Chapter Thirty Two

Audiat starts as an angel sits beside her on the stone bench, wrenching her quite rudely from her reverie. Though initially alarmed, when she lifts her gaze to find another pair of red eyes staring back at her, she relaxes, puffing out a relieved sigh.

"Are you aware of the fact that you have a tail?" Josiah murmurs to her, his posture one of feigned casualness.

"Josiah!" Audiat laughs, putting her sketchbook to rest in her lap in order to wrap her arms around the angel's neck. Her greeting is met with stiff muscles and a tense attitude.

"He's been following you all day," Josiah urges, sounding stressed. "Using standard techniques to dwindle behind you. Keeping one eye trained on your back all the time. This is the first time I've caught you without him around."

"I assume you're talking about the brown-eyed Hispanic?" Audiat hums, returning to her drawing of the delicate flower she sits in front of, partially shaded by the willow tree overhead. "If so, I'm not actually alone. He's up on the balcony of the second floor, mopping a deck that's scintillatingly clean."

His crimson eyes dart about uneasily. "How are you not nervous about that?" Josiah hisses, his fists clenching. "How are you taking this so calmly?"

"He's either keeping an eye on me to wait until I'm alone and strike, in which case I can take him," Audiat explains, "or he's here to make sure that I stay safe. Either option, he's not going to make any premature confrontation."

Josiah rakes a hand through his hair. "Audie, he's got the build of a warrior. I don't like this."

"Since you've analyzed him so well, I expect you're aware of the fact that he has wings," Audiat sighs, putting a softer glaze over the surface of one of her flower's petals. "Right, Sherlock?"

Startled, Josiah looks up rather obviously. "What – how can you tell? He's not an angel, is he?"

"Lord, no, I already checked all the records with Metatron earlier this morning. No, haven't you ever heard of a Nephilim, Josiah?"

Josiah's face twists into a gruesome scowl. "I keep my nose out of that business, Audiat, you know that. And, anyway, what is one of… those things doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" Audiat counters, shrugging. "He hasn't told me, and neither have you."

"What?" Josiah blinks. "I'm here to confirm that the rumors of you she-angels rising up again aren't true, last time was a nightmare. Ariel was a little concealing in our meeting. I don't like it. But – don't change the subject! You're relaxed with a possible killer padding around your heels like a psychotic puppy dog!"

"It's a Nephilim." Audiat lifts her head from her notebook and smiles reassuringly, finding his concern more adorable than foreboding. "It's highly unlikely that it's here for any ill-intent. If it is, there's probably a bunch of little Nephilim police scurrying around cleaning him up."

"Right, right." Josiah eyes Audiat ambivalently. "You're very cozy with them. I forgot."

"You didn't protest them too much when Simon saved your feathery ass from wasted Wrath of God that one time," Audiat points out, smiling in amusement at Josiah. "Don't let Raphael's viewpoints on things taint your own vision, Jo. He's your hero, I know, but everyone makes mistakes."

Josiah falls silent, his pale face thoughtful, brooding. Audiat takes the opportunity to soften the lines of the flower's stem, to add more of a shadow beneath the petals. She bites her lip, eyes darting to the blossom and then back to her sketchbook.

"If you keep giving him sideways glances like that," Audiat murmurs, resting the end of her pencil's eraser against her lip, "he's going to notice."

"Oops," Josiah apologizes, automatically casting another glance towards the man. "What are you drawing, even? Why are you sketching a flower from a pot in the middle of a garden full of natural flowers?"

"I'm trying to see the way the light falls on the petals," Audiat explains distractedly. "This type of flower never ever sees the sunlight. That's why I want to draw it so badly. The Miracle-Gro will only help it for so long."

"Why does it never see the light?"

Audiat glances down at her paper and smiles, pleased with the drawing. "I just finished, so I can show you." She leans forward, pulling the pot towards the two of them. It grinds over the mulch, groaning as it's dragged between the two of them.

"Help me shade it," Audiat instructs, lifting her wings to create a shadowy umbrella over the delicate blossom. "It won't last very long as it is, but the sunlight makes it shrivel."

Audiat leans forward and taps a single petal of the flower, smiling as it emits a blue glow over Josiah's face.

I push up from the bed that'd been forged from our meager supplies, causing Bryon's silky cloak to roll off my shoulders and my unprotected skin to taste the bitter breath of the oncoming winter. The roiling thoughts of the dream I'd suffered through distracts me from the icy chill, and I find myself desperately grappling for explanations there aren't any answers for.

