by Lucy Swing
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I looked around, and all I could see was the bright white fog, as if I were standing on a cloud. It was warm and very bright. I tried to manifest sunglasses, but none came. I started walking, with nothing around me but the fog and the clear blue sky. Suddenly, I tripped over something and lost my balance. Just that fast, my wings unfurled before I went sprawling, and with two powerful beats, I was standing on my feet again, never having hit the ground. I searched below me for whatever had made me trip. I couldn’t find anything at first, just fog, and there was no ground beneath it, just more fog. When I was about to give up the search, a shiny object a few paces to the left caught my eye.
Drawing closer, I could see that it was a sword. I looked along the sharp edge and followed the engraving that ran down the blade, all the way down to the rain guard, which bore a jet black stone held in place by silver snakes. Then, looking more closely at the hilt, I gasped and took a quick step back—for there was a hand still wrapped around it. Nothing moved, and no one came after me. I stepped tentatively forward again, and the fog dissipated enough that I could see the boy. He had dark brown hair and full lips, and his eyes were closed. He wore black trousers, and his muscular chest was bare. Then, behind him, I saw the wings. They were black as coal. I looked down at the fallen angel, wondering why he should be lying here, when I saw the wound low on his abdomen. A thin line of congealing blood ran down to a dark crimson puddle beneath him.
I looked around once again for anyone—or anything—still standing. Why was this boy here? Why was he dead? I kept walking in the direction I thought I had come from, only to come upon another fallen angel. His wounds were more severe than the boy’s. His throat was sliced open, and he had been stabbed and slashed in several places. He looked as though he had fought hard until the end. Then I came across another body, and another.
I had counted fifteen dead fallen angels when I heard the weeping. I couldn’t see from the source, but as I kept walking forward it grew louder, until all of a sudden, as if summoned from the fog, two large golden wings appeared—an angel, kneeling over something a few feet away from me. I approached quietly and was astonished to find Claire, sobbing over the body of a pure angel. He must have died in the same battle that claimed the others. I got closer and put my hand on her shoulder, but she didn’t acknowledge me. Could she even see me?
“Claire, are you okay?” I asked in a shaky voice. She didn’t move or look up at me; she just held her hands on the lifeless boy lying on the ground. He had flaxen-blond hair and facial features much like hers, and, like the others I had found, he seemed tall and very muscular. Then, seeing his back, I felt a sudden wave of nausea. His wings had been chopped off. But how could that be? Had the fallen angels done this to him? But . . . why? Questions whirled through my mind. How had a pure angel been defeated, and why would the fallen ones take his wings? As some kind of ghastly trophy?
Another pure angel materialized at Claire’s side. He gently put his hand on her shoulder, and she looked up at him, sobbing. She asked the older angel, “How could this happen? He was stronger than any of them! And look what they have done to his wings!” She was distraught, and I felt for her. I didn’t know who this boy was, but he seemed to be dear to her heart.
The older angel seemed to be taking the death with stoic acceptance. Watching her throw her arms around him, I couldn’t help but shed a tear myself. She pressed her lips against the lifeless boy, and I could see the pain she felt at parting. She stood up, and as her wings flared, a look of vengeance filled her eyes. She gazed down at him and said, “I will not rest until I kill every one of them. Your death will not go unavenged, Shemer, my love.” She closed her eyes, and she and the older angel disappeared, leaving me weeping next to Claire’s fallen mate. This must have been what Nate had tried to tell me when he said she was over a hundred years older than he. I saw that Shemer, too, had a long, gleaming sword, but its engraving was different, as was the stone embedded in the crossguard. It was an oval-cut diamond, far and away the biggest I had ever seen. I slid the weapon out of his hand and studied it, wondering what the engraving meant. Hearing a noise behind me, I sprang up and whirled about, brandishing the heavy sword. But no one was there. Then, abruptly, everything whirled into blackness.