Chapter Forty Two
This dream is so massively different from the past visions that I have much difficulty forcing myself to believe it's credible to Black Wolf's divine interference; something about the point of view I see this vision from isn't like the last ones, as if, instead of showing an expertly directed version of events, I'm seeing it through a creature's eyes – a creature low to the ground and sitting beside one of Raffe's boots, with eerily good vision that follows my angel as he paces around the room.
I get the uncanny impression that, instead of past or future, I'm seeing glimpses of the present.
The gaze of the creature roams around a standard apartment of moderate size, the type that I'd be overjoyed to rent for college if such a reality were even plausible anymore, furnished in shoddily-painted wooden structures and cheap shag rugs. A queen bed lies in the room the creature is stationed in, and, beyond it through an archway, I glimpse a pleasant little living room. A shaft of moonlight beams through the room, as if cast by the balcony windows; the silvery light paints the walls into shades of powder blue.
Something stirs restlessly in the bed, capturing our attention. The creature inspects him with an expert eye – his cream-colored sheets, tousled and wrinkled, are thrown lazily over Raffe's body, only half-covering him. As if sheathed with liquid moonlight, his skin shines, the planes and sharp ridges of his stomach rippling with their own aurora borealis. One muscled arm is hanging off the bed alongside his wings, whereas the other is thrown over his eyes, though I can't imagine why he doesn't simply close the curtains to the balcony window.
Though initially, appreciation warms in me at the sight of Raffe in nothing but his boxers, wreathed in moonlight and sheened in sweat, I realize that the creature's eyes seem to linger over his body as mine might've – truthfully, it's probably more an assessment rather than an admiration of the flawless build he – like all archangels – maintains, but I still feel a burn of jealousy at my heart.
Just as the creature's vision starts to fade, as if it's nodding off, Raffe stirs again, throwing himself onto his back. His caramel skin is just a shade darker than the beige blankets he wallows in, but the beautiful black mess of hair hanging in his eyes and the burning white of his wings contrast the color theme fantastically.
Raffe growls to himself as he tosses back onto his back, going spread-eagle on the bed. His chest bobs with heavy breaths, and the sparkle of his deep blue eyes pierces through the darkness. He only remains in this position for a few seconds before kicking off the sheets and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
Burying his face into his hands, Raffe groans gutturally, the sound amplified, as if the creature's hearing is as sharp as its vision. He remains as still as a statue for a few seconds, kneading into his face and relaxing his muscles one by one, before he stands abruptly, as if having come to a decision.
He strides powerfully across the room, muscles stirring in utter harmony, and grabs his jeans from off a dresser. Though it is somewhat of a disappointment seeing his boxers disappearing beneath denim, I can't help but wonder what he's doing in the dead of night.
Raphael does the buckle on his pants with a gentle clinking of metal and reaches for the shirt and hoodie lying on the dresser – he falters with his arm halfway, allowing it first to hover uncertainly, then snaking it forward to snatch something off the wood. Although he's speaking in a foreign language, it isn't difficult to figure out that his dark mutters are cusses.
The creature curiously focuses its vision, sharpening our focus to reveal he's holding a cheapo digital clock with faded green numbers reading eleven fourteen – past the curfew mark, which would explain the utter silence from outside.
Slamming the clock violently back into the table, Raffe rakes a hand stressfully through his ebony hair. I might've found it arousing, the way he unbuckles his belt with one hand or the way he ferociously rucks his pants off his hips, if his expression hadn't been quite so distressed.
Kicking off his jeans and leaving them in a heap on the floor, Raffe swiftly strides to the sliding glass door the creature is stationed beside, folding his hands behind his back as he looks outwards. The moonlight pools over his features, illuminating the crumbling barriers he tries to construct, showing me the shutters he attempts to close on his emotions. But they seep out anyway, as emotions tend to do – with a strained, fatigued moan, Raffe bumps his head against the glass and leans into it, grinding his teeth, his face clenched back with pain.
An archangel isn't meant to be alone – not for as long as he has, travelling the continent in search of his wings and then me. And now, here he is, surrounded by kin that alienate his gender and reject his ability to process emotion. Naked longing for some sort of company consumes his expression, hinted with splashes of agony and sorrow. He slams his fist against the glass, almost as if he's trying to break it.
Gradually, Raffe's breath grows more and more shaky, his breaths growing deeper and catching in the back of his throat. For a horrifying moment, I find myself wondering if I'm about to see Raffe cry. And it looks as if I am – his wings tremble on his back and his fist quivers against the glass. His shoulders heave with each inhalation, and his face holds enough anguish to bring any other man to tears.
The short, tentative whistle sounds as if it'd been my lungs that'd issued it – I realize after a befuddled second that the creature had been the one to make the noise, and that the creature is a certain little dragon I know very, very well.
Raffe yanks himself away from the window, hand reaching for his sword as if he'd forgotten that his boxers don't have a scabbard, but the moment his eyes clap onto Belle, they soften in a way they never have for me – it's not a look that I necessarily want directed my way, either. It's the way a man looks at his beloved dog, a faithful, stupid companion that doesn't judge a person on what they've done or how many tears they cry, only on how well they can scratch that spot behind their ears.
"Hello, little lizard," Raffe intones with a baby-voice, crouching in front of Belle. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm just lonely is all. Am I forgiven?"
Belle seems to contemplate that, our sight tilting nauseatingly to one side as if she'd cocked her head. But after a thorough analyzation, Belle squeals excitedly, pawing excitedly at the throw pillow she'd been curled up on.
