by Ee, Susan
But the hatred doesn’t come.
Instead, sympathy trickles into me. As different as we are, we are in many ways kindred spirits. We’re just two people striving to get our lives back together again.
But then, I remember that he is, in fact, not a person at all.
I step into the elevator. It has the mirror, wood paneling, and red carpet you’d expect from an elevator in an expensive hotel. The doors start to slide shut with Raffe still standing outside. I put my hand out to keep the doors open.
“What’s wrong?”
He glances around self-consciously. “Angels don’t go into elevators.”
Of course, they fly to their floors. I playfully grab his wrists and spin him in a drunken circle, giggling for the benefit of any who might be watching. Then, I waltz us both into the elevator.
I press the button for the seventeenth floor. My stomach lurches with the elevator at the thought of having to escape from such a high place. Raffe doesn’t look so comfortable either. I suppose an elevator might seem like a steel coffin to someone who’s used to flying the open sky.
When the door opens, he quickly steps out. Apparently, the need to get out of a coffinlike machine takes precedence over the issue of being seen coming out of an elevator.
The hotel room turns out to be a full suite with a bedroom, a living room, and a bar. It's all marble and soft leather, plush carpet and picture windows. Two months ago, the view would have been breathtaking. San Francisco at its finest.
Now it makes me want to weep at the panoramic view of charred destruction.
I walk over to the window like a sleepwalker. I lean into it with my forehead and palms on the cool glass the way I might with my father’s gravestone.
The charred hills are strewn with leaning buildings like broken teeth in a burnt jawbone. Haight-Ashbury, the Mission, North Beach, South of Market, Golden Gate Park, all gone. Something breaks deep within me like glass being crunched underfoot.
Here and there, plumes of dark smoke reach into the sky like the dark fingers of a drowning man reaching up for the last time.
Still, there are areas that don’t look completely burned, areas that could house small neighborhood communities. San Francisco is known for its neighborhoods. Could some of them have survived the onslaught of asteroids, fires, raiders and disease?
Raffe pulls the curtains closed around me. “I don’t know why they left the curtains open.”
I know why. The maids are human. They want to mar this illusion of civilization. They want to make sure no one ever forgets what the angels did. I would have left the curtains open too.
By the time I pull myself away from the window, Raffe is hanging up the phone. His shoulders sag as exhaustion seems to finally catch up with him. “Why don’t you hit the shower? I just ordered some food.”
“Room service? Is this place for real? It’s hell on earth now and you guys order meals through room service?”
“Do you want it, or not?”
I shrug. “Well, yeah.” I’m not even embarrassed by my double standard. Who knows when I’ll get another meal? “What about my sister?”
“In due time.”
“I don’t have time, and neither does she.” And neither do you. How much time do we have before the freedom fighters hit the aerie?
As much as I want to have the resistance hit the angels as hard as possible, the thought of Raffe being caught in the attack churns my stomach. I’m tempted to tell him about seeing resistance fighters here, but I squelch that idea as soon as it comes. I doubt he could stand by and not set off the alarm for his people any more than I could if I knew the angels were attacking the resistance camp.
“Okay, Miss Short-on-Time, where would you like to look first? Should we start on the eighth floor or the twenty-first? How about the roof, or the garage? Maybe you could just ask the clerk at the desk where they might be holding her. There are other intact buildings in this district. Maybe we should start with one of them. What do you think?”
I’m horrified to find that my determination is melting into tears. I keep my eyes wide open to keep them from falling. I will not cry in front of Raffe.
His voice loses its edge and turns gentle. “It will take time to find her, Penryn. Being clean will keep us from being noticed, and being fed will give us strength to search. If you don’t like it, the door is right there. I’ll take my shower and eat while you search.” He heads for the bathroom.
I sigh. “Fine.” I stab my heels along the carpet past him to the bathroom. “I’ll shower first.” I have the good grace not to slam the bathroom door.
