by Ee, Susan
The building shakes again and one of the stitched-up corpses topples. The little boy’s mouth opens when his head hits the floor, revealing metal teeth.
Paige looked that dead before she started moving. Is there any chance this kid could be alive too?
A weird thought pops into my head. Didn’t Raffe say that sometimes, names have power?
Did Paige wakeup because I called her? I scan the bodies leaning against the wall, at their shiny teeth and long nails, their discolored eyes. If they’re alive, would I wake them if I could?
I turn away and smash my blade into another tank. I can’t help but be glad I don’t know the kids’ names.
“Paige?” My mother walks over to us as though in a dream. She crunches over broken glass and weaves to avoid the thrashing monsters as if she sees this kind of thing regularly. Maybe she does. Maybe in her world, this is normal. She sees them and avoids them, but she’s not surprised by them. Her eyes are clear, her expression cautious.
“Baby?” She runs over to Paige and hugs her with no hesitation despite the blood and gore covering her.
My mother cries in big, anguished sobs. For the first time, I realize that she’s been at least as worried and upset over Paige as I have. That it was no accident that she ended up here, the same dangerous place that I trekked to find Paige. That even though her love often manifests itself in ways that a mentally healthy person couldn't understand—might even declare abusive—that doesn't diminish the fact that she does care.
I swallow the tears that threaten to drown me as I watch my mother fuss over Paige.
Mom takes a good look at Paige. The blood. The stitches. The bruises. She doesn't remark on any of them but does make shocked and cooing noises as she strokes Paige's hair and skin.
Then she looks at me. In her eyes is a hard accusation. She blames me for what happened to Paige. I want to tell her I didn't do this to her. How could she think that?
But I don't say anything. I can't. I can only look back at my mother with guilt and remorse. I look at her the way she looked at me when Dad and I found Paige broken and crippled all those years ago. I may not have held the knife to Paige, but this terrible thing happened on my watch.
For the first time, I wonder if my mother really was responsible for Paige’s broken back.
“We have to get out of here,” says Mom with her arm protectively around Paige. Her voice is clear and full of purpose.
I look up at her in surprise. Before I can stop myself, hope blooms inside me. She sounds full of authority and confidence. She sounds like a mother ready and determined to lead her daughters to safety.
She sounds sane.
Then she says, “They’re after us.”
Hope shrivels and dies inside me, leaving a hard lump where my heart should be. I don’t need to ask who “they” are. According to my mother, “they” have been after us for as long as I can remember. Her protective statement is not a step toward taking responsibility for her girls.
I nod, taking the weight of my family responsibilities back on my shoulders.
CHAPTER 41
Mom is guiding Paige toward the exit when a loud crash from behind the double doors stops them in their tracks. It comes from the room the angels came out of. I pause mid-swing, wondering whether to check it out.
I can’t think of a good reason to waste time looking through those doors, but something bothers me. It snags on my brain like a needle picking a weave, trying to unravel it to see something beneath. So much has been happening I haven’t had time to follow up on a thought—something that might be important, something…
The blood.
The angels had blood all over their gloved hands and in front of their white smocks.
And Laylah. She was supposed to be in surgery with Raffe.
Another crash comes through the doors. Metal on metal like a cart tipping over and crashing into another.
I’m running before I know it.
As I near the double doors, a body crashes through it. I only have a second to recognize Raffe hurtling through the air.
A giant of an angel slams through the doors after him.
Something about the way he moves seems familiar. His face might have been handsome once, but now his vicious expression dominates.
He has beautiful snowy wings spread out behind him. The base of his wings are covered in dried blood where fresh stitches hold them onto his back. Oddly, though there is blood on his back, it’s his stomach that’s bandaged.
There’s something familiar about those wings.
One of them has a notch on it where scissors had sliced through the feathers. A notch exactly like the one I cut on Raffe’s wings.
My brain tries to reject the obvious conclusion.