Raffe's laugh is one of the sweetest things I've ever heard. "Come here, little one." He extends a hand towards the floor. "Neither one of us should be lonely tonight."
She dashes forward and races up his arm in that rapid manner she has, the violent pitch and sway of her sight making me sick. Somehow, we end up perched on Raffe's shoulder, our head resting against his cheek. Raffe strokes gently at Belle as he strides back towards the bed, crawling back into the sheets.
Hopping off of his shoulder as we descend, Belle curls up on the plush mattress, settling in a perfect nook against Raffe's chest. Raffe's heartbeat pounds through us, as steady and calming as the beat of a drum. Belle sighs blissfully, a sound quickly imitated by Raffe.
My heart warms at the sight of the archangel and the Nephilim curled together – the ghost of a reflection on the glass shows that Raffe is smiling as he lulls himself to sleep, and that the crest of his wing shadows over Belle, protecting her as her tired eyes blink with sleep.
But, as I gaze out of the window, my heart skips a beat. Belle stiffens, squeaking in alarm.
A pair of glowing red eyes gleam outside the window, observing in silence the dragon and the archangel together.
A thunderous growl blankets over my hearing, one that I initially think is Raffe responding to Belle's distress, but, as the reflection in the glass provides, Raffe blinks in confusion, not utterly certain what'd caused her alarm call.
Snarling, Belle stands, her vision narrowing, honing in on the stalker. Its red eyes widen, and, on her reflection, so do Belle's, with their bright shades of bronze and blue. In fact, they seem to burn even brighter, power seemingly fostered in them. I feel myself leaving her point of view, the world fading into utter blackness.
I awaken screaming. My lungs feel hoarse and dry – although it's not nearly as bad as it was in Secrem Domu, I begin to cough, hacking to myself, positioning myself away from Audiat's soft comforters.
A soft, worried whistle purrs through the darkness. I peel open my eyes between coughs to see a little dragon perched on the railing of the bunk bed, her tail curling around the bar several times like a slender whip, her mismatched eyes glowing luminescently in the darkness. Seeing that she'd gathered my attention, Belle whistles again, her wings shuffling anxiously on her back.
"Hey –" I cough again, burying my mouth into the crook of my elbow. "Hey, baby, how'd you get in here? Where's Raffe?"
Belle doesn't answer in response, but seems to sigh, as if her nerves are being released. Her eyelids flutter for a few seconds before she slithers off the railing, slinking up to lie beside me. Collapsing on the comforter, her eyes directly in front of mine, Belle reaches out with one tiny paw, resting it against my lips.
I suck in my breath, cautious to break the moment. Raw love gleams in her slitted pupils, as unyielding and unwavering as a child's to its mother. Nibbling gently at my throat with her toothless gums, she wiggles closer, looping her tail around my neck. Belle purrs softly after a long moment of us lying here, staring into one another's eyes, and nestles against my chest, as if seeking my heartbeat to prove that I really, really am alright.
Cool scales slide against my bare skin, and a rough tongue swipes at the skin of my neck, over my jugular vein like a caress – I curl my arms around her, stifling my coughs and swallowing painfully, unwilling to break the embrace despite my burning thirst.
Though initially, Belle had been cold to the touch, her scales chilled and rubbing against my neck all-too-much like a snake, the longer I hold her to my breast, the warmer she becomes. Her body seems to melt to mine, molding against my chest as if she'd been made for this very reason. Sighing happily, I stroke a single finger down her spine, shaking off the nightmares that'd gripped me, trying to convince myself that the hellions I'd seen had just been in my sleep.
The sound of a balcony door being thrown open rips me from that blissful stupor, making my eyes snap open.
"Penryn!" Raffe sounds profusely worried, almost panicked. "Penryn! Penryn, where are you?"
Raffe thunders into the room, his blue eyes wide and anxious, scanning the area viciously for any threats. Abundant claw marks stretch up and down his bare chest, their crimson umbrage gleaming in the blue light he sheds over the room. The moonlight haloing him, Raffe searches the apartment for me, swinging his head back and forth like a dog searching for a scent before finally finding my nook on the bunk beds.
Every muscle in him relaxes, like someone had eased the tension on a taut bowstring. "Penryn," he sighs, his sword drooping out of its ready position. "Have you seen – oh, hello, little lizard."
Belle, having crawled around my neck like a scarf, her head poking through my hair, makes a curious popping noise by my ear.
"What's wrong, Raffe?" I shuffle to the edge of the bed, throwing my legs off the side and allowing them to dangle limply. "What's going on? Why are you all cut up?"
Raffe studies me imperviously, eyes slipping and sliding up and down my figure. Throughout the ample time I humbly provide for him to provide an answer, he doesn't utter a word, simply standing in the middle of the room with the muted colors of the stained glass painting his wings.
"There probably is a good reason for you to be out of bed, I presume," I prompt judiciously, reluctant to spill the contents of my eerie dream to him. "It's well past curfew. Have you been fighting? Raffe?"
The bang of another door slamming open makes Belle hiss in alarm. Spectral and nearly pitch black in the darkness, Ariel ghosts forward, her golden-striped wings held threateningly over her head. An ethereal black nightgown billows around her legs and shadows trail in her wake, visible for mere seconds against the light before fading into the inkiness of the dark room.
"Raphael!" Ariel snaps, baring her pearly teeth like a cat. "What in Hell's wrath do you think you're doing here? Breaking the curfew? On the first night? In Penryn's room, you licentious bastard?"