The blue eye blazes in my memory, its image as sharp as a brand on my mind. I wince and rub at my temple, trying to grasp the feathery remnants of the words he'd spoken to me. Something about not wandering off…?

"Penryn?" Raffe's voice is soft but urgent. "Is something wrong?"

I jump with surprise, lifting my eyes from the patch of trees I'd been studying intently to find Raffe silhouetted against the moon, its ivory rays turning his feathers into beautiful, shimmering platinum. Highlights of silver ripple over his figure, making his skin glow. The term "fallen star" crosses my mind.

"Uh, h-hi," I stammer, meeting his gaze awkwardly. Not allowing a pause, I questioned hurriedly, "Are you on watch?"

Raffe cocks his head. "Something like that."

Despite my efforts to evade it, the pause comes, more awkward than I'd expected, and much longer.

"Have you slept recently?" I wonder, slipping the cloak higher up on my shoulders to guard myself from the cold.

Raffe is quiet for a moment more. "You seem to be feeling better," he notices, navy blue eyes skating up and down my blanket-encased body. "Do you think that bastard's poison is nearly out of you?"

"Stop changing the subject," I chide, bundling myself up in the reeking blankets.

From beside me, Hugo pounds the ground irately with a closed fist. His sleepy grumble is barely audible through his lumpy pillow. "Stop having soap operas while people are trying to sleep."

"Sorry," I whisper apologetically. He responds to the act of kindness with a certain sleepy finger.

Hesitating for only a moment more, I tie Bryon's cloak at my throat and rise from the warm, comfy bed, standing unsteadily. My legs shake beneath me as I stumble towards Raffe, and my feet catch on every ridge, every root I pass. Though initially fine, my brain begins to pound and my vision begins to swim. I focus on the ground, but the rise and fall of my feet still make it worse.

A warm hand wraps around my bicep uncertainly, as if unsure if physical contact is acceptable by society. Raffe's voice husks in my ear. "I guess Lucius's poison isn't gone. You should get back to bed."

"I'm fine," I insist, shaking my head in a frail attempt to clear it. "Help me over to that log you were sitting on, please?" His hesitation is palpable in the air between us. "It's okay. You can touch me without summoning the prince of hell."

"In that case…" There is something mischievous in Raffe's voice that makes my stomach both churn and heat. Before I can voice my concerns, the world spins and my stomach pitches. When I open my eyes, I find myself snugly fitted in Raffe's arms. Nervously, I meet his dark gaze, slightly afraid that the angel will trip and drop me. At least my head is better.

Raffe sits down on the log and grants a brief yet strange falling sensation to my stomach. Not once does his gaze quaver. The constant thunder of his heartbeat is lulling, his warmth better than the entire mass of blankets protecting me from the cool nighttime air.

"Sorry," I whisper, snuggling up against his chest, putting my ear over the soothing drumbeat. "About yesterday. …Or maybe it's still today."

"You stole the words from my mouth." Raffe sounds incredulous. "Why are you apologizing? What could you possibly apologize for?"

"For ruining your big moment." I glance up into his navy blue eyes once. "I mean, okay, it wasn't strictly my fault –"

"Damn right," Raffe mumbles.

"– but it's still not right." I try to nuzzle closer to his chest, try to draw even nearer to that pounding heartbeat. "You'd just gotten your wings back. You were celebrating. It was… a happy moment. It got ruined, and your first flight ended up kind of disastrous."

"You think?" Raffe chuckles, his voice slightly warmer than it'd been previously, not as burdened with the hidden grindstones of self-hatred.

"My point is… sorry." I clear my throat. "I don't think you'll be getting much sympathy from anyone else, though."

Raffe chuckles, but there's no amusement in his tone, only grave recognition. "Your uncle… I thought he had me on lockdown during the trip here. I think the real fun is about to begin." He sighs heavily.

"You're letting him boss you around?" My eyebrows shoot up, mirth playing with the smile at my lips. "You? Wrath of God? The 'Great Archangel', whatever the hell that means? Almighty Raphael?"

"No, I'm –" Raffe cuts off abruptly, as if struck by something of greater importance. The power behind his navy blue eyes intensifies, drawing my gaze and locking it onto his. "Don't call me that. I'm serious."

I blink up at him, furrowing my brow. "What? Raphael? I thought that was what you wanted."

