Three years later, I die.

It's not intentional, of course, and if Raffe had his way, it wouldn't have happened at all. But some things are even too much for him and his Watchers.

Some battles are over before they begin.

It isn't as bad as I expected, dying. The initial shock masks the pain, and by the time it finally reverberates through me, I'm already falling to the stage. After that, it's a lot of screams and chaos and Watchers rising over the stands like vengeful… well, angels.

I half-expect Raffe to join them, but he doesn't. He throws himself over me, his demon wings flaring to block out the sunshine and blue sky. I stare at his eyes as blood spills past my lips. And then everything fades.

He screams my name, and I die.

No one warned me about how much dying hurts. I'd always assumed it was peace and warmth and light. Really, that's the least I deserve after all the shit I handled when I was 17, and then every year since.

But death is darkness and loneliness and agony. I'm tortured by the voices of my loved ones: the Watchers, my mother, Paige, Raffe. They argue and yell and cry, and just when I think they might hear me screaming, their voices fade.

And I'm alone.

I don't know how long I float like that, halfway between purgatory and hell, thinking I probably should have made better choices.

Eventually, the pain numbs. That scares me more than anything. Feeling, even the constant terrifying agony of my fatal wound, almost fools me into thinking I'm alive. For brief moments, I bask in it, pretending the waves of pain are crashing me closer to my friends. Closer to Raffe.

But they simply push-pull me along the darkness instead, and when the pain fades, that's kind of a blessing too.

I'm alone.

The Old World me would have prayed.

The World After me just holds her breath and thinks of home.

"—be awake. Her vitals are fine. I don't know—"

Words. The voices are back.

"—this wouldn't work—"

They stop and start like static on a television. White noise that I'm desperately trying to decipher. Is it me, or is the absolute darkness… lightening?

"—don't you dare say her name like that—"

Raffe. I try to yell, try to scream, try to fight. But there's no opponent, and I'm thrashing myself until I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I choke, drowning in infinite gray, spinning desperately for the light, the sound.

"Penryn."

Raffe.

This really is a special kind of hell. I sob, pressing my ears shut.

Sensation on my cheek. So startling that I yelp and fall backwards. My fingers brush my skin, and I blink uselessly. My heart is breaking. That felt like Raffe's fingers, his gentle touch. I'd know it anywhere. My mind knows it too.

You're dead, Penryn. No one's touching you. No one can help you now.

Tears stream down my cheeks.

And the sensation comes again, rough fingertips brushing the tears.

"Raffe?" I whisper.

The fingers freeze. I can't see them, but my hand hovers over his invisible touch as if wishing really hard might change that. This is the first thing I've felt since the wracking pain from the gunshot wound. That faded with time. This could disappear too, any second now.

But it doesn't.

And then my name again, breathed in Raffe's reverent voice.

"Penryn."

I clench my eyes shut.

It's been silent for a long, long time. I sit, bored stiff, in the gray. It's definitely lighter now, brightening in the slightest shades since ghost-Raffe touched me. I should be glad the darkness is gone, but I wonder what will happen when it gets too bright to see. That will be a different kind of hell.

For now, I stare in the same direction.

Where are the voices?

Was I imagining the whole thing?

My fingers drift up to my cheek. I'm so desperate for Raffe's sarcastic smirk, his arrogant attitude, that my throat constricts thinking about him.

Things I've learned about death:

It hurts.

It's lonely.

And it's very, very easy to go insane.

I think of my mother and shudder. She turned out okay, but only after the apocalypse. And now that order has started to return to the world, now that we've begun to rebuild, I wonder where she'll find a place.

I wonder about Paige, too. What's the lifespan of a locust? Do they reproduce, or is her batch all that's left? Her stitches are gone and her scars have faded, but she'll never fit in with a civilized world.

Maybe that's why I died. Maybe I was moving things along too quickly with all my rallies and coordination. Maybe the world is better off without me.

But I think of Raffe and his tortured scream as I collapsed on that stage, and I don't really believe it.

I blink hard, and suddenly I'm staring at the archangel Michael, Messenger of God. He looks… well, holy. I stare, thinking that now, after all this time, now I've gone crazy. Because Michael hates human affairs. Which means he kind of hates me, too.