"Hey!" I bark, protesting against the libels. "He wouldn't be here if it wasn't important! Look at him! He's all cut up!"
"Which could've easily been the offspring of the fool trying to hump his reflection in the mirror," she maligns. Ariel glances with cold apology in my direction. "No disrespect intended, Miss Young, but I have seen your lovebird do less dignified things."
"Quit provoking him!" I shout back. "No one's going to benefit from anything if you two get in a pissing contest! We're not going to figure out what attacked Raffe and we're not going to figure out what he's doing here! Give him a chance to explain!"
Ariel visibly reins herself in, stiffening her spine and balling her fists, snapping her wings back by her sides and holding them at an unusual rigidness.
"Explain, Raphael," she lilts. "I shall not partake in judgment before I hear your half of the story."
"Hellions." He glares at her, nearly as furiously as she had at him. "There were hellions. Half a dozen of them, creeping around. Aren't you supposed to be blocking those demons from this place, Lady Lioness?"
"Jesus, you guys shout a lot." In through the doorway hobbles another friend, his eyes ringed in purple splotches. "Stop having spats while people are trying to sleep. The reason the little lion-angels weren't on the pig-bats' asses were because they were busy checking out Sariel and Bay and a bunch of other angels that just stumbled in. By the way, Ariel, a bunch of angels just stumbled in. They're all collapsed in the cafeteria. 'Cept for Bay, he's selecting a top floor suite for us."
"Hugo!" I cry, vaulting from the top bunk and landing quite unsteadily, wincing as my ankle yanks violently, as if the floor had deflected its weight. I brush it off, ignoring the burn of Raffe's incredulous gaze at my back, and loop my arms around Hugo's neck. His hair beads are cold against my cheek.
"Hey, you, glad to see you weren't raped." Hugo strokes my hair, his nimble fingers gently pawing a tangle out of my mane. "Or murdered. Or forced into a Slave Leia costume. Or ripped apart by hellions. Have you ever considered living a normal, nonthreatening lifestyle, Rynny?"
"Call me that again and you'll be wishing I did."
"Yes, ma'am," Hugo chuckles, rocking me back and forth slightly.
"Oh, so, Pigeon-Bat sticks, but that doesn't?" Raffe growls. "You are picking favorites."
"Yeah, so" – Hugo repositions my hug so that his arm is casually thrown over my shoulders – "I have favorites, and you're not one of them. Shocker. Shouldn't you be making sure there's no more hellions out and about? Aren't you an expert at killing those? Those and Nephilim?"
I jab Hugo in the ribs, causing him to shoot me an injured glance.
"There's no more," Raffe grunts, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "I checked everywhere. Probably would've notified a couple of your cherubs if they'd been out and about."
I notice that his blood runs in crimson rivers down his back, staining his jeans. How deeply had the hellions sliced into him? How many times? And how much blood has he already lost?
"Okay, then, in that case, Raffe, we need to get you patched up." Ducking beneath Hugo's arm, I span the distance separating Raffe and I, ignoring Ariel's curious gaze as I lift Raffe's arm, inspecting a brutal swipe of talons along his bicep. Though scowling slightly, Raffe responds to my gentle nudges and taps obsequiously as I look him over.
"I'll heal by myself, Penryn," he husks abasingly, casting self-conscious glances towards Ariel.
"Get over yourself," I scold, swatting away the hand he sends to push me back. "If some dangerous human bacteria gets in your open cuts, you'll be hating life. You're whiny enough as it is."
"Penryn." He sounds straight-out embarrassed now.
"Goddammit, Pigeon-Bat, let your Penny Poo Rynny tend to your wounds!" Hugo barks, turning on tail and hobbling off. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to find Bay. Ariel, I suggest you talk to Sariel and get this whole cherubs-failing-their duties business sorted out. He was father of the pride for a long time and can probably offer some great tips."
"I think I might." Ariel cocks her brow. "After all, it would've been disastrous, had the hellions broken in and seen Raphael with another companion. God only knows how Bryon would've reacted. Now, Raphael, I will excuse this break in conduct this once, but don't consider this a viable escape route next time." She pauses, wings shuffling awkwardly by her sides. "And I do apologize for my raucous, assuming behavior not so long ago. It was incredibly informal of me."
"I'm not a saint, either, kitty cat." Raffe shrugs, causing me to accidentally poke his bicep scratch. "And I've done… things. Things I'm not proud of, not anymore. Now, be gone with you, Penryn's going to fuss over me."
Ariel gives me one last meaningful look. "My heart goes out to you. He's very, very sensitive when it comes to people poking around in open cuts, and he's not so fond of needles."
Raffe hisses softly, glaring after Ariel as she exits.
When the door clicks shut, I swivel around to Raffe's back, inspecting his wounds with difficulty in the low moonlight, gently guiding his wings to open and close so that I can inspect the occasional slashes through his feathers. "So, what's the deal with her? Another avenging angry girlfriend? Or is it worse?"
"I trained her." Raffe grunts with objection as I prod at something I'd assumed was a huge fleck of dirt, realizing that it's a hunk of his flesh that's still connected to his body. "We didn't often see eye-to-eye, but she was good, I'll admit. She always had a fighting spirit – taught me that recruits brought from the slave huts weren't always miserable maggots. So, once she split off on her own path, I recruited Josiah."
"Why is she an archangel and Josiah… not?"
