by Susan Ee
“What have we here?” I ask in what I hope is a tone of deadly amusement. “Michael, Gabriel, come see this,” I call out behind me as though there are more of us. Michael and Gabriel are the only two angel names I can think of. “The monkeys seem to think they can attack one of our own now.”
The men freeze. Everyone stares at me.
In that moment, while I hold my breath, possibilities roll around the room like a roulette wheel.
Then, a really bad thing happens.
My right wing wobbles, then slips down a notch or two. In my rush to right it, I wiggle to get a better grip, but that just brings more attention to it as the wing waves up and down.
In the long second before everyone absorbs what just happened, I see the angel rolling his eyes heavenward, like a teenager in the presence of overwhelming lameness. Some people just have no sense of gratitude.
The angel is the first one to break the silence. He heaves his cart up and swings it at the three guys in front of him, crashing through them like a bowling ball.
Three of the others come for me.
I drop my wings and scuttle to their left. The trick with fighting multiple assailants is to avoid fighting them all at the same time. Unlike in the movies, attackers don’t wait in line to kick your ass, they want to pounce all at once like a pack of wolves.
I dance in a semicircle around them until the guy closest to me is in the way of the other two. It only takes a second for them to run around their buddy, but that’s enough time for me to snap a solid kick to his groin. He doubles over, and though I’m dying to accept the invitation to knee him in the face, his buddies take precedence.
I dance around to the other side of the doubled-over guy, making the others fall back into a line to get around him. I sweep the injured guy’s feet, and he comes crashing down on wife-beater number two. The remaining guy pounces on me and we roll on the ground in a grapple for the top position.
I end up on the bottom. He outweighs me by a hundred pounds, but this is a position I’ve practiced fighting from over and over.
Men tend to fight differently with a woman than they do with men. The overwhelming majority of fights between men and women start with the men attacking from behind, and almost instantly end on the ground with the woman on the bottom. So a good female fighter needs to know how to fight on her back.
As we struggle, I wriggle my leg out from under him for leverage. Brace. Then tip him over to one side with a twist of my hip.
He flips onto his back. Before he can get his bearings again, I slam my heel down on his groin.
I’m up in a flash and kicking his head before he recovers. I kick him so hard his head whiplashes back and forth.
“Nice.” The angel stands watching in the moonlight behind his bloody cart.
Around him are the moaning bodies of our intruders. Some of the bodies are so still I can’t tell if they’re alive. He nods appreciatively as though he sees something he likes. I let myself have an internal tongue lashing when I realize I’m pleased by his approval.
A guy staggers up and runs for the door. He holds his head as though afraid it will fall off. As if that was their cue, three more get up and stumble out the door without looking back. The rest lie panting on the ground.
I hear a weak laugh and realize it’s the angel.
“You looked ridiculous with those wings,” he says. His lip is bleeding and so is a cut above his eye. But he looks relaxed as his smile lights up his face.
I dig out the bike lock key from my pocket with trembling hands and toss it to him. He catches it even though he’s still chained.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say. It sounds less shaky than I feel. The post-fight adrenaline has me literally trembling. The angel unlocks himself, stretches and cracks his wrists. Then he rips a denim jacket off one of the groaning guys on the floor and tosses it to me. I gratefully put it on even though it’s about ten sizes too big.
He goes back into the corner office while I quickly roll his wings in the blanket. I run to the filing cabinet to grab the sword, then meet him in the lobby as he comes back out with my pack. I strap the blanket onto the pack, trying not to cinch it too hard under his gaze, then load up. I wish I had a pack for him but he wouldn’t be able to carry it on his wounded back anyway.
When he sees the sword, his face breaks into a glorious smile as if it’s a long-lost friend rather than a pretty piece of metal. His look of sheer joy stops my breath for a moment. It’s a look I thought I’d never see again on anyone’s face. I feel lighter just being close to it.
“You had my sword the whole time?”
“It’s my sword now.” My voice comes out harsher than the situation calls for. His happiness is so human that I forgot for a moment what he really is. I dig my nails into my palm to remind myself never to let my thoughts slip again.
“Your sword? You wish,” he says. What I wish is that he stop sounding so damned human. “Do you have any idea how loyal she’s been to me over the years?”
“She? You’re not one of those people who name their cars and coffee mugs, are you? It’s an inanimate object. Get over it.”
He reaches for the sword. I step back, not wanting to hand it over.
“What are you going to do, fight me for her?” he asks. He sounds like he’s close to laughing.
“What are you going to do with it?”
He sighs, seeming tired. “Use it as a crutch, what do you think?”
There is a moment when a decision hangs in the air. The truth is that he doesn’t need the sword to beat me now that he’s free and on his feet. He could just take it, and we both know it.
“I saved your life,” I say.
He arches an eyebrow. “Questionable.”
“Twice.”
He finally drops the hand that had been reaching for the sword. “You’re not going to give me back my sword, are you?”
