight choice.”
“You—”
“Stop! Both of you...just stop!” I shout out, interrupting Taz before they can keep going head-to-head. Surprisingly, they both listen. I grip the scythe in my hand tighter and try to rein in my frustration. “You can fight later about who did what and why it was wrong. It has nothing to do with me right now and honestly doesn’t change a thing.” My eyes swivel to Taz. “Proving that you’ve been wronged doesn’t erase the past or the fact that I am who I am because I was raised the way that I was. With two human parents who I loved.”
I look down at the black wood and metal bands of the weapon in my hands. Pushing through the emotion, I harden my resolve and meet the eyes of the female who birthed me.
“Nefta, can you tell me why the blocks stopped working? Was it because of this?” I ask, holding up the weapon.
She looks at it for a moment with a spark of fondness in her gaze. I try not to feel jealous of the fact that she’s yet to look at me that way. I pause for a moment and examine that thought. Why do I care if she feels anything for me? I keep saying that no matter what I find out, I know who my real parents are, and it’s not the Legion Colonel or the Abdicated Sin in front of me.
Yeah, their blood runs in my veins, but that’s just biology. I don’t know them, and they don’t know me. So why would I expect fondness or emotion?
Still, as logical as I try to be about it, I can’t help but wonder if Nefta ever checked on me or thought about me. Maybe it’s my own emotions projecting, but I struggle to wrap my mind around walking away from a child and just never giving them or their existence a second thought.
“Have you named her yet?” Nefta asks me, a smile picking up at one corner of her mouth.
“Uh...no?” I reply with a little judgment laced in my tone as I give her a concerned side eye. “Should I have? Would that make it listen to me?” I ask.
“Her, not it,” she corrects. “The scythes have anchored our bloodline since our creation. But no, she didn’t break the blocks I put on you. I’m not sure what did that, but she came to you when you needed her, which is what happens to every female in our line. They come to us because of our blood, and blood bonds us to them.”