In fact, the only time I've ever seen him is when he came to personally convince Raffe to take a new pair of feathery wings. Michael had been desperate to restore Raffe's archangel status.

Read: Michael had been desperate to hand off the Messenger of God title.

It hadn't worked.

That was a year ago. Now Michael stares at me with a careful expression, like I'm some kind of wild animal who could go feral at any point. I'm mildly offended. After all that time spent alone, forced to listen to my loved ones, unable to reply, I think I'm pretty damn composed.

Granted, now I'm seeing hallucinations. But whatever. I've finally learned to roll with this death thing.

"Michael," I say, hoping my voice is as steady as I imagine.

He regards me with surprise. "You are alive."

I'm mildly offended by his tone, too.

"I think you should recheck your definition," I reply, crossing my arms. I want to jump for joy at the conversation, but I don't want to show weakness in front of him. Even after they pulled out of our world, I have to remember that most angels aren't our friends.

"Your body has been comatose since you Ascended. We didn't believe you survived," Michael says bluntly.

My mind freezes on the word. Ascended. I wrinkle my nose. "Please, please tell me this isn't heaven. Tell me this isn't where I wind up for the rest of eternity." I gesture to the white-gray around us.

Michael doesn't draw his eyes from my face. He's as unimpressed by the scenery as I've been. "This is purgatory, Penryn Young. Your soul has hovered here for three worldly months as your body underwent the transformation."

I go cold thinking of Paige's cruel stitches, the patchwork quilt of her body. I honestly don't know what I'd do if I awoke in a body like that. I study my hands and arms, but in this dream state, I look perfectly whole.

Before I can react, he steps closer to me. "Time to wake up. I have waited long enough." He regains my gaze, his eyes piercing my soul, and then he claps his hands.

I jolt, and it takes me a second to realize my entire body is shuddering. Beside me, machines go wild, and I hear voices shouting. Commotion. I can't see anything—it's the nothingness when you first close your eyes. It's not black or gray or white. It's like the entire world just isn't there.

Something presses against my chest. It feels like a cattle prod.

Electricity shocks through me, and the pain reignites.

I'd forgotten how much it hurts.

"Penryn," Raffe shouts. I don't know how long I writhed in pain, but I can suddenly feel my heart beating.

Huh. Been a while since that's happened.

"You're here. You're fine," Raffe says. He repeats it like a mantra, sounding absurdly close to my ears.

I instinctively try to open my eyes. They weigh about as much as I'd expect after three months of, you know, being dead. I grit my teeth and force them open.

And the world slams into focus.

It's breathtaking. After so long staring at the ongoing darkness, watching it lighten shades too slow, having physical objects to admire is truly something. And what detail! I'd never imagined the plush furnishings of a hotel could be so fascinating.

But it's nothing compared to Raffe's face.

He looks like a dying man who's found water. His entire expression brightens, and the relief is as obvious as my beating heart. I stare at him and he stares at me and there's silence, but this time it's filled with so many unspoken words that I'm not lonely.

I give him a half-smile. It was supposed to be a full smile, happy bordering on ecstatic, but my facial muscles feel sluggish.

He slams into me, wrapping me in a fierce hug. He breathes in my hair and whispers my name and presses his lips to mine. Then he just sits there holding me.

The contact feels incredible.

How could I forget how amazing life is? I'm sure that some of my loneliness only manifested to fill the void left by this: simple human-on-ex-angel contact.

Nothing compares.

And really, I feel fantastic, all things considered. Everything is brighter, sharper. Unsurprising, considering how long my world had been dulled behind a curtain of gray. I take in every detail of Raffe's perfect face, mesmerized.

"Sorry I'm late," I finally say. My words feel clumsy, like my tongue is unpracticed.

He smirks, but it's pained. He leans back in a simple wooden chair, still holding my hand like a lifeline. "I shouldn't be surprised. You're always late."

"I was getting better."

The past-tense was supposed to be a joke, to make light of the last three months (if Michael is to be believed). Instead, it sobers him, and he tightens his grip on my hand. "We caught the man. He's in prison."

"The shooter?" I ask, swallowing. My mouth is dry.

