Angelfall

I decide to do a thorough sponge bath with a washcloth. At least that way, I can keep various parts of me from freezing all at once.

As predicted, the water is ice-cold, and it brings back pieces of my dream from last night, which inevitably brings back how I got warm enough to be cradled to sleep. It was probably just some kind of angel host behavior triggered by my shivering, the way penguins huddle together when it’s cold. What else could it be?

But I don't want to think about that—I don't know how to think about that—so I shove it down into that dark, overstuffed place in my mind that's threatening to burst any moment now.

When I come out of the bathroom, Raffe looks freshly showered and dressed in his black pants with boots. His bandages are gone. His wet hair swings in front of his eyes as he kneels on the hardwood floor in front of the open blanket. On it, his wings are laid out.

He combs through the feathers, fluffing out the ones that are crushed and plucking out the broken ones. In a way, I suppose he's preening. His touch is gentle and reverent, although his expression is hard and unreadable as stone. The jagged ends of the wing that I chopped look ugly and abused.

I have the absurd impulse to apologize. What, exactly, am I sorry for? That his people have attacked our world and destroyed it? That they are so brutal as to cut off the wings of one of their own and leave him to be torn apart by the native savages? If we are such savages, it is only because they have made us so. So I am not sorry, I remind myself. Crushing one of the enemy’s wings in a moth-eaten blanket is nothing to be sorry about.

But somehow, I still hang my head and walk softly as though I am sorry, even if I won't say it.

I walk around him so he won't see my apologetic stance, and his naked back comes into full view. It has stopped bleeding. The rest of him looks perfectly healthy now—no bruises, no swelling or cuts, except where his wings used to be.

The wounds are a couple of streaks of raw hamburger ru

“Should I, like, try to sew your wounds shut?” I ask, hoping the answer will be no. I'm a pretty tough girl, but sewing chunks of flesh together pushes the limits of my comfort zone, to say the least.

“No,” he says without looking up from his work. “It'll eventually heal on its own.”

“Why hasn’t it healed already? I mean, the rest of you healed in no time.”

“Angel sword wounds take a long time to heal. If you’re ever going to kill an angel, slice him up with an angel sword.”

“You’re lying. Why would you tell me that?”

“Maybe I’m not afraid of you.”

“Maybe you should be.”

“My sword would never hurt me. And my sword is the only one you can wield.” He gently plucks out another broken feather and lays it on the blanket.

“How’s that?”

“You need permission to use an angel sword. It’ll weigh a ton if you try to lift it without permission.”

“But you never gave me permission.”

“You don’t get permission from the angel. You get it from the sword. And some swords get grouchy just for asking.”

“Yeah, right.”

He runs his hand over the feathers, feeling for broken ones. Why doesn’t he look like he’s kidding?

“I never asked permission and I managed to lift the sword no problem.”

“That’s because you wanted to throw it to me so I could defend myself. Apparently, she took that as permission asked and given.”

“What, it read my mind?”

“Your intentions, at least. She does that sometimes.”

“O-kay. Right.” I let it go. I’ve heard plenty of wacky things in my time and you just have to learn to roll with them without directly challenging the person spewing the weirdness. Challenging weirdness is a pointless and sometimes dangerous exercise. At least, it is with my mom. I must say, though, that Raffe is even more inventive than my mother.

“So...you want me to bandage your back?”

“Why?”

“To try to keep infection out,” I say, rummaging through my pack for the first aid kit.

“Infection shouldn't be a problem.”

“You can't be infected?”

“I should be resistant to your germs.”

The words “should” and “your” catches my attention. We know next to nothing about the angels. Any information might give us an advantage. Once we organize again, that is.

It occurs to me that I might be in the unprecedented position of being able to glean some intelligence on them. Despite what the gang leaders would have the rest of us believe, angel parts are always taken from dead or dying angels, I’m sure of it. What I would do with angel intel, I don’t know. But it can’t hurt to gain a little knowledge.

Tell that to Adam and Eve.

I ignore the cautionary voice in my head. “So…are you immunized or something?” I try to make my voice casual as though the answer means nothing to me.

“It's probably a good idea to bandage me up anyway,” he says, sending me a clear signal that he knows that I'm fishing for information. “I can probably pass for human so long as my wounds are covered.” He pulls out a broken feather, putting it reluctantly into a growing pile.

I use up the last of the first aid supplies to patch up his wounds. His skin is like silk-covered steel. I'm a little rougher than I need to be because it helps keep my hands steady.

“Try not to move around too much so you don't bleed again. The bandages aren't that thick and blood will soak through pretty quickly.”

“No problem,” he says. “Shouldn't be too hard not to move around as we run for our lives.”

“I’m serious. That's the last of our bandages. You'll have to make them last.”

“Any chance we can find more?”

“Maybe.” Our best chance is from first aid kits in houses, since the stores are either cleaned out or claimed by gangs.

We fill up my water bottle. I didn’t have much time to pack supplies from the office. The supplies I carried with me are a random assortment. I sigh, wishing I’d had time to pack more food. Other than the single dried noodle cup, we’re out except for the handful of fun-sized chocolates I’m saving for Paige. We share the noodles, which is about two bites per person. By the time we leave the cottage, it is mid-morning. The first place we hit is the main house.

I have high hopes of a stocked kitchen, but one glance at the gaping cupboards in the sea of granite and stainless steel tells me we'll have to scrounge for leftovers. Rich people may have lived here, but even the rich didn’t have enough currency to buy food once things got bad. Either they ate all the food they could before packing up and hitting the road, or they took it with them. Drawer after drawer, cupboard after cupboard, there is nothing but crumbs.

“Is this edible?” Raffe stands at the kitchen entrance, framed by the Mediterranean archway. He could easily be at home in a place like this. He stands with the fluid grace of an aristocrat who's used to rich surroundings. Although the quarter-bag of cat food he’s holding up does mess with the image a little.

I dip my hand into the bag and bring out a few pieces of red and yellow kibbles. I pop them in my mouth. Crunchy, with a vaguely fishy taste. I pretend they're crackers as I chew and swallow. “Not exactly gourmet, but it probably won't kill us.”

That's the best we can do in the food department, but we do find supplies in the garage. A backpack that doubles as a duffle bag, which is great since he can't carry a backpack right now but might be able to later. A couple of boys' sleeping bags all rolled and ready to go. No tent, but there are flashlights with extra batteries. A slick camp knife that's more expensive than any I've ever managed to buy. I give mine to Raffe and keep this one for myself.