"Right." His head tilts to one side, as if he's studying me. "It was. But can't a man change his mind?" Shaking his head, Raffe sighs gravely. "Penryn, call me Raffe. Names have power… and I thought that this particular nickname was different. It is powerful on your lips. In fact, I like it on your lips. So keep saying it, please."

My eyebrows pop up. "Did you just say please?"

"No."

"Right." I laugh softly, rolling my eyelids shut and leaning against his chest, breathing in his scent as subtly as possible. "Raffe," I whisper, sighing happily. "I love that name. I love your name."

"…Thanks?" The puzzled tone in his voice causes me to smile faintly. "I think you're getting tired. You should rest up. I'll put you back in your bed."

"You need to sleep, too," I protest, forcefully prying my eyes open to meet his gaze. "If I'm sleeping, so help me, I'll make sure you sink with me."

Raffe hesitates. "Fine." Before I can protest anything, his grip on me shifts, and the world spins once more. I try not to groan at the pounding in my head, biting my lip to keep it inside. When the movement pauses to allow for reorientation, I find myself resting on top of Raffe, find that he'd stretched out along the log, regardless of its moist and moldy surface. With each breath, I rock unsteadily, but at least his heartbeat is still beneath my ear.

"Are you a back-sleeper?" I question curiously, finding that quite bizarre.

"Is that surprising to you?" Raffe chuckles, craning his head up to peer at me on his chest. "Not most of the time. These tend to get in the way."

He lifts both of his glorious wings, seeming smug with their beautiful preened appearance – and they are beautiful, he has every reason to be smug. The shafts are molten silver, glinting gently in the starlight, and the beautiful snowy fringing almost pale powder blue in color with the moon's assistance. Only the notch in the feathers I'd chopped into the wings is the break in the perfection – and somehow, I like it that way. It's almost like a little angelic nametag.

I find myself wondering if the wings still have a ghost memory of me raking my hands through the gentle feathers, and wondering whether the memories of raking my fingers through the feathers is quite as blissful as I recall.

I reach out to touch the feathers, to see if they're as soft as I remember them being, but he flinches away, jerking them from my fingers. They hover out of reach, close, yet separated by an invisible barrier constructed by Raffe. My cheeks heat and I swallow to stomach my embarrassment. My hand drops back to the log.

"Sorry," I mutter. "Shouldn't have done that. I don't know what came over me."

"No, it's okay." Raffe sounds uncertain. "You don't have to apologize."

But his wings don't wander back into my reach, propped carefully away.

I don't waste the breath to apologize again and prolong the scene. Instead, I ponder upon his reaction – truthfully, it wasn't that strange. If someone had wanted to stroke my newly reattached arms, I'd have been mildly freaked out, too. But maybe there's more to it than that – maybe it's some weird social thing. Maybe to stroke an angel's feathers is something with deeper meaning than I'd realized. The only times people stroke each other's arms are couples showing domestic affection to one another, after all.

What if angels aren't all that different?

"Are you alright?" Raffe murmurs in concern.

Spooked at being so quickly yanked from my thoughts, I jump slightly, realizing I'd been descending into the darker chasms of slumber. "What? Yeah, yeah. Why?"

"Your heart skipped a beat." Raffe shrugs beneath me. "How about you don't do that anymore? It jerked me from my peaceful place."

"Sorry."

"Stop apologizing for everything. And if you apologize for that I will flay you alive." His tone grows deathly serious. "Don't think I won't."

"I hope not." I blink blearily as I study the sleeping members of our group, sighing lowly. "Then it's open season for Lucius, too."

I realize a few seconds too late that I might be poking a stick at a sleeping bear – when we'd first broken the news to Raffe, he'd flown into a sort of rage, yelling in fury at the ground beneath his feet as if his warnings could reach all the way down to Hell itself. When that'd grown old, he lifted his blazing blue eyes from his feet and met my gaze. It had been terrifying, the way he'd stormed towards me, bellowing about how it was my fault to have made such a stupid deal, about how I did everything on purpose, about how I could've done anything different, but instead, I'd chosen to submit to him.

Of course, Bryon marched him off very forcefully after a short fight – I remember recalling Emilio's words about a proper duel being more a dance than a fistfight and comparing it to the elegance they both moved with. Bryon took advantage of Raffe's rage and managed to get him into some sort of arm- and wing-hold, then he marched the archangel off into the woods without another word, no saying where he was going or what he planned. Hugo gave me some tonics for the stomach aches and Ogden whipped up some natural remedy, then the two of them shunted me to bed.

I'd fallen asleep terrified of Raffe's return.