"Hmm." Raffe seems to consider this, his breath jarring as I slide back his hair to study a nick at the back of his neck. "Well, honestly, Josiah is a bit of a debated subject. She-angels say he's an archangel because, well, I trained Ariel and she became one. But the rest don't think so."
"What do you think?" I whisper, standing on the tips of my toes to get a better angle on his neck-cut.
"An archangel is a leader, Penryn." His head turns slowly, allowing me to catch the slightest gleam of his blue eyes in the ivory moonlight. "Do you really think Josiah is fit to be a leader? That he even wants to be a leader?"
"Yeah…" I shake my head decisively. "No, that'd point to even more chaos, wouldn't it? Poor guy. Must be tough on him. Hey, Raffe, I'm going to need you to sit down on some chair somewhere. I'm going to start boiling water so we can clean these out."
"Penryn, really, I'm fine," Raffe huffs, rolling his eyes.
"What, afraid of some hot water?" I smirk at him over my shoulder as I head into the kitchen, causing the doors to creak eerily. "If you want, I'm sure Belle will hold your hand through it all."
A distant whistle of approval sounds from the main room.
Smiling to myself, I grab a towel off a rack on the wall, pleased to find that it's plush and nearly spongey. Pulling off another one, I stack them sloppily beside the stovetop and ruffle through Audiat's cabinets in search of a large pot to hold.
The kitchen is oddly furnished and designed; it's rectangular in shape, with a sink and bar area on one side and an oven, stove, and microwave on the other. At the end of the compacted little length, another window sits, this one lacking the gorgeous stained glass design, instead a clear window with a little pillowed bench at its foot, perhaps for the need of spying on the neighbors. Dented pots and pans line the walls in all shapes and sizes – evidently, they hadn't made their own pots and pans as they'd built this fantastic building from the ground, but rather, they'd gathered what they could. It puts them in a softer light.
Selecting the least battered of the reused pots, I fill it to the brim with water from the sink, thanking God for little things like plumbing, and set it on the blazing stove. The water hisses in protest before settling into a low, angry growl, simmering softly.
To help pass the time, I duck into the bathroom and find a bottle of medical alcohol inside of a first aid kit hidden beneath the sink. I stuff a few Band-Aids into my pockets and a few good old fashioned bandages.
After what feels like hours of lounging around in the immaculate kitchen, the water spits and froths, snarling at me. Upwards it pounces, leaping towards me in great jumps as I drop the towels into the water and let it boil for a few seconds more before sliding the pot from the burner's scalding surface.
Stumbling from the kitchen hefting the heavy pot in my arms and pinning a bottle of medical alcohol against my side, I stagger towards Raffe, seeing that he'd plopped down on one of Audiat's couches.
"You're bleeding everywhere," I scold. "I'm going to have to wash your blood out of the couch now. Get up."
"You told me to sit down!" Raffe huffs indignantly, glaring at me over his shoulder and staying stubbornly on the seat. "Am I not supposed to listen to you anymore? Is that what you want?"
"No," I snap, setting the scalding pot on the table for the briefest moment, only taking the time to place a hot pad before readjusting its position. "What I want is you to have the common sense not to bleed all over Audiat's furniture. Now, just hold still." I plop down on the couch beside him, reaching towards the pot to fish the steaming hot towels from it. "And be obedient, please. It's going to sting."
"Not until you dump alcohol all over me." But Raffe scoots a tad closer to me, holding out his arm facilely. Cautiously, I pluck a white towel from the boiling water and wring it out, causing water to pounce for my hand again. One droplet reaches me, causing momentary pain before it cools, still causing me to wince. Glaring at the pot or treacherous liquid, I turn to Raffe to find him studying me.
"I'm going to clean each one out with this first." I shake the still-damp towel around in my hand. "Make sure there's nothing left behind, then I'll disinfect it and bandage it. Okay?"
"Sure." Raffe strokes Belle's head with a single finger until she yawns and creeps off. Despite her dismissal, his hand remains shoved out towards me.
"Okay. Hold still."
My hands haven't been this tender in a long time. Carefully, I dab around the scratches at his bicep, gently wiping away the blood, biting my lip as I brush up against his raw, exposed flesh. But, as I begin to dip into his slices with him remaining as steady as a rock, I feel myself gaining both courage with the towel in hand and respect for Raffe's amazing control.
After having thoroughly cleaned out every scratch in the particular swipe, I study it as best I can in the low light, yearning for a single candle to see by. "You tell me, Raffe, does that look clean?"
"Yes. I'm practically sparkling."
Nodding in satisfaction, I gently nudge his arm back to his side, instructing him silently to rest it. Dropping the towel back into the pot, I take ahold of a few cotton balls and the alcohol. Gesturing his arm back up, I scoot closer to him, unwilling to let any other substances fall onto Audiat's furniture.
Carefully, I dribble the alcohol onto his open cuts, mopping up the excess before it can drip from his arm. This, he reacts to – the muscles beneath my fingers go from limber to tight as steel each and every time a drop leaks into his cuts. Once, he audibly grinds his teeth as I pour some of the alcohol into his largest scrape.
"Ow," I sympathize, looking up at him in guilt. "I'm going to have to do this a lot, Raffe. If you need to grunt a little to let out your inner agony, it's okay, I won't gossip about it. Just don't squirm."
"Offer noted." He arches an eyebrow. "So, are you just going to have me bleed out through my arm, or do you have bandages?"
Glaring dryly at him, I lift the supplies sarcastically.
