by Ee, Susan
“My mother is here.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Probably.” I drive forward a few feet as the line moves.
My mother is more emotional about her job than her fellow prodders. She reaches as far as the fence will let her to shock as many people as possible. At one point, she even cackles as she zaps a man for as long as she can before he staggers out of her reach. She looks for all the world as though she’s enjoying inflicting pain on people.
Despite appearances, I recognize fear in my mother when I see it. If you didn’t know her, you’d think her zest comes from malice. But there’s a good chance that she doesn’t even recognize her victims as people.
She probably thinks she’s trapped in a cage in hell surrounded by monsters. Maybe as payment for a deal made with the devil. Maybe just because the world conspires against her. She probably thinks the people who get close to the fence are actually monsters in disguise stalking her cage. Someone has miraculously given her a weapon to keep those monsters at bay. So she’s using this rare chance to fight back.
“How did she end up here?” I wonder out loud.
Dirt smears her cheeks and greasy hair, and her clothes are ripped at the elbow and knees. She looks like she’s been sleeping on the ground. But she does look healthy and fed, with rosy coloring in her cheeks.
“Everyone on the road ends up here if they don’t get themselves killed first.”
“How?”
“Beats me. You humans have always had some kind of herding instinct that seems to bring you together. And this is the largest herd around.”
“Town. Not herd. Towns are for people. Herds are for animals.”
He snorts rudely in response.
It probably is better to leave her there instead of trying to take her with me inside the aerie. It’s hard to be stealthy with my mother around. That could cost us Paige’s life. There’s not much I can do to ease her torment when she’s like this. The people will eventually learn to stay away from her while she patrols the fence. She’s safer here. We’re all safer with her here. For now.
My justifications don’t ease my guilt about leaving her. But I can’t think of a better solution.
I tear my gaze away from my mother and try to focus on my surroundings. I can’t be distracted if we’re all to stay alive.
In front of me, the crowd starts to show a pattern. Women and teen girls, all dressed and made up to the best of their resources, press up against the people in front of them, hoping to get the attention of the guards. Many of the girls are surrounded by people who look like parents or grandparents. The women often stand beside their men, sometimes with children.
The guards shake their heads at virtually everyone who requests entry. Occasionally, a woman, or a group of women refuse to move out of the way after they’ve been turned down, choosing, instead, to beg or break down crying. The angels seem not to care one way or another, but the crowd cares. The mob shoves the offending rejects into itself, mindlessly pushing them back with their shifting and shoving bodies, until the losers are ejected out at the rear of the crowd.
Occasionally, the guards let one through. From what I can tell, the ones let through are always female. While we inch up to the gate, two are admitted.
Both are women dressed in tight dresses and high heels, like me. One of them enters without a backward glance, clicking confidently away down the empty road on the other side of the gate. The other goes hesitantly, turning around to throw kisses at a man and two grubby children gripping the chain link of the fence. They scurry away from the fence when a man with a cattle prod approaches them.
When these women are let through, a group at the edge of the crowd exchanges goods. It takes me a minute to understand that they’re taking bets on who gets in. A bookie points to several women near the guards, then accepts items from the people around him. The bettors are mostly men, but there are women in the group too. Each time a woman is let through, one of the bettors walks away with an armful of goods.
I want to ask what’s going on, why humans want to go into angel territory and why these people camp out here. But I would only prove Raffe right about acting like a little girl asking too many questions. So I tamp down the flood of questions and ask the one that’s operationally relevant.
“What if they don’t let us go through?” I ask, trying not to move my lips.
“They will,” he answers from the dark recesses of the backseat footwell.
“How do you know?”
“Because you have the look they’re looking for.”
“What look is that?”
“Beautiful.” His voice is like a caress from the shadows.
No one has ever told me I’m beautiful before. I’ve been too preoccupied with dealing with my mother and taking care of Paige to pay much attention to my looks. Heat flushes my cheeks, and I hope I don’t look like a clown when I get to the checkpoint. If Raffe is right and this is the only way in, I need to look as good as I can if I want a chance of seeing Paige again.
By the time I reach the front of the chaotic line, several women have just about thrown themselves at the guards. None of them were allowed in. It doesn’t make me feel any better about my greasy hair as I drive up to the guards.
They give me a bored once-over. There are two of them. Their speckled wings look small and withered compared to Raffe’s. One of the guards’ face is lightly speckled with green, just like his wings. The word dappled comes to mind, like a horse. Looking into his face is a wrenching reminder that they are not human. That Raffe is not human.
Dappled waves at me to come out of the car. I hesitate for a moment before slowly getting out. He didn’t do that with the other girls in the cars in front of me.
I pull down my hem to make sure it covers my butt. The guards look at me up and down. I resist the urge to slouch and cross my arms across my breasts.
Dappled waves for me to spin around. I feel like a stripper and I want to kick them in the teeth, but I do a slow spin for them on my unsteady heels. Paige. Think about Paige.
The guards exchange a look. I frantically think about what I could do or say to try to get them to let me through. If Raffe says this is the way in, then I must find a way to get them to let me in.