The giant angel stands between my family and the door we came through. My mom stands frozen in terror as she stares at him. Her cattle prod shakes in her hand as she holds it out toward the giant. It looks almost as much of an offering as a warding.
A low bang rumbles through the ceiling, closely followed by another, then another. Each bang gets louder. This must be what the angels were hearing. Now there’s no doubt in my mind that the attacks have started.
I frantically wave at my mother to go through the doors the delivery guy used. She finally gets it and scampers off through the doors with Paige.
I’m terrified the giant will stop them, but he doesn’t pay them any attention. He reserves all his attention for Raffe.
Raffe lies on the floor, his face and muscles contorted with pain. His back arches to try to keep from touching the concrete floor. Below him, spread out like a dark cape on the floor, is a pair of giant bat wings.
It looks like a film of leather stretched out over a skeletal structure that looks more like a deadly weapon than a frame for wings. The wing edges are razor-sharp with a series of ever-growing hooks; the smallest of which resemble barbed fishhooks. The largest hooks are at the wing tips. They remind me of sharp scythes.
Raffe’s back drips with fresh blood as he turns around painfully and pushes himself up off the floor. His new wings droop over him as he moves, as if they are not yet under his control. He shoves one behind him the way I might shove my hair out of my face. His arm comes back bloodied with fresh slices on his forearm and a gash where one of the hooks catches his flesh.
“Careful with that, archangel,” says the giant as he stalks toward Raffe. He says the word “archangel” with much venom.
I recognize his voice. It is the voice of the Night Angel who cut off Raffe’s wings the night we met. He walks past me without looking as though I am a piece of furniture.
“What games are you playing, Beliel? Why not just kill me on the operating table? Why bother to sew these things onto me?” Raffe weaves a little on his feet. They must have just finished the operation, moments before the doctor angels left.
By the look of the dried blood on the giant’s back, it doesn’t take a genius to tell they had worked on him first. He’s had more time to recover than Raffe, although I’m willing to bet he’s nowhere near full strength yet.
I lift my sword, trying to be as discreet as I can.
“Killing you would have been my choice,” says Beliel. “But all those petty angel politics. You remember what that’s like.”
“Been a long time.” Raffe sways on his feet.
“And it’ll be longer still, now that you have those wings.” Beliel grins, but his expression still manages to be cruel. “Women and children will run screaming from you now. And so will angels.”
He turns toward the exit, stroking his new feathers. “Run along now while I show off my new acquisition. No one below has feathers. I’ll be the envy of hell.”
Putting his head down like a bull, Raffe charges Beliel.
With all that blood loss, I’m surprised Raffe can walk, much less run. He weaves a little as he rushes Beliel, who catches him under one massive arm and shoves him into a cart.
Raffe goes crashing down along with the cart. Vivid
red slices appear on his cheek, neck, and arms as his uncontrolled wings flop around during his fall.
I run over to Raffe and hand him his sword.
A look of uncertainty crosses Beliel face, and his motions suddenly become cautious.
As soon as I let go of the hilt in Raffe’s hand, the sword’s tip hits the floor like a ton of lead.
Raffe holds the sword like it takes every ounce of strength for him to keep the hilt from hitting the floor as well. It’s been as light as air in my hands.
Raffe looks like someone just broke his heart.
He looks at his sword in bewilderment and betrayal. He tries to lift it again but can’t. Disbelief and hurt mix in his expression. This is the most emotional I’ve seen him, and seeing him like this makes me want to hurt something.
Beliel is the first of us to recover from the shock of seeing Raffe struggle to lift his blade. “Your own blade rejects you. It senses my wings. You’re no longer just Raphael.”
He chuckles, a dark sound that’s all the more disturbing by the undercurrent of genuine mirth. “How sad. A leader bereft of followers. An angel with severed wings. A warrior without a sword.” Beliel circles Raffe like a shark as he taunts him. “You have nothing left.”