We don't say much else – occasionally, he'll grunt as he'd seemed so sure he wouldn't, and every so often, he requires a verbal command on what to do. I wince as I clean out chunks of debris from his back and shoulders, and massage his intact skin as I trickle the alcohol into his deep slices. Somehow, I manage to either wrap him in bandages or press monster-sized Band-Aids to his skin. At last, the only things to be patched up are the ones on his wings and the ones on his chest.
"Raffe." I tap his shoulder gingerly. "Lemme get that one on your chest, alright?"
Without comment, Raffe swivels around – but not to bare his chest to me. His hands hold my waist firmly and drag me across the couch until I'm between his legs, staring into his eyes. I'm so close to him that, if I listened hard enough, I could probably hear the bat of his eyes.
Uncertainly, I consider straddling him as well – my legs are awkward where they are, and seemingly without a place in this tense moment he'd created. But, deciding that I don't want to tempt him any more than necessary what with Lucius on my ass, I slip off the couch, kneeling on the floor in front of him and reaching up to gently press at his wounds.
My heart pounds as I clean the blood that'd cascaded down his front, following its trail nearly all the way to the edge of his jeans. Though I try not to focus too hard on it, I can't help but notice the way his abdomen flexes beneath my hand as I soak up all the blood caught in the ridges, nor do I miss the way his face abruptly becomes unnaturally stoic as my hands linger on his hip to wipe away the last little droplet.
"Hey, Raffe?" I whisper, returning reluctantly to the cut across his pectoral.
"Hmm?"
"What can kill an angel?"
Raffe pauses hesitantly, seemingly unwilling to share this information. His eyes study my face impassively, and I instinctively understand they're searching for some confirmation on what to share with me, a monkey, the enemy of his race. I give it to him gladly, smiling up at him, allowing warmth to soften my features.
"Promise me you won't tell any of your monkey friends," Raffe murmurs, leaning forward, as if it'll disengage any angelic eavesdroppers. His powerful hand clutches mine inside it, crushing pressure administered to me and the towel. His eyes wander my face, perhaps still looking for sincerity.
"I'd never tell anyone anything that could hurt you." I wish with all my heart I was lying, that I could easily tell Obi and his men how to at last slaughter the angelic bastards – but if it means putting Raffe in the line of fire, there's no way in all of Hell.
But as I lean forward, eager to hear, Raffe leans backwards, shutting his eyes and swallowing, as if to reinstate his control over his emotions. Awkwardly, I pull back as well, embarrassed that I'd pushed him too hard.
Before I can lean too far away, Raffe hands tighten around mine. With a smooth movement almost resembling a cat's nimble paw swooping forward, Raffe puts his lips at my ear. Perhaps not all our neighbors are angelic, though that seems to be the case to me, and any information regarding Raffe's vulnerabilities must be kept secret from them, locked away, never to be meddled with again.
"Angel swords," he murmurs softly, voice startlingly akin to a caress, "can do the trick. Hellfire, too. Certain poisons are absolutely deadly – most of those that are have demonic roots. Lucius would probably be fatal, considering Bryon makes me feverish for a few days. Although regular knives don't really make too much of a mark on us…" Raffe leans ever closer, almost as if he wants me to feel his pulse. "Don't tell anyone this, Penryn, but if beheaded and then set on fire, angels die. Same thing happens if you gouge my heart from my chest, severing all of its arteries or cut the body into many, many pieces. But other than that, I'm a god."
"Demigod," I correct breathlessly. "And I'd say more like a vampire."
"Vampire?" Raffe repeats incredulously, drawing back to blink. "You can't just decree that I'm actually a mythical creature whenever you feel like it."
"Hmm," I acknowledge. "Are you sure there's no such thing as vampires, Raffe? Absolutely certain?"
"Why?" Raffe watches me through half-lidded eyes as I trade out the hot towel for the alcohol bottle and the thinning cotton ball pile. "Afraid that something's going to suck all your blood from your body in the middle of the night?"
"What if I am?" I challenge, shooting one last mischievous glance over my shoulder at him before herding the cotton balls together. "I think that'd be a pretty logical thing to be frightened off. Nobody wants to be a shriveled up husk."
Unprovoked, Raffe pinches the back of my neck roughly, his calloused fingers causing me to flinch and nearly bowl into the pot of hot water. Cursing, I wheel around, holding the noisome bottle of alcohol threateningly in one hand.
"What the hell was that for?"
Raffe grins at me, amused by my reaction to his harmless fun. "I wouldn't worry too much about vampires, Penryn. Your blood tastes awful."
"Hilarious," I sigh, scooting back between his legs. "Also, slightly creepy. How do you know what my blood tastes like, hmm?"
Raffe's laughing chest is much harder to disinfect than any of his other wounds, but I don't have the heart to tell him to cut it out. I smile to myself as I work, wiping up all the excess alcohol with the cotton balls and dabbing gently at his slashes. Their white fluff always comes back stained scarlet.
As I reach for the last of the bandages, I notice that he'd quit his sniggering, instead sitting in silence once again. Even as I compare using a couple of jumbo Band-Aids or somehow adding another bandage to his collection, I feel his dark gaze on me, feel the analyzation from a creature in the shadows. In the corner of my eye, I notice his posture has changed as well – his arms now drape over the back of the cough and his wings follow suit. It makes him seem regal, somehow – a lord of the shadows, with a voice like black velvet and all the treachery of a wolf.
Of course, I remind myself, Raffe isn't the lord of shadows or anything geeky like that. He's Wrath of God, but not… not that otherworldly.
"What are you thinking about?" Raffe wonders in a voice as gentle as the first twirling snowflake in winter, shaking his head slightly and dispelling the illusion of imperial beauty.
"Escape routes."
"What?"
"Well, if you're a vampire," I explain knowledgeably, "then I'm not sticking around to become breakfast. However, you might like breakfast, and want breakfast to stay until morning. So, escape routes."
Though perhaps not openly tender, there is warmth in Raffe's smile, as if he thinks his weak filter can still delude me even after all this time. "Oh, now, abandoning me, are you? Unfortunately, you'll have to wait until morning. Curfew, remember? Can't escape just yet. "
"Mmm." I rise from the ground, plucking the cooling disinfecting towel from the pink water. "Raffe, I have to clean out your wings. How should we do this?"
"Well, first off," he deadpans, "you're not sticking ugly Band-Aids all over my feathers. And second off" – he rapidly flips around, hooking his knees over the back of the couch and allowing his head to dangle off of it, his wings extended on either side along the cushions – "you can clean them out like this."
"You're going to make all the blood rush to your head," I scold, the plume of moonlight tumbling down Raffe's neck vying for my attention.
Raffe seems confused with my warning. "What?"
"Um… nothing." Maybe angels, I decide, falling back to my knees, have special veins to stop things like that, so they won't have a head rush while diving. Gently running my fingers along the band of muscle cresting over his fanning primaries, I bite my lip, thinking, trying not to focus on the way Raffe stares at me as I do.
"Do you have any cuts on the other side?" I wonder, flipping my fingertips beneath his wing and massaging around the knuckle area. As I hit hot flesh and Raffe's wing flinches, I add hastily, "Oops, sorry, I guess so."
"One hurdle at a time." In a motion that appears awkward, Raffe pats his wing where the largest cut is. "This hurdle first, thank you."
My hands work softly around his feathers, careful not to disrupt their beautifully cascading harmony. "Sorry about cutting up your feathers, by the way." I glance guiltily towards the only imperfection on his wings and their jagged edges. "They'll grow back, won't they?"
"Next time I molt, yes, they will," Raffe chuckles, eyes glinting in the darkness. "You know times are bad when the Evil Queen is apologizing to her enemy, though."
"Well, maybe the Evil Queen realized that the lone, sexy wanderer was no threat to her." I purse my lips, lifting my eyebrows thoughtfully, staring down at Raffe with a lecture in my eyes. "Maybe she realized that they could work better as allies. That the wanderer already had one friend – why couldn't he have more?"
"A friend?" Raffe scrunches his brow. "Penryn, I don't even consider you a friend."
My fingers freeze over his feathers. "Ouch."
"No, I meant –" Wearily, he shakes his head, sighing heavily, which looks rather strange upside-down. "I meant that you're more than a friend. I don't have friends."
"You just have one," I add, cocking my brow at him.
"No," Raffe chuckles defiantly, "I don't."
"What do you call Belle, then, Tough Guy?" I challenge, shooting him a confident look, knowing that any mention of the little dragon should be his trump card.
Raffe's head bucks, his eyes wide. "Where is Belle?"
The damp towel drops from my hands, sliding off Raffe's wings and onto the floor. "I thought she was with you."
"Obviously not!" Raffe snarls, rolling off the couch, raking his hands through his hair. His eyes rove intelligently through the room, landing upon the cracked apartment door. "She left. She couldn't have gone far, though, because she would've checked in on us."
"What?" I stand, scooping Emilio's knife up off the coffee table before striding after him towards the doorway. "How can you be sure?"
"I know Nephilim," Raffe answers simply, throwing the door open, revealing the bare honey-colored hallway and its shadowy embrace. Without hesitation, he stalks out into the hall, bloody wings held threateningly by his sides, and freezes. Cautiously, I trod up to his side, glancing warily down the hall.
Seeing nothing more than a corridor veiled in darkness with a single shaft of moonlight cleaving through the ebony, cast from an open window at the end of the hall, I stare at Raffe, puzzled.
"What the hell," he breathes, rocketing forward towards the window.
Jogging after him, I struggle to fix the incompatible pieces together in a logical manner, unable to comprehend Raffe's strange behavior until we reach the end of the hall and I catch sight of the corpse.
It's of an angel I've met only once at the dinner party hosted by the Watchers and Wives – Bezaliel, the best friend of Daisy's husband, Penemue. My stomach jolts treacherously as I struggle to keep a cap on my emotions. I cup my hand over my mouth, but a small sound of grief escapes my lips.
"How did it happen?" I whisper, eyes wide, staring at his tranquil face – if it hadn't been for a ruby droplet sliding down his wan face like a tear of blood, I would've believed he was sleeping, with his hands folded as if praying and his wings a bed beneath him. His eyelids are sealed over the shockingly bright pair of grey eyes he hosts, never to be opened again.
"Vampire," a chilling voice sings from the darkness. "That's what the two of you have been discussing, hasn't it? Strange… almost marks you down as suspects to the crime."
Raffe doesn't waste the time assuring the demon he pins to the wall is indeed Lucius – one arm streaks out, its broad fingers snaring around his snowy white throat and squeezing. Lucius's impact against the wall makes a large bang, easily heard inside the neighboring apartments. I glance at them nervously, unwilling to meet the residents with the dead body placed so suspiciously before us. Raffe has enough of a bad reputation…
"What did you do to him?!" Raffe snarls, pulling Lucius back from the wall only to slam him back into it. "Why did you kill him?!"