Dappled waves me through.
I’m so stunned I just stand there.
Then, before they can change their minds, I turn away from them so that if they shake their heads, I can’t see it. I slide back into the car as casually as I can.
The little hairs on the back of my neck stand stiff in anticipation of a whistle blowing, or a hand on my shoulder, or German Shepherds nosing in behind me just like in the old war movies. We are, after all, at war, aren’t we?
But none of that happens. I start the engine and they wave me through. And I gain another piece of information. The angels don’t see humans as a threat. So what if a few monkeys get in through the cracks in their fence or crawl in little go-carts around the base of their nest? How hard would it be for them to take us down and contain the intruding animals?
“Where are we?” Raffe asks from the shadows behind me.
“In hell,” I say. I keep the speed at a steady twenty miles per hour. The streets are empty here so I could go sixty if I want, but I don’t want to call attention to us.
“If this is your idea of hell, you’re very innocent. Look for a club-like scene. Lots of light, lots of women. Go and park there, but not too close.”
I look around the weirdly deserted streets. A few women, looking cold and forlorn in the howling San Franciscan wind, stumble down the sidewalk toward some destination only they know. I keep driving, looking at the empty streets. Then I see people spilling out of a tall building along a side street.
As I get closer, I see a crowd of women around a 1920’s-style nightclub entrance. They must be freezing in their skimpy party dresses, but they stand tall and attractive. The doorway is arched in classic Art Deco, and the angels guarding the front entrance are dressed in modified
tuxedos with slits in the backs to make room for their wings.
I park my car a couple of blocks past the club. I put the keys in a pocket on the visor and leave my boots in the passenger footwell where I can grab them in a rush if I need to. I wish I could stuff them in my sequined clutch, but there’s only room in there for a tiny flashlight and my pocketknife.
I slide out of the car. Raffe crawls out from behind me. The wind hits me as soon as I’m out, whipping my hair into a frenzy around my face. I curl my arms around myself, wishing I had a coat.
Raffe straps his sword around his waist, looking like an old-fashioned gentleman in his tux. “Sorry I can’t offer my jacket. When we get closer, I need you to not look cold so no one wonders why I don’t take off my jacket to give to you.”
I doubt anyone will wonder why an angel doesn’t offer a girl his jacket, but I let it go.
“How come it’s okay for you to be seen now?”
He gives me a tired look as though I’m exhausting him.
“Okay, okay.” I put my hands up in surrender. “You call the shots, I follow. Just help me find my sister.” I mimic turning a key in a lock on my lips and throw away the pretend key.
He straightens his already straight jacket. Is that a nervous motion? He offers me his arm. I put my hand on the crook of his arm and we walk down the sidewalk.
At first, his muscles are stiff, and his eyes constantly scan the area. What’s he looking for? Could he really have that many enemies among his own people? After a few steps, though, he relaxes. I’m not sure if it’s natural or forced. Either way, we now look to the world like a regular couple out for the evening.
As we near the crowd, I can see more details. Several of the angels going into the club are in old-fashioned gangster zoot suits complete with felt hats and jaunty feathers. Long watch chains drape to their knees.
“What is this, a costume party?” I ask.
“It’s just the current fashion for the aerie.” His voice sounds a bit clipped, as though he doesn’t approve.
“What happened to the rule of not fraternizing with the Daughters of Men?”
“An excellent question.” His jaw clenches into a hard line. I don’t think I want to be around when he demands an answer to that question.
“So producing children with humans gets you damned because Nephilims are a big no-no,” I say. “But anything up to that…?”
He shrugs. “Apparently, they’ve decided that’s a gray zone. It could get them all burned.” Then he adds in a whisper, almost to himself, “But the fire can be tempting.”
The thought of superhuman beings with human temptations and flaws sends a chill through me.
We walk past the protection of a building to cross a street, and I’m back to being whipped mercilessly by the wind. Wind tunnels have nothing on the streets of San Francisco.
“Try not to look so cold.”
I stand up straight even though I’m dying to curl into myself. At least my skirt isn’t long enough to whip up.
The opportunity to ask more questions dries up as we approach the crowd. The whole scene has a surreal feel to it. It’s as though I’m walking out of a refugee camp into an exclusive supper club, complete with tuxedos, women in formal wear, expensive cigars and jewelry.
The cold doesn’t seem to bother any of the angels who lazily breathe cigar smoke into the wind. Not in a million years would I have imagined angels smoking. These guys look more like gangsters than pious angels. Each one has at least two women lavishing attention on them. Some have four or more crowded around them. From the snippets of conversations I catch as we walk by, all of these women are trying their darndest to get an angel’s attention.
Raffe walks right past the milling crowd toward the door. There are two angels standing on guard but Raffe ignores them and keeps walking. His hand is on the crook of my elbow and I just go where he goes. One of the guards eyes us as though his Spidey sense is sending alarm signals about us.
There’s a moment when I’m sure he’ll stop us.
Instead, he stops two women trying to get in. We walk past the women, leaving them to convince the guards that their angel had merely forgotten them outside and that he’s expecting to meet them inside. The guard firmly shakes his head.