"Some post-apocalyptic lunatic. He raved about how your attempts to unite the humans are against everything the angel invasion accomplished."

"That's kind of the point."

"Yep."

I sigh, rubbing my forehead. My skin feels remarkably smooth, almost silky. Impressive, considering I've been in a coma and unable to moisturize. "Did you have to throw him into jail? He's entitled to his opinion."

Raffe's expression is hard. "Don't try to justify it, Penryn. I tried to stem your blood. Do you know—" He cut himself off, but I could guess where he was going.

I'd held his dying body before. But I'd never had to watch the life fade from his eyes.

I shiver.

He smoothes the hair from my eyes, and his wings flare a bit. "You should rest. I'll be here when you wake up."

But I'm staring at him in shock. Because his wings aren't leathery, and the scythes are gone. Somewhere, they've found a pair of wings that look almost identical to his original set, pure white feathers that glean in the low lighting of the hotel room.

He switched back. I knew it would happen eventually. I just hadn't expected it to change while I was gone.

"Your wings—" I say, reaching for them. My back aches when I shift to a sitting position, and then Raffe's wings are the least of my concern. Because when my eyes drift to the covers pooling around my waist, I see feathers too.

But these ones are a soft, tawny brown. And they're attached to a set of wings that's… attached to me.

I scream.

"It's an honor—" Raffe starts, but I can't even look at him. I pace the room, practically wearing a hole in the carpet. Or I would, if I had the proper weight of a human.

But I don't. I'm not human anymore, or so Raffe tells me. I probably weigh forty pounds soaking wet now, and while I used to say I should lose weight in the Old World, this is not what I meant. Every time I turn, I catch a glimpse of my wings.

They just incite my anger.

"How am I supposed to rally the troops if I'm one of the enemy?" I exclaim, spinning on him.

He doesn't have the decency to look ashamed. He meets the fight head on. As always. "Angels aren't the enemy anymore. And I've never had a problem convincing the humans. It should be easy for someone with your sparkling personality."

His sarcasm is thick, and I'm so not having it right now.

"People still shoot angels on sight!"

"Apparently that's a problem for other humans too!" he exclaims, his gaze flicking to my chest. There isn't a scar from the bullet wound, although there should be. Just another in a long list of Things That Aren't Right with Penryn.

"Who gave them permission to do this?" I say, fanning my wings. It takes a bit of concentration, and they ache pleasurably, like a muscle that's been cramped for way too long. I swallow my sigh and firm my furious expression again.

I'm mad at these things.

But mostly I'm scared for what they represent.

My life as Penryn Young, human, is over.

Raffe drops his aggressive stance, even as I glare at him. He suddenly looks utterly defeated. "I did. I convinced Michael to Ascend you."

My eyes brush over his new wings, the white feathers looking as soft as a down comforter. He'd actually grown to love his Beliel's old wings and the freedom they allowed him. But he sacrificed it all to make a deal with the Messenger of God.

Which probably means—

"You're the new Messenger."

He nods, glancing towards the open window at the Colorado Rockies. Apparently we didn't move far in 3 months. The hotel appears to be in downtown Denver, except that most of the other skyscrapers are gone.

It allows for an incredible view.

A view I can appreciate in full, even though it's nearing midnight. Raffe is right—angels can see just as well in the dark. I can see just as well in the dark.

I look back to Raffe, the man who'd followed me across the continent, who'd helped me unite my race and wipe the prejudice of angels clear. He looks uncomfortable, shifting his weight as he holds my gaze.

I'd been dying. I'd died, and he did the only desperate thing he could think of to bring me back.

My eyes soften, and I step towards him.

"You should have just let me go," I say.

His cringes like I've physically punched him. After a full breath, he replies, "I couldn't. Not you, Penryn."

I move closer, so close we're almost touching. Even in my altered body, I can feel the electricity between us. Nothing here has changed. He still protects me, and I still protect him. Everything else is secondary.

I press my lips to his and murmur, "Thank you."

A/N: So... found this sitting on my hard drive and thought, sure, why not? I may continue it, since I've just finished my own novel and am looking for things to write. :P What do you think? Would you like to see more?