Thankfully, though, Raffe takes it almost unnaturally neutrally. "Penryn, why did you go with that particular deal?"

"There was no other way." I swallow, closing my eyes, unwilling to think about it.

Raffe is silent for only a brief moment. "I know you can't reverse what happened or anything, but wasn't there? We could've dealt with your sister's… difficulties together, Penryn. We don't have that option anymore."

My heart clenches at his words, the heartbeat strangled and hammering. But despite the agony he deals out, dread starts to ice over my innards and a cold and heavy weight settles in the pit of my stomach.

I lift my head slightly, peering up at him. "You know, right?"

Raffe's eyebrows lift. "What is there to know?"

"Oh, God." Bile rises in my throat. "Oh, God. You don't know?"

"Know what, Penryn?" One of Raffe's hands lift to caress my cheek, his callused fingers following me even as I duck from his touch. "Penryn? What's going on? Is there something I should know?"

I try to put my head on straight, but I find myself just as frightened of Raffe's reaction to my news as I am of being the Devil's bride. At least being a bride won't physically harm me. I'm not balanced on the Devil's chest, looking down into his eyes like an insect ready for him to crush.

He seems to notice this in my expression in those searching eyes of his, and, almost instantly, his gaze parts from mine, searching around. If I didn't know better, I'd say that the rosiness at his cheeks was a blush and not a bizarre shadow cast by the light of the moon.

"I won't do that again, Penryn," Raffe promises in a voice as soft as velvet, his eyes saturated with pain. "I promise. That was Raphael. I'm Raffe. Raffe, you hear?"

"Raffe." My lips are like planks of wood, barely allowing the word to escape my mouth.

"Yes." The hand resting on my cheek wraps twines through my fingers, bringing our hands up nearly to his face, pausing before the dusky pink lips, as if remembering the curse I'd bound him to. "What's the matter, Penryn? What hasn't Bryon told me? Tell me."

And so I do. I tell him.

"What?" Raffe whispers, his hand around mine going slack.

The dam breaks and I collapse against Raffe's chest, babbling and chattering some sort of run-on version of what'd happened. I tell him about my mother's deal and about her demons, I tell him about how Jane's labyrinth had taunted me and about her demented experiments, I whisper softly into his ears about my father and how he fell from glory, I tell him about Lucius and about how his words are every bit as poisonous as his spit, and, last but certainly not least, I tell him about the horrendous claim that the demon made and how I'd not been able to save both my sister's soul and mine.

Aside from an occasional gentle "Go on" or "Yes?", Raffe is utterly silent, drinking in everything I say. His eyes are glued on the moon above us, never once wavering. It should irk me, should make me want to gather his attention away from the brilliant silvery orb lighting up the sky, but I can only be thankful not to meet his gaze. It's bad enough that I have to see the bob of his throat every time he swallows or hear the angry spike in his pulse with each new tale.

When I do finish, though, he meets my gaze, and I'm startled to find raw, unshuttered emotions lying just beneath the blue, hidden by only one glassy layer. They study me with warmth and pain and tender concern buried in the blue that I've never seen before.

"No," Raffe whispers simply.

My heart snaps in two at that word – such potential for power, a potential for a mighty rebuttal, a refusal ringing out for all to here. No, Lucius cannot have me. No, Lucius will not win. No, Raffe hasn't given up.

But all that potential is gone to waste, as "no" is also a word in a broken man's vocabulary.

He lifts our still intertwined hands and gently nudges a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. Tender yet amazingly vast and powerful, his pain seems to course through him with a sudden heartbeat, and his embrace around me tightens by a tenfold.

"No, no, no, no, no, no…" As the word progresses and grows angrier, more defensive, Raffe's grip strengthens. He bundles me against his chest like a prized teddy bear, nearly strangling me in his arms. For some reason, I don't fear being crushed anymore – his bated breath holds the hidden cadence of gentleness, and not once do the powerful arms crush too hard. I hold my breath as his arms close tighter, bands of steel. He gently presses his forehead to mine with an awkward kink in his neck, but I doubt he notices.

"No," Raffe whispers, his lips frighteningly close to mine, but I know that's the last thing on his mind at the moment. "No. He can't have you. He can't. You're mine, you hear? Mine… He can't… he just can't."

"I'm sorry." I nestle back against his chest, breaking the contact of our foreheads and lessening the crushing pressure of his arms around me with a little body squirm. "I'm sorry. I am. So sorry."