“He has me,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Raffe wince.
Beliel looks at me, really seeing me for the first time. “You’ve acquired a pet, archangel. When did this happen?” There’s puzzlement in his voice, as if it’s normal for Beliel to know of Raffe’s companions.
“I’m not anyone’s pet.”
“I met her tonight at the aerie,” says Raffe. “She’s been following me around. She means nothing.”
Beliel snorts. “Funny, I didn’t ask if she meant anything to you.” He looks me up and down, taking in every detail. “Scrawny. But serviceable.” He saunters toward me.
Raffe hands the sword hilt back to me. “Run.”
I hesitate, wondering how much of a beating Raffe can take in his state.
“Run!” Raffe positions himself between me and Beliel.
I run. I hide behind a fetal column to watch.
“Making friends, are we?” asks Beliel. “And with a Daughter of Man. How deliciously ironic. When will the surprises end?” He actually sounds delighted. “Pretty soon, you’ll end up being a full-fledged member of my clan. I always knew you would. You’d make an excellent archdemon.” His smile dries up. “Too bad I don’t care to have you as my boss.”
He grabs Raffe in a bear hug but quickly lets go. His arms and chest bleed from fresh cuts, courtesy of Raffe’s new wings. Raffe is apparently not the only one who is unused to his new wings.
This time he grabs Raffe by the neck, lifting him off the floor. Raffe’s face turns red, veins popping on his temples as Beliel crushes his throat.
A loud boom shakes the building above us. Concrete debris crashes through the door to the garage. Several of the remaining glass columns crack, causing the monstrous occupants to gyrate in agitation.
I run toward Beliel.
The sword feels solid and well-balanced in my hands. I swing back the sword and get yet another shock.
The sword adjusts itself.
I could swear it tweaks its angle to raise my elbows higher. It’s ready for battle and thirsty for blood. I blink in surprise, almost missing my timing. But I don’t miss my timing, because, though my feet are frozen in shock, my arm moves in a smooth arc, led by the sword.
I’m not wielding the sword. It is wielding me.
I swing the sword at the same time Raffe whips his deadly wings at Beliel. My sword slices through the meat of his back, wedging in his spine.
Raffe’s wings shred the demon’s cheeks and lay open his forearms. He screams, letting go of Raffe’s throat.
Raffe crumples to the floor, gasping for breath.
Beliel staggers away from us. Maybe if he hadn’t just been through surgery, he would have been strong enough to withstand us both. Or maybe not. The bandages around his middle must be from the sword wound Raffe gave him a few days ago during their last fight. Beliel’s wounds won’t be healing any time soon if Raffe is right about angel swords.
My blade swings back again, clearly wanting me to attack him again. Beliel stares at me with eyes bewildered, no less surprised than the angels who had seen me kill their coworker. An angel sword isn’t supposed to be in the hands of a human girl. It just isn’t done.
Raffe springs up and charges Beliel.
I watch in awe as Raffe pummels Beliel with blows so fast they’re almost a blur. The force of the emotion behind those blows is immense. For the first time, he doesn’t bother to hide his frustration and anger, or his longing for the wings he lost.
As Beliel staggers from the blows, Raffe grabs his old wing and pulls. Stitches begin popping out of Beliel’s back, fresh blood staining the once-snowy wings. Raffe seems determined to get his wings back even if he has to rip them out of Beliel’s flesh, stitch by stitch.
I grip Raffe’s sword. I guess it’s my sword now. If the sword rejects him as long as he has his new wings, then I’m the only one who can use it.
I move toward Raffe and Beliel, ready to slice the wings off.
Something grabs my ankle and pulls from behind. Something slimy with an iron grip.
My feet slip on the wet floor and I slam down onto the concrete. The sword skitters out of my hand. My lungs spasm so hard at the impact that I think I’ll black out.
I manage to turn my head to see what has a hold of me.
I wish I hadn’t.