Lucius melts into shadows, appearing in the darkness behind Raffe. "Please use that desperately pumping brain cell of yours and think. What would I gain from murdering a Watcher? Why would I reveal myself to you if I did? Those are good questions."
"What happened to him?" I demand, ignoring Lucius's egging on, despite Raffe's rigid form. "What do vampires have to do with it?"
Smiling icily at me, Lucius strolls over to the corpse, kneeling before it. He tips up the angel's great head so that the shadow of his chin diminishes, revealing a clean pair of puncture wounds punched into Bezaliel's flesh. "Vampire bite. All legends are based on truth. Perhaps a Dracula inspiration is running around in the dead of night." He focuses on the cut, poking and prodding at it, making a soft noise of awe.
I arch an eyebrow at him, watching as he feels at Bezaliel's arm. "A monster? What did this?"
"Did you bring those hellions here?" Raffe thunders, balling his fists, stepping forward threateningly.
"Heavens, no," Lucius purrs, still raptured by the dead body before him, "hellions are my brother's thing – I much prefer dogs to rats. They were on orders to observe only. Why would they attack?" His yellowish white locks shift as he cocks his head. "Even you wouldn't excite them enough to do anything that brash."
"What the hell is going –" Appearing at the doorway of an apartment a few doors down, my grandfather freezes, his gold eyes beacons in the night, like a pair of stars in the night. "No," he slurs after a second, collapsing against the wall with only an arm to support himself. "No, no, no, no…"
"Raphael, I swear I am going to wring your neck," Ariel snarls, throwing open her door, "if you don't have a brilliant explanation for –" She breaks off, eyes landing on Sariel, whose denials of death of his friend have deteriorated into wordless sobs, buried into the crook of his arm. For the first time on her face, I see boundless warmth, glossed over with a generous coating of empathy.
"Oh, dear," she sighs breathily, throwing her arms around the bigger angel, patting him consolingly on the back between his wings. "Oh, my. Hush, hush, hush, let's get you down to Thea, alright? She's staying at a place down a few floors, okay, Sarie?"
"That's cute," remarks Lucius boredly as he rips open Bezaliel's shirt, inspecting his bare chest with fascination. "Ariel, your cherub watchmen have all been dispatched by a creature of unknown origin or species. On your way down, contact the monkey and tell him there's been a murder – he'll be tripping over his own feet with eagerness."
"Shall do." Ariel deliberately guides the drunkenly staggering Sariel down the hall, making the smallest of distances very slowly. I watch my grandfather go, yearning to comfort him as Ariel does but knowing that none of her words are comforting, and therefore none of mine will be.
"Have any of you witnessed anything out of the ordinary?" Lucius murmurs, resting his ear against Bezaliel's abdomen. "Do you have any information about this creature? Because, whatever it is, it will grow hungry and kill again."
"What is it?" Raffe questions, pacing in place anxiously, his eyes flicking around uncertainly.
"Well, knowing that'd just take out all the fun in the chase, wouldn't it?" Lucius laughs chillingly, his cold voice making me shiver. "Whatever it is, its presence was enough to provoke an entire herd of hellions to attack, and it was strong enough to overpower the ones you didn't quite manage to, Wrath. This is merely a pit stop to refuel the gas tank."
"How did it kill him?" I wonder, cocking my head inquisitively, cautiously kneeling beside Lucius. My fingers touch the coarse rug, balancing my weight as I lean over the corpse of the Watcher. "Poison, maybe? The bite wound isn't bleeding any."
"Hmm, that's what I thought too," Lucius hums, bustling over the corpse, "but that wasn't the only benefactor. The vein is shriveled, sucked dry, exactly like a victim of the Count, but this –" Lucius scrapes a single filed nail over Bezaliel's skin, causing a slow, gross ooze of red from the dead flesh – "proves that he hasn't been completely emptied. My best guess is that is that the poison stopped the heart and paused the flow of blood, and, to cover up the potent smell of that good old red liquid, as not to alert the very dangerous occupants of the top floor suites, the beast sucked his vein out."
"But you said the creature needed to eat," Raffe rumbles, cocking his head. "It didn't take a chunk out of Bezaliel."
"No." Lucius smiles coldly, his face a mask of spiteful glee. "That's the greatest part. It ate his soul. His poor wife won't be seeing dear Bezaliel on the other side."
"Why are you telling us this?" I whisper, eyes narrowed scrutinizingly as my gaze rolls up and down Lucius's bony white figure. "What do you have to gain from sharing information?"
"Because Wrath is a waste of time and energy," Lucius hums, probing down Bezaliel's legs, "but you know something you're not sharing with me. I have my ways of finding things out, little Young." I barely have time to slam my eyes shut at the whirl of movement before I feel Lucius's cold breath billowing over my lips, feel the cold tip of his nose brushing against my cheek. "I advise talking."
Raffe's bellow of anger is shortly tailed by Lucius immediate removal and the sound of breaking glass.
"Do that again and I shall initiate my interrogation methods on you, Wrath." I cautiously open my eyes to see a freshly broken window behind Lucius as the demon straightens his tie disdainfully; however, despite his ireful cadence, his expression is cool and curbed, unnaturally smooth.
Stomach squirming with disgust as Lucius's black tongue moistens his lips as he continues to slaver over the corpse, I stand, slinking to Raffe's side with the knowledge that, though I'd never admit it, he's the only one that might be able to protect me from the demon; humiliating as it may be, in this case, Raffe can take care of me more than I can myself. Almost as if aware of my thoughts, Raffe slings his arm over me possessively in a vain attempt to hide me from Lucius.