Apparently, you need an angel as your ticket into the aerie. I let out a breath as we glide right through the doors.
CHAPTER 28
Inside, the two-story vaulted ceiling and Art Deco touches give the impression that the foyer was meant to welcome people of good breeding. A curved, gilded staircase dominates the area, creating a picture-perfect setting for couples with long dresses and tuxes, tasteful accents and pedigrees. Ironically, chubby cherubs look down at us from the frescoed ceiling.
To the side stands a long, marbled counter that should have had several attendants asking us how long we intend to stay. Now it’s just an empty reminder that this building used to be a posh hotel only a couple of months ago. Well, not entirely empty. There is a single attendant looking very small and human among all that marble and angelic grace.
The lobby is spotted with small groups chatting and laughing, all dressed in evening clothes. Most of the women are human with only an occasional female angel circulating the foyer. The men are a mix of human and angel. The human men are servants carrying drinks, picking up empty glasses, and checking in coats for the few lucky women who have them.
Raffe hesitates only briefly to survey the scene. We drift along the wall down a wide corridor with marbled floors and velvet wallpaper. The lighting in the foyer and hallway is more atmospheric than practical. This leaves much of the walls in soft shadows, a fact that I’m sure didn’t escape Raffe’s notice. I can’t say that we’re sneaking through the building, exactly, but we’re certainly not calling attention to ourselves.
A steady stream of people flow in and out of a pair of oversized leather doors accented in brass. We’re headed in that direction when three angels push through it. They’re all wide and solid, every graceful move, every casual bulge of muscle declaring them to be athletes. No, athletes isn’t quite right. Warriors is the word that rattles around in my brain.
Two of them stand head and shoulders taller than the crowd. The third is more compact, more lithe, more like a cheetah to their bears. They all carry swords dangling along their thighs as they walk. I realize that other than Raffe and the guards, these are the first angels I’ve seen with swords.
Raffe ducks his head toward me, flashing a smile as though I had just said something funny. He bends his head close enough to mine that I think he’s going to kiss me. Instead, he simply touches his forehead to mine.
To the men walking by, Raffe would look like a man being affectionate. But they can’t see his eyes. Despite the smile, Raffe’s expression is one of pain, the kind you can’t stop with aspirin. As the angels walk by us, Raffe subtly turns his body so that his back is to them at all times. They laugh at something the cheetah says, and Raffe closes his eyes, steeping in some bittersweet feeling I can’t begin to understand.
His face is so close to mine our breaths mingle. Yet he’s far away from me in a place where he’s buffeted by emotions deep and unkind. Whatever he’s feeling, it’s very human. I have this strong compulsion to try to pull him out of this mood, to try to distract him.
I place my hand on his cheek. It’s warm and pleasant. Maybe too pleasant. When his eyes don’t open, I tentatively touch my lips to his.
At first, I get no response and I consider backing off.
Then, his kiss turns hungry.
It is not the gentle kiss of a couple on a first date, nor is it the kiss of a man driven by simple lust. He kisses me with the desperation of a dying man who believes the magic of eternal life is in this kiss. The ferocity of his grip around my waist and shoulders, the grinding pressure of his lips has me off balance so that my thoughts whirl out of control.
The pressure eases, and the kiss turns sensual.
A tingling warmth shoots from
the silken touch of his lips and tongue straight to my core. My body melts into his and I’m hyper aware of the hard muscles of his chest against my breasts, the warm grip of his hands around my waist and shoulders, the wet sliding of his mouth on mine.
Then it’s over.
He pulls back from me, taking a gulp of air as if surfacing from choppy waters. His eyes are deep pools of swirling emotion.
He shuts his eyes off from mine. And eases his breath in a controlled exhale.
When he opens his eyes again, they are more black than blue and completely unreadable. Whatever is happening behind those shuttered eyes is now impenetrable.
What I saw there a moment ago is now buried so far I have to wonder if I imagined it in the first place. The only thing that hints that he feels anything at all is that his breathing is still faster than normal.
“You should know,” he says. His whisper is low enough that even angels probably couldn’t hear it beyond the background noise of conversations in the corridor. “I don’t even like you.”
I stiffen in his arms. I don’t know what I expected him to say, but that wasn’t it.
Unlike him, I’m pretty sure my emotions come through loud and clear on my face. I can feel one of those emotions heating my cheeks in humiliation.
He steps away from me casually, turns and pushes through the double doors.
I stand in the corridor watching the doors swing back and forth until it settles.
A couple pushes through from the other side. The angel has his arm around the woman. She wears a full-length silver sequined dress that hugs her body and winks at her every move. He sports a purple suit with a neon pink shirt that drapes its wide collar over his shoulders. They both stare at me as they walk by.
When a man in purple and screaming pink stares at you, you know it’s time to change your appearance. Although my crimson dress is tight and short, it’s not out of place here. It must be my stunned and humiliated expression that they’re looking at.
I school my face back to what I hope is neutral and force my shoulders to relax, or to at least look relaxed.