The bathroom is a quiet statement of luxury in fossil stone and brass. I swear it’s bigger than our condo. I stand under the hot spray and let the grime wash away. I never thought a hot shower and hair wash could be so luxurious.
During long minutes under the shower spray, I can almost forget how much the world has changed and pretend I've won the lottery and am staying the night in a penthouse in the city. The thought doesn't bring me as much comfort as remembering life in our little suburban house back before we moved into the condo, before Paige lost her legs, and Dad was still taking care of us.
I wrap myself in a plush towel that qualifies more as a blanket. For lack of anything better, I slip back into the slinky dress, but decide the hose and heels can sit in the corner until I need them.
When I come out into the bedroom, a tray of food sits on the table. I run over and lift the dome cover. Boneless short ribs smothered in sauce, creamed spinach, mashed potatoes, and a hefty slice of German chocolate cake. The smell almost makes me faint with pleasure.
I dig in first and sit down as I chew. The fat content of this meal must be out of this world. In the old days, I would have tried to stay away from all of these dishes, except maybe the chocolate cake, but in the land of cat food and dried noodles, this meal is to die for. It's the best meal I can ever remember having.
“Please, don’t wait for me,” says Raffe as he watches me stuff my face. He grabs a bite of the cake on his way to the bathroom.
“Don’t worry,” I mumble through a mouthful, at his back.
By the time he comes back out, I’ve scarfed down my entire meal and am having a hard time trying not to steal some of his. I tear my eyes away from the feast to look at him.
Once I see him, I forget all about the food.
He stands in the bathroom doorway, steam drifting languidly around him, wearing nothing but a towel draped loosely around his hips. Beads of water cling to him like diamonds in a dream. The combined effect of the soft light behind him from the bathroom and the steam curling around his muscles gives the impression of a mythological water god visiting our world.
“You can have it all, you know,” he says.
I blink a few times, trying to grasp what he’s saying.
“I figured we might as well double up on our meals while we can.” There’s a knock at the door. “There’s my order now.” He heads out to the living room.
He’s talking about both servings in front of me being mine. Right. Of course, he’d want his dinner hot. No reason to leave it cooling while he showered, so he must have ordered mine, then his, just before I got out of the shower. Of course.
I return my attention back to the food, trying to remember how badly I lusted after it only a moment ago. The food. Right, the food. I shovel in a giant mouthful of the rib meat. The creamy sauce is a sensual reminder of rare luxuries once taken for granted.
I walk out into the living room and talk with my mouth full. “You’re a genius for ordering this much—.”
The albino, Josiah, walks into the living room with the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I finally get to see a female angel up close. Her features are so fine and delicate that it’s impossible not to stare. She looks like she was the mold for Venus, Goddess of Love. Her waist-length hair shimmers in the light as she moves, matching the golden plumage of her wings.
Her cornflower blue eyes would be th
e perfect reflection of innocence and all that is wholesome, except that there’s something sliding behind them. Something that hints that she should be the poster child for the master race.
Those eyes assess me from the top of my wet and stringy hair to the tips of my bare toes.
I become acutely aware that I was overenthusiastic when I shoveled the rib meat into my mouth. My cheeks bulge and I can barely keep my lips closed as I chew as fast as I can. Rib meat is not something I can swallow in one lump. I hadn’t bothered to brush my hair, or even dry it before diving into the feast after my shower, so it hangs limp and dripping onto my red dress. Her Aryan eyes see it all and judge me.
Raffe gives me a look and rubs his finger to his cheek. I rub my hand across my cheek. It comes away with meat sauce. Great.
The woman turns her eyes to Raffe. I have been dismissed. She gives him a long appraising look as well, drinking in his near-nakedness, his muscular shoulders, his wet hair. Her eyes slide over to me in a quick accusation.
She steps close to Raffe and runs her fingers down his glistening chest.
“So, it really is you.” Her voice is as smooth as an ice cream shake. A shake with ground glass hidden in it. “Where have you been all this time, Raffe? And what have you done to deserve getting your wings cut off?”