"Not your fault, Penryn." His voice hitches, and I can picture him gulping painfully. Raffe's wings slide over me like heavenly soft blankets, the white plumage covering me nearly from head to toe; the night's chill couldn't reach me if it tried. "Not your fault."

In vein, I try to dash to Raffe's side, to aid him in his bitter battle – or perhaps to make him stop fighting. I am unsure of which I prefer. But I am sure that I walk sluggishly, as if I am caught in a great vat of molasses, unable to move towards the great battle with more than a lethargic trudge.

Unlike the graceful dance with Bryon, Raffe no longer fights elegantly. He is benevolent and terrible, fierce to a fault. It's more terrifying than I'd ever seen him – eyes narrowed with bloodlust, teeth bared in a furious snarl. His fingers are curled around the hilt of Pooky Bear like the talons of an eagle.

Lucius, however, is the one the scares me the most. He fights with no blade, but holds his own. With tips painted silver, needles like porcupine quills emerge from his shoulders, ripping his white suit to shreds. Some drip with blood, as if Raffe had been unfortunate enough to come into contact with the barbed quills. His face is angular and brutal, his lips drooling black saliva over their crimson coat of fresh blood. The hooks on his wings drip with toxic poison, also coated in blood – I pray that it's a coincidence that the positions of the bloodied hooks correspond with the scratches etching up and down Raffe's arms.

"NO!" I try to scream, shoving my way forward. "NO! STOP IT!"

But not a sound escapes me.

One of the razor barbs tipping Lucius's wings lift, poising above Raffe's chest threatening. I shriek, but I can't make a sound they can hear. Raffe doesn't receive my warning, doesn't know Lucius is ready to strike until the hook is buried in his chest. Crimson blood gushes around the scythe, then waterfalls as Lucius pulls it viciously free.

My scream reaches neither of their ears, but it goes from horror to terror in a matter of seconds.

Replacing the flow of blood almost immediately are dark, coarse hairs, as if Lucius had merely ripped through an outer shell, revealing a little bit of a monster beneath.

Stunned, I don't push any further against the force holding me back. I gawk at the unsettling events unfolding before me, and, for the first time, I ponder if I'm in a dream.

Roaring with outrage, Raffe strikes back, slashing over Lucius's chest as well. After the initial spurt of black blood, sickly yellow hair grows in, the dirty white to match Raffe's glossy jet black.

Numb with horror, I watch as the two rip into each other, each blow bringing more fur onto their bodies, gnarling their muscles even further into deformed monsters. At one point, Raffe cuts off Lucius's arm and part of his wing – the wing grows back same as before, if anything, slightly larger, but the arm grows in like a paw – a canine leg replaces Lucius's arm, awkwardly dangling from his shoulders. Lucius retaliates by taking his new wing and ramming it through Raffe's maw and to the back of his throat until the tip of the scythe emerges through his hair. Raffe's massacred mouth is replaced with a boxy snout complete with long yellow fangs.

It comes to the point where they don't even use the pretense of landing blows. They grapple with one another like hulking beasts, those with hands left grabbing the flaky tarps covering their opponent's body, the tarp that use to be skin, and yanking them off not to reveal blood and organs, but a fresh coat of fur, fresh and ready for action.

As a monster, Raffe is a terrible fighter, absolutely merciless to the smaller beast. His ivory claws seem made to kill, and his snout snapping for blood. It scares me.

In fact, by the end of the dream, I'd go so far as to say that Raffe wasn't even Raffe anymore. I'd say that he was the one that I was most afraid of. Raffe was the real monster.

But, as had all my other dreams, this one fades into white as it nears its end, and the ringing returns to my ears. I wake up sitting next to the great black shadow with the large blue eyes.

The light is still bright, too bright for me to make out many details. But I could swear that we're sitting in the same corridor as last time, the shadow and I, staring up at a stained glass window. The only thing off about the glass is that it seems to move, that the black angel and the white demon seem to tear into each other in front of me.

Love makes monsters of us all. With the speed of a glacier, the beast turns his head towards me. Do you understand?

But, almost immediately, he sighs in my mind. Of course you don't. Remember it, though, Penryn Young.

What a brilliant point for me to leave you at!

I regret to inform my lovely readers that I'll be going on a short vacation – don't worry, I'll be back before you know it! When I return, though, I'd love some reviews from those that never show up – that's always a treat, and it'd be a great "Welcome Home!"

POLL: Audiat and Josiah – four red eyes. Thoughts?

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh