by Susan Ee
Page 6
“Penryn?” My mother’s voice floats through the door. “Are you all right?”
I look to make sure the door is locked.
When I look back at the couch, the angel is gone, with only shreds of duct tape where he should be.
I feel a breath on my neck as the scissors are snatched out of my hand.
“I’m fine, Mom,” I say with a surprising degree of calm. Having her nearby will only endanger her. Telling her to run will probably make her freak in panic. The only sure thing is that her response will be unpredictable.
A well-muscled arm slides around my throat from behind and begins to squeeze.
Grabbing his arm around my neck, I tuck my chin down hard, trying to transfer the pressure of his arm onto my chin rather than my throat. I have about twenty seconds to get out of this before either my brain shuts off or my windpipe collapses.
I crouch as low as I can. Then I spring backward, slamming us both into the wall. The impact is harder than if he’d weighed as much as a normal man.
I hear an “Oof” and the clattering of photo frames, and I know those gashes on his back must be screaming from the sharp frame edges.
“What’s that noise?” my mother demands.
The arm squeezes viciously around my throat, and I decide the term, “angel of mercy,” is an oxymoron. Not wasting my energy on fighting the choke, I gather all my energy for another slam into the wall. The least I can do is cause a lot of pain while he takes me out.
This time, his groan of pain is sharper. I would get a lot of satisfaction out of that, except that my head is feeling light and spotty.
One more slam and dark spots bloom all over my vision.
Just as I realize my vision is going out, he loosens his grip. I fall to my knees, gasping for air through my raw throat. My head feels too heavy on my neck, and it’s all I can do to not fall flat on the floor.
“Penryn Young, you open this door right now!” The doorknob jiggles. My mother must have been calling out all this time, but it hadn’t really registered.
The angel groans like he’s in real pain. He crawls past me and I see why. His back bleeds through the bandages in spots that look like puncture wounds. I glance behind me at the wall. Two oversized nails that used to hold up the framed Yosemite poster stick out from the wall, their heads dripping with blood.
The angel is not the only one in bad shape. I can’t seem to take a breath without doubling over in a coughing fit.
“Penryn? Are you okay?” My mom sounds worried. What she imagines is happening in here, I can’t begin to guess.
“Yeah,” I croak. “It’s okay. ”
The angel crawls onto the couch and lies on his stomach with another groan. I flash him an evil grin.
“You,” he says, with a dirty look, “don’t deserve salvation. ”
“As if you could give it to me,” I croak. “Why would I want to go to Heaven anyway when it’s crammed full of murderers and kidnappers like you and your buddies?”
“Who says I belong in Heaven?” It’s true that the nasty snarl he’s giving me belongs more to a hellion than to a heavenly being. He mars the fiendish image with a wince of pain.
“Penryn? Who are you talking to?” My mother sounds almost frantic now.
“Just my own personal demon, Mom. Don’t worry. He’s just a little weakling. ”
Weak or not, we both know he could have killed me if that’s what he wanted. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I was scared, though.
“Oh. ” She sounds calm suddenly, as if that explained everything. “Okay. Don’t underestimate them. And don’t make them promises you can’t keep. ” I can tell by her fading voice as she says this that she’s reassured and walking away.
The baffled look the angel shoots at the door makes me chuckle. He glances my way, giving me a you’re-weirder-than-your-mom look.
“Here. ” I toss him a roll of bandages from my stash. “You probably want to put pressure on that. ”
He catches it neatly even as he closes his eyes. “How am I supposed to reach my back?”
“Not my problem. ”
He relaxes his hand with a sigh, and the bandage rolls onto the floor, leaving a ribbon on the carpet as it rolls.
“You’re not sleeping again, are you?”
His only response is a muffled, “Mmm,” as his breathing turns heavy and regular like a man in deep sleep.
Damn.
I stand there, watching him. This is obviously some kind of healing sleep by the look of his previously repaired injuries. If he wasn’t so gravely injured and exhausted, there’s no doubt he would have kicked my ass to kingdom come and back, even if he chose not to kill me. But it still irks me that he sees me as such a small threat as to actually fall asleep in my presence.
Duct tape was a bad idea that only made sense when I thought he was weak as wet paper. Now that I know better, what are my options?
I dig around the office kitchen drawers and supply room and come up with nothing. It’s not until I go through someone’s gym bag under a desk that I find an old-fashioned bike lock, the kind with heavy chains wrapped in plastic, with a key in the lock. There’s something to be said for an old-school chaining.
There’s nothing in the office to chain him to, so I use a metal cart sitting next to the copier. I sweep the stacks of paper off it and roll it into the corner office. My mother is nowhere to be seen, and I can only assume she is giving me the professional courtesy of letting me deal with my “personal demon” in private.
I roll the cart next to the sleeping man—angel, I mean angel. Careful not to wake him, I loop the chain tightly around each of his wrists, then wrap it several times around one of the metal legs of the cart so that it takes up all the slack. Then I snap the lock shut with a satisfying click.
The chain can slide up and down the cart leg but can’t escape it. This is an even better idea than I first realized because I can now move him around without him being able to run off. Wherever he’s going, the cart will go with him.
I roll up his wings in the blanket and stow them away in one of the large metal filing cabinets beside the kitchen. I almost feel like a grave robber as I pull the files out of the drawer and stack them on top of the cabinet. I run my fingers along the stack. Each of these files used to mean something. A home, a patent, a business. Someone’s dream left to collect dust in an abandoned office.
As an afterthought, I drop the key to the chain lock in the drawer where I stored the angel sword on the first night.
I trot back through the lobby and slip into the corner office. The angel is still asleep or comatose, I’m not sure which. I lock the door and curl up on the executive chair.
His beautiful face blurs as my eyelids get heavier. I haven’t slept in two days, afraid to miss the one chance I might have if the angel woke, only to die on me. Asleep, he looks like a bleeding Prince Charming chained in the dungeon. When I was little, I always thought I’d be Cinderella, but I guess this makes me the wicked witch.
But then again, Cinderella didn’t live in a post-apocalyptic world invaded by avenging angels.
~
I know something is wrong before I wake. In the twilight between waking and sleeping, I hear glass breaking. I’m wired and alert before the sound fades.
A hand clamps onto my mouth.
The angel shushes me with a whisper lighter than air. The first thing I see in the dim moonlight is the metal cart. He must have jumped off the couch and rolled it over here in the split second it took for the glass to break.
It dawns on me that if, for the moment, the angel and I are on the same side, then someone else is a threat to us both.
CHAPTER 9
Below the door, light plays back and forth in the semi-darkness.
The fluorescent lights were on when I fell asleep but now it’s dark with only the moonlight streaming in t
hrough the windows. The light moving in the crack beneath the door looks like a flashlight jerking back and forth. Either an intruder came in with flashlights, or my mother turned one on when the lights went off. A sure sign of habitation.
It’s not that she’s unaware of the risks. She’s far from stupid. It’s just that her brand of paranoia makes her fear supernatural predators more than natural ones. So sometimes, lighting the dark to ward off evil is more important to her than avoiding detection by mere mortals. Lucky me.
Even chained and pulling a metal cart, the angel moves like a cat to the door.
Dark stains seep through his white bandages like Rorschach patterns on his back. He may be strong enough to break a roll of duct tape, but he is still wounded and bleeding. Just how strong is he? Strong enough to fight off half a dozen street thugs desperate enough to roam at night?
I suddenly wish I hadn’t chained him. It’s a good bet that whoever the intruder is, he’s not alone, not at night.
“Hell-ooo,” a man’s voice calls out playfully through the dark. “Anybody home?”
The lobby is carpeted, and I can’t tell how many of them there are until things start to crash from different directions. It sounds like there are at least three of them.
Where’s Mom? Did she have time to run and hide?
I gauge the window. It won’t be easy to break, but if the gang members could do it, I should be able to too. It is certainly large enough for me to hop through. Thank whatever goodness is left in the world that we’re on the ground floor.
I push at the glass, testing the sturdiness of it. It would take time to break this. Plus, the noise would echo throughout the building as I bang repeatedly on the window.
Outside, the gang calls to each other. They hoot and holler, smash and crash. They’re performing for us, making sure we’re good and scared by the time they find us. By the sound of things, there are at least six of them now.
I glance again at the angel. He’s listening, probably figuring out his odds. Being wounded and chained to a metal cart, his chance of outrunning a street gang is about zero.
On the other hand, if the gang is drawn by the noise of the window breaking, they would be fully occupied as soon as they saw the angel. The angel is like the proverbial gold mine and they the lucky miners. Mom and I could get away during the chaos. But then what? The angel can’t tell me where to find Paige if he’s dead.
Maybe the gang will just break a few things, raid the food in the kitchen, and leave.
A woman’s scream pierces the night.
My mother.
Men’s voices shout and tease. They sound entertained, the way a pack of dogs might sound if they’d cornered a cat.
I grab a chair and smash it against the window. It makes a huge bang and flexes, but doesn’t break. I want to make as much of a distraction as I can, hoping the noise will make them forget about my mother. I bang it again. And again. Frantically trying to break the window.