"Fascinating. Now, we do have business to discuss." Turning away from Bezaliel, Lucius folds his hands behind his back, gazing out through the broken window, the moonlight wrapping him in its tender embrace. "Young, my threats are real. It will kill again. Don't make me have to be the next one to shed blood tonight."
Raffe's muscles clench, but, thankfully, he doesn't stir, remaining utterly still.
"Bryon," I confess, trying to stomach the guilt roiling in my stomach, the feeling that I'm betraying my uncle by exposing his communication with me. "He appeared in my dream, told me that he had a secret, told me that he'd… messed with the wrong sort of crowd, that he had so much to tell but he couldn't, and that one of the creatures that he'd meddled with was here." My eyes widen. "Do you think he meant…?"
"Obviously." Hugo strides down the hallway, rolling up the sleeves to an oversized flannel shirt as he approaches the corpse, looking like a man of strict business. "Raffe, Bay is tending to Belle's wounds, don't worry about her."
"What?" Raffe barks, his fretful expression tying my heart in knots.
"What happened?" Lucius demands, turning his head so that I can see the twitch of his lips as they move swiftly to form words. "What did Bryon say?"
"He broke off with a scream, and…" Still desiring not to indulge on the secret of my next dream, I hesitate. "And I woke up. It was like he'd been interrupted by something, the creature, maybe."
"What are you hiding?" Hugo inquires professionally, staring at me with crude speculation, his mouth hardened into a firm line. "What else is there?"
Grasping at straws, I decide to profess another… not secret, exactly… true, the deeply informing conversation I'd partaken in with White Wolf isn't a precise secret, but it hasn't been brought to light yet.
"White Wolf mentioned it too, when he was watching over me." I swallow, trying to ignore the way that every gaze except for Lucius's lands on me – he doesn't stir, the demon, remaining as still as a block of ice. "Said there were creatures beyond either of our comprehension lurking in the shadows that night. Said that he would protect me as best he could. But nothing ever happened. The creature didn't appear."
"I'm willing to bet that it did," Raffe breaks in, studying me intently. "Remember why we left? Because something with enough mojo to take out one of those… 'gods' was creeping around the area. The creature probably was the one that murdered the wolf thing. And before then... Scales was quite anxious to herd us through certain areas in our trip to the mountains telling BS stories about demons. He never slept well, always taking midnight walks. Maybe there's a reason for that, and that something's been on our tail. Whatever it was… do you think it followed us here?"
"Almost certainly." Lucius's indifferent tone is numbing yet painful, as if, with every word, he drives an ice-cold needle through my skin. "And my, have we stumbled onto a big case. Something with enough power to abolish White Wolf, king of beasts…? It's Christmas."
"You've figured something out." Hugo crosses his arms, settling his weight on his heels. "Mind sharing, Sherlock?"
"Oh, it has nothing to do with this current situation, Holmes."
Hugo scowls at Lucius. "Stop flirting with me and spit it out. I belong to Bay, and knowledge belongs to the public."
"You inflate your opinion of yourself and my opinion of you." I find it eerie that Lucius does not seem to respond in any way to Hugo's jeers, the very things that trip up practically everyone else I've ever met. "I have merely understood why, although Black Wolf and White Wolf are mortal enemies and will kill on sight, Bryon and Audiat are lovers. We just saw an example, what with the Lion and the Lioness. Crisis unites nemeses."
"Is that the right plural?" Hugo wonders, scratching at his chin. "I don't know, English is weird. So is that – everything."
"Oh, Penryn, isn't it amusing, watching them squirm?" Lucius chuckles, steepling his fingers in front of his face. "What I mean is that at some point in their lifetimes, Black and White Wolf will come together to face a common foe. As best I can explain without releasing any crucial plot details that your character is oblivious about, Bryon and Audiat are embodiments of that likeness, that need to draw closer to achieve a common goal, but with a much more… romantic spin on the story."
"I see what you're saying." Hugo grins snarkily. "That they're united to fight this thing, or that, eventually, they will unite. That this creature has sufficient power to overthrow both of their reigns by the time it reaches adulthood – it is a juvenile, by the way," he adds for Raffe and I's sake. "The bite on Bezaliel and the scratches on Belle both point to them being inflicted by a creature not yet of age."
"Is she okay?" I ask, stepping towards Hugo. "Belle, I mean. Did the creature attack her?"
"Yeah." Hugo nods a few times. "Nipped her once, too, right on the foreleg. She's feverish, but she seems to be fighting it pretty good – falling into a deep sleep, maybe, but that's just what a little body needs to patch itself up."
"Are you sure?" Raffe questions, the arm wrapped protectively around me tightening, seeking comfort I willingly provide by looping my arm around his waist.
Lucius's skeptical face is silhouetted by moonlight, the silver stars lining his face with their ivory gleam, sending ribbons of platinum through his hair. After dropping his final statement, he extends his black wings and soars out the window, disappearing into the starry sky like a shadow, giving us no time to answer his observation.
"Keep your valuable close, Wrath; Ariel's going to conduct a witch-hunt for this killer. God forbid anything you care about get whipped up in her storm."
Oh, how I love this. I know that with the school year and the length of this fic, it's lost some of its grandeur, but I'll never stop writing it, especially as, one by one, the final pieces are starting to fall.
POLL: Due to an unfortunate short circuit in writer thoughts, I don't have much for this – just write down your predictions and we'll call it even.
Ciao,
~wolfluvermh