I grab Paige’s wheelchair, stick the sword in the seatback pocket. So long as he’s too tired to argue, I’m better off maintaining control. Either he really is exhausted, or he’s decided to just let me carry it for him like a knight’s little squire. By the way he glances at the sword with a half-grin, I’m guessing it’s the latter reason.
I wheel Paige’s chair around and roll out.
“I don’t think I’ll be needing that chair anymore,” says the angel. He sounds exhausted, and I’m willing to bet he wouldn’t say no if I offered to push him in the chair.
“It’s not for you. It’s for my sister.”
He is silent as we walk into the night, and I know he thinks Paige will never see the wheelchair.
He can go to hell.
CHAPTER 10
Silicon Valley is about half an hour by car from the forest in the hills. It’s also about 45 minutes away from San Francisco if you’re driving on the freeway. I figure the roads will be clogged with deserted cars and desperate people. So we head for the hills where there are fewer people and more places to hide.
Until a few weeks ago, rich people lived along the lower hills. They either lived in three bedroom ranch houses that cost a couple of million dollars, or in fairytale mansions that cost ten million dollars. We stay away from those, my logic being that they probably attract the wrong kind of visitors. Instead, we pick out a little guest house behind one of the estates. A not-too-fancy kind of guest house that won’t attract any attention.
The angel just follows me without comment, and that works fine for me. He hasn’t said much since we left the office building. It’s been a long night, and he can barely stand by the time we reach the cottage. We make it to the house just before the storm hits.
It’s strange. In some ways, he’s shockingly strong. He’s been beaten, mutilated and bleeding for days, yet he can still fight off several men at a time. He never seems to get cold despite being shirtless and jacketless. But the walking seems hard on him.
When we finally sit in the cabin as the rain starts, he eases off his boots. His feet are bliste
red and raw. They’re pink and vulnerable as though they haven’t been used much. Maybe they haven’t. If I had wings, I’d probably spend most of my time flying too.
I dig through my pack and find the small first aid kit. In it, there are some blister packs. They’re like adhesive bandages but bigger and tougher. I hand the packages to the angel. He opens one up and stares at it like he’s never seen one before.
He first looks at the skin colored side, which is a shade too light for him, then at the padded side, then back at the skin colored side again. He puts it up to his eye like a pirate’s eye patch and makes a grimace.
My lips crack into a quarter smile even though it’s hard for me to believe I can still smile. I grab it out of his hand. “Here, I’ll show you how to use it. Let me see your foot.”
“That’s a pretty intimate demand in the angel world. It usually takes dinner, some wine, and sparkling conversation for me to give up my feet.”
That calls for a witty comeback.
“Whatever,” I say.
Okay, so I won’t be getting the Witty Woman of the Year Award. “Do you want me to show you how to use this or not?” I sound surly. It’s the best I can do right now.
He sticks out his feet. Angry red spots scream for attention on his heel and big toes. One foot has a burst blister on the heel.
I look at my meager supply of blister packs. I’ll have to use them all on his feet and hope that my own will hold out. The small voice pipes up again as I gently place the adhesive around his burst blister: He won’t be with you for more than a couple of days. Why waste precious supplies on him?
He pulls a glass splinter out of his shoulder. He’s been doing that the whole time we’ve been walking, but he keeps finding more. If he hadn’t stepped in front of me when he broke through the window, I’d be peppered with glass shards too. I’m almost sure he didn’t protect me on purpose, but I can’t help but be grateful that he did.
I carefully soak up pus and blood with a sterile pad, even though I know that if he is going to get an infection, it would come from the deep wounds on his back, not from a few blisters on his feet. The thought of his lost wings make my hands more gentle than they would be otherwise.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
I don’t need to know. In fact, I don’t want to know. Giving him a name makes it sound like we’re somehow on the same side, which we can never be. It’s like acknowledging that we could become friends. But that’s not possible. It’s pointless to make friends with your executioner.
“Raffe.”
I only asked him his name to distract him from thinking about having to use his feet instead of his wings. But now that I know his name, it feels right. “Rah-fie,” I repeat slowly. “I like the sound of that.”
His eyes soften as though he smiles even though his expression doesn’t change from his stony look. For some reason, it makes my face heat up.
I clear my throat to break the tension. “Raffe sounds like Raw Feet. Coincidence?” That gets a smile out of him. When he smiles, he really does look like someone you’d want to get to know. Some otherworldly handsome guy a girl could dream about.
Only he’s not a guy. And he’s too otherworldly. Not to mention that this girl is beyond dreaming about anything other than food, shelter, and the safety of her family.
I rub my finger firmly around the adhesive to make sure it won’t fall off. He inhales sharply and I can’t tell if it’s from pain or pleasure. I’m careful to keep my eyes down on my task.
“So, aren’t you going to ask me my name?” I could kick myself. That sounds just like me flirting. But I’m not, of course. I couldn’t be. At least I’d managed to keep the tone from being giggly.
“I already know your name.” Then he mimics my mother’s voice perfectly. “Penryn Young, you open this door right now!”
“That’s pretty good. You sound just like her.”