“Can you sew them back on, Laylah?” asks Raffe stiffly.
“Straight to business,” says Laylah, strolling over to the picture window. “I make room for you in my busy schedule at the last minute, and you can’t even ask me how I am?”
“I don’t have time for games. Can you do it or not?”
“In theory, it can be done. Assuming all the stars align, of course. And there are a lot of stars that need to align for it to work. But the real question is, why should I?” She throws back the curtains, shocking my eyes again with the panoramic view of the destroyed city. “After all this time, is there any chance you haven’t been lured to the other side? Why should I help the fallen?”
Raffe walks to the counter where his sword lies. He slides the blade out from the scabbard, managing to make the gesture non-threatening, which is quite a feat considering the sharpness of the double edge. He flips it in the air and catches it by the handle. He slaps the blade back into its sheath while watching Laylah expectantly.
Josiah nods. “Okay. His sword hasn’t rejected him.”
“Doesn’t mean she won’t,” says Laylah. “Sometimes they cling to loyalty longer than they should. Doesn’t mean—.”
“It means everything it’s supposed to mean,” says Raffe.
“We’re not made to be alone,” says Laylah. “No more than wolves are made to be solo. No angel can endure such solitude for long, even you.”
“My sword hasn’t rejected me. End of discussion.”
Josiah clears his throat. “About those wings?”
Laylah glares at Raffe. “I don’t have kind memories of you, Raffe, in case you’d forgotten. After all this time, you show up in my life again with no warning. Making demands. Insulting me by flaunting your human toy in my presence. Why should I do this for you instead of sounding the alarm and letting everybody know you had the nerve to come back?”
“Laylah,” says Josiah nervously. “They’d know it was me who helped him.”
“I’d keep you out of it, Josiah,” says Laylah. “Well, Raffe? No arguments? No pleas? No flattery?”
“What do you want?” asks Raffe. “Name your price.”
I’m so used to him taking charge of a situation, so used to his pride and control that it’s hard for me to see him like this. Tense, and under the power of someone who’s behaving like a scorned lover. Who says celestial beings can’t be petty?
Her eyes slide to me as if she wants to say her price is to have me killed. Then she looks back at Raffe, weighing her options.
Someone knocks on the door.
Laylah’s eyes widen in alarm. Josiah looks like he’s just been condemned to hell.
“It’s just my dinner,” says Raffe. He opens the door before anyone can scramble away.
In the doorway stands Dee-Dum, looking professional and detached even though he can’t miss seeing all of us in one glance. He’s still in his butler’s outfit with the coattails and white gloves. Beside him is a cart bearing a silver-domed tray and silverware laid out on a folded napkin. The room fills once more with the scents of warm meat and fresh vegetables.
“Where would you like this, sir?” asks Dee-Dum. He shows no sign of recognition, no judgment about Raffe’s near nakedness.
“I’ll take it.” Raffe takes the tray. He also shows no sign of recognition. Maybe Raffe never noticed the twins at the camp. There’s no doubt that the twins noticed Raffe.
As the door closes, Dee-Dum bows but his eyes never stop tracking the scene in the room. I’m sure he has every detail, every face memorized.
Raffe never turns his back to him to show his scars, so Dee-Dum might still think him human. Although I wonder if he saw Raffe at the club with his wings displayed through his jacket slits. Either way, Obi’s people can’t be happy that two escaped “guests” of their camp ended up in the company of angels at the aerie. I wonder if Raffe were to jerk the door open right now, would we find Dee-Dum with his ear to the door?
Laylah relaxes a little and seats herself on a leather chair, like a queen taking her throne. “You appear uninvited, eat our food, make yourself at home in our place like a rat, and you have the nerve to ask for help?”
I meant to keep quiet. Getting back his wings is as important to Raffe as rescuing Paige is to me. But watching her lounge in front of a panoramic view of the charred city is too much for me.
“It’s not your food, and it’s not your place.” I practically spit out the words.
“Penryn,” says Raffe in a warning voice as he puts the tray down on the bar.