CHAPTER 42
Behind me, a well-muscled scorpion fetus opens its jaws to scream at me, revealing rows of piranha teeth.
Its undeveloped skin shows its veins and the shadows of muscles. It lies on its belly as if it crawled all the way from its shattered tank to get to me.
Its deadly stinger shoots up and over its back, aiming for my face.
An image of Paige and my mother running through the night flashes through my head. Alone. Terrified. Wondering if I’ve abandoned them.
“No!” The scream is torn from me as I twist unnaturally to avoid the onrushing barb. The tip narrowly misses my face.
Before I can even take a breath, the tip whips up and jabs down again. This time, I don’t even have time to brace myself as it whips down towards me.
“No!” Raffe roars.
My body jerks as the stinger punctures my neck.
For a moment, it feels like an impossibly long needle digging its way through my flesh.
Then the real pain starts.
A burning agony spreads across the side of my neck. It feels like I’m being shredded from the inside out. My breath comes in harsh gasps and my skin breaks out in a sweat.
A tormented scream bursts from my throat and my legs pump in frantic kicks.
None of that stops the scorpion fetus from coming for me. Its mouth opens as it nears, poised to give me its deadly kiss.
Our eyes meet as it pulls me to it. I can tell that it thinks sucking me dry will give it enough energy to survive outside its artificial womb. Its desperation shows in its grip, in the way it opens and shuts its mouth like a fish trying to breath, in the way it squeezes its veined eyelids shut as if the harsh light is too much for its underdeveloped eyes.
Its venom spreads a swath of torment across my face and down my chest. I try to shove the scorpion angel away, but all I can do is feebly nudge at it.
My muscles are beginning to freeze.
The stinger suddenly rips out of my neck. It feels barbed, like it’s pulling my neck inside out.
Another scream rips through me but I can’t release it. My mouth only opens a crack. The muscles in my face just twitch instead of contorting in agony. My scream sounds like a weak gurgle.
I can’t move my face.
Raffe whips the tail in his hands and drags the abomination off me. He is roaring, and I realize he has been screaming all this time.
He grabs the scorpion fet
us, swings it like a bat, and whips it into the scorpion tanks.
Three columns shatter as it crashes through them, one after another. The room fills with the dying screeches of aborted monsters.
Raffe crashes to his knees beside me. He looks stunned. And oddly shaken. He stares at me as if he can’t believe what he sees. As if he refuses to believe what he sees.
Do I look that bad?
Am I dying?
I try to touch my neck to see how much blood is flowing, but I can’t get my arm to move all the way up there. I watch it come up a third of the way, trembling with effort, then fall limp. He looks stricken when he sees my feeble attempt to move.
I try to tell him that the stinger venom paralyses and slows down breathing, but what comes out of my mouth is a mumbling that even I can’t understand. My tongue feels enormous and my lips too swollen to move. None of the other victims looked swollen, so I assume I don’t either, but it feels that way. Like my tongue has suddenly become large and clumsy, too heavy to move.
“Shh,” he says gently. “I’m here.”
He pulls me into his arms and I try to concentrate on feeling his warmth. Inside, I feel like I’m trembling with the pain but outside, I’m utterly still as the paralysis spreads down my back and legs. It takes all my willpower to keep my head from drooping on his arm.
The look on his face scares me as much as the paralysis. For the first time, his face is completely unshuttered. As if it just doesn’t matter anymore what I see.
Shock and grief line his face. I try to wrap my head around the fact that he is grieving. For me.
“You don’t even like me, remember?” That’s what I try to say. What actually comes out of my mouth is closer to a baby’s first attempt at babbling.
“Shh.” He runs his finger tips along my cheek, caressing my face. “Hush. I’m right here.” He looks at me with deep anguish in his eyes. Like there’s so much he wants to tell me but feels it’s too late now.
I want to stroke his face and tell him that it will be okay. That everything will be all right.
And I wish so badly that it would be.