“You must have heard the old adage that there’s power in knowing someone’s true name.”
“Is it true?”
“It can be. Especially between species.”
“Then why did you just tell me yours?”
He leans back and gives me a bad boy, devil-may-care shrug.
“So what do they call you if they don’t know your name?”
There’s a brief pause before he answers. “The Wrath of God.”
I take my hand off his foot in a slow controlled motion to keep it from shaking. I realize then that if someone could see us, it might look like I am paying him homage. He sits in a chair while I kneel at his feet with my eyes downcast. I quickly stand up so that I am looking down at him. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and look him straight in the eyes.
“I am not afraid of you, your kind, or your god.”
There’s a part of me that cringes at the lightning strike that I am sure will come. But it doesn’t. There isn’t even dramatic thunder outside in the storm. It doesn’t make me feel any less afraid though. I am an ant in the battlefield of the gods. There’s no room for pride or ego, and barely enough room for survival. But I can’t help myself. Who do they think they are? We may be ants, but this field is our home, and we have every right to live in it.
His expression changes just a fraction before he shutters it in his godlike way. I’m not sure what it means, but I do know that my insane statement has some kind of an effect on him, even if it’s just amusement.
“I don’t doubt it, Penryn.” He says my name as though he is tasting something new, rolling it over his tongue to see how he likes it. There’s an intimacy in the way he says it that makes me want to squirm.
I toss the remaining blister packets onto his lap. “Now you know how to use them. Welcome to my world.”
I turn around, showing him my back, emphasizing my lack of fear. At least, that’s what I tell myself. It’s also convenient that by turning my back on him, I can let my hands shake a little as I dig through my pack for something to eat.
“Why are you guys here, anyway?” I ask as I rummage for food. “I mean, it’s obvious that you’re not here for a friendly chat, but why do you want to get rid of us? What did we do to deserve extermination?”
He shrugs. “Beats me.”
I stare at him, open-mouthed.
“Hey, I don’t call the shots,” he says. “If I was good at marketing, I’d spin you an empty story that sounds profound. But the truth is that we’re all just stumbling around in the dark. Sometimes we hit something terrible.”
“That’s it? It can’t be as random as that.” I don’t know what I want to hear, but that’s not it.
“It’s always as random as that.”
He sounds more like a seasoned soldier than any angel I’ve ever heard of. One thing’s for sure—I’m not going to get a lot of answers out of him.
Dinner is instant noodles and a couple of energy bars. We also have bite-sized chocolates plundered from the office for dessert. I wish we could light up the fireplace but the smoke from the chimney would be a sure sign that the cottage is occupied. Same for the lights. I have a couple of flashlights in my bag, but remembering that it was my mother’s flashlight that probably attracted the gang, we crunch our dried noodles and oversweetened energy bars in the dark.
He scarfs down his portion so fast that I can’t help but stare. I don’t know when he last ate, but he certainly hasn’t eaten in the two days I’ve known him. I’m also guessing that his super-healing consumes a lot of calories too. We don’t have much, but I offer him half my share. If he had been awake the last couple of days, I’d have had to feed him a lot more than this.
My hand stays out with the offered food long enough to make the moment awkward. “Don’t you want it?” I ask.
“That depends on why you’re giving it to me.”
I shrug. “Sometimes, as we’re stumbling along in the dark, we hit something good.”
He watches me for another moment before taking the offered food.
“Don’t think you’re
getting my share of the chocolate, though.” I know I should conserve the chocolate, but I can’t help eating more than I’d planned. The waxy texture and burst of sweetness in my mouth brings comfort that’s too rare to pass up. I won’t let us eat more than half my stash, though. I stuff the rest way down in the bottom of my pack so I won’t be tempted.
My longing for the candy must show on my face because the angel asks, “Why don’t you just eat it? We can eat something else tomorrow.”
“It’s for Paige.” I zip up my pack with finality, ignoring his thoughtful look.
I wonder where my mother is now. I’d always suspected that she is more clever than my father, even though he is the one with the masters degree in engineering. But all her animal cleverness won’t help her when her crazy instincts are demanding her attention. Some of the worst times in my life have been because of her. But I can’t help but hope that she’s found a dry place out of the rain, and has managed to find something to eat for dinner.
I dig through my pack and find the last styrofoam cup of dried noodle. I walk to the door and leave it outside.
“What are you doing?”
I think about explaining to him about my mother but decide against it. “Nothing.”
“Why would you leave food outside in the rain?”
How did he know it was food? It’s too dark for him to see the cup of noodles.
“How well can you see in the dark?”
There’s a brief pause as though he’s considering denying that he can see in the dark. “Almost as well as I can see in the day.”
I squirrel away the intel. This little piece of information may have just saved my life. Who knows what I would have done once I found the other angels? I may have tried to hide in the dark as I snuck into their nest. That would have been a nasty time to find out just how well angels can see in the dark.
“So, why would you leave valuable food outside?”
“In case my mother is out there.”
“Wouldn’t she just come in?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