“And don’t insult our rats.” My hands clench tight enough to score nail marks on my palms. “They have a right to be here. Unlike you.”
The tension is so thick I wonder if it’ll smother me. I may have just blown Raffe’s chance to get his wings back. The Aryan looks like she’s ready to break me in half.
“Okay,” says Josiah in a soothing voice. “Let’s just take a time-out here and focus on what’s important.” Of all of them, he looks the most evil with his blood-red eyes and unnaturally white everything else. But looks aren’t everything. “Raffe needs his wings back. Now all we need to do is figure out what Beautiful Laylah can get out of this, and we’ll all be happy. That’s all that matters, right?”
He looks at each of us. I want to say I won’t be happy, but I’ve said enough.
“Great, so Laylah,” says Josiah. “What can we do to make you happy?”
Laylah’s lashes sweep down coyly over her eyes. “I’ll think of something.” I have no doubt that she already knows her price. Why be coy about it? “Come to my lab in an hour. It’ll take me that long to prepare. I’ll need the wings now.”
Raffe hesitates like a man about to sign a deal with the devil. Then he walks back into the bedroom, leaving me to be stared at by Laylah and Josiah.
The hell with it. I follow after Raffe. I find him in the bathroom, wrapping his wings in towels.
“I don’t trust her,” I say.
“They can hear you.”
“I don’t care.” I lean against the doorjamb.
“Got a better idea?”
“What if she just takes your wings?”
“Then I’ll worry about it then.” He puts one wing aside and begins wrapping the other in a matching towel that’s practically the size of a sheet.
“You’ll have no leverage then.”
“I have no leverage now.”
“You have your wings.”
“What should I do with them, Penryn? Mount them up on the wall? They’re useless to me unless I can get them sewn back on.” Raffe rubs his hand over the two folds of wings. He closes his eyes.
I feel like a jerk. No doubt thi
s is difficult enough without me reinforcing his doubts.
He glides around me through the doorway. I stay in the bathroom until I hear the front door close behind the pair of angels.
CHAPTER 33
I stare at the dark windows overlooking the charred city. “Tell me about the Messenger.” This is the first chance I get to try to make sense of the earlier conversation with Josiah.
“God commands Gabriel. He’s the Messenger. Then Gabriel tells the rest of us what God wants.” Raffe takes in a heaping spoonful of his reheated mashed potatoes. “That’s the theory, anyway.”
“And God doesn’t talk to any of the other angels?”
“Certainly not to me.” Raffe slices into his rare steak. “But then again, I haven’t been real popular lately.”
“Has He ever talked to you?”
“No. And I doubt he ever will.”
“But from what Josiah said, it sounded like you could be the next Messenger.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t that be the biggest joke? Not impossible, though. I am technically in the succession pool.”
“Why would that be such a joke?”
“Because, Miss Nosy, I am agnostic.”
I’ve had a lot of surprises in the past couple of months. But this one nearly floors me.
“You’re…agnostic?” I look at him for signs of humor. “As in you’re not sure of the existence of God?” He’s dead serious. “How can that be? You’re an angel, for chrissake.”
“So?”
“So, you’re God’s creature. He created you.”
“He supposedly created you too. Aren’t some of you unsure of God’s existence?”
“Well, yeah, but he doesn’t talk to us. I mean, he doesn’t talk to me.” My mother comes to mind. “Okay, I admit there are people who claim that they talk to God or the other way around. But how am I supposed to know if that’s true?”
My mom doesn’t even talk to God in English. It’s some made-up language that only she understands. Her religious belief is fanatic. More accurately, her belief in the devil is fanatic.
Me? Even now, with angels and all, I still can’t believe in her God. Although I admit that late at night, I sort of fear her Devil. Overall, I guess that still makes me agnostic. For all anyone knows, these angels could just be an alien species from another world trying to trick us into giving up without much of a fight. I don’t know, and I expect I’ll never know about God, angels, or most of life’s questions. And I’ve accepted that.
