by Kristie Cook
I’m not sure if I gasped from the pain in my chest or from the shock of seeing Brownie and Buns with butterfly wings. Buns looks just like a faerie; she has delicate-looking, golden butterfly wings that shimmer in the florescent lighting. Brownie’s wings are more bronze with bold, russet accents. Their wings float effortlessly as their eyes hone in on Gaspard in front of them.
Momentarily distracted from his task, Freddie loses some focus, allowing me to breathe again. Swallowing deep, heavy gulps of air, I crane my neck to better see what is happening. The girls are fanning out, both eyeing Gaspard, looking for a weakness in his defenses. I notice their subtle signal to each other just before they attack Gaspard in synchronization.
Seeing that the girls have distracted Freddie, Russell wastes no time. He sits up quickly; pulling his arm back, he punches Freddie in the face using all of his strength. Freddie hardly moves at all when Russell hits him, proving to us both just how much of an angel Freddie really is. Scowling blackly at Russell for just an instant, Freddie takes his bony knife and plunges it into Russell’s chest; it makes a sickening, sucking sound as he twists it a couple of times before pulling it back out. Russell’s blood instantly gushes from the wound, wetting his shirt in a ring of scarlet.
“Ouch,” Freddie chuckles, watching Russell with amusement.
Russell puts one hand to his chest briefly, looking down at the gaping hole that Freddie’s knife had made, and then he slumps back on one elbow. He can’t hold himself up for long. Collapsing to the floor, he lies staring at the ceiling, panting in pain and shock. Horror and rage spur me, and I sit up instantly, grabbing the knife from Freddie’s hand. Turning the handle of the wicked-sharp blade, I plunge it into Freddie’s side, knocking him back off of me in one fluid movement.
“Ouch!” he shouts for real this time as the slice I made in his side bleeds in earnest. “You stabbed me, Evie!” he snaps incredulously, glowering at his side, and then at me. I don’t reply. Getting to my knees, I swing the knife again, trying to cut him, trying to make sure he stays back. Instantly, he scuttles away from me out of my reach. I will have to try to get up if I want to stab him again, and I am not sure I can do it.
The noises behind us are growing wilder. Buns and Brownie are taking turns carving little pieces out of Gaspard and then dancing away before he can return the favor. I can’t give their fight much of my attention, focusing instead on Freddie in front of me.
“You can’t win, Evie, no matter what you do. One of us is going to kill you sooner or later. You may as well give me your soul now, since I can purify it. Otherwise, you die with that soul, and you’re going straight to Sheol because it’s pure evil,” he smiles at me. “Give me the knife, and I’ll spare you that. I’ll spare you the fires of Hell,” he says soothingly, holding out his hand for the knife.
My determination falters while my eyes well up with tears. I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “My soul is evil … I’m from Hell?” I ask him, staring into his eyes. Freddie smiles at me, nodding. Slowly, I draw the knife up and begin to hand it to him. At the last second, I turn the blade on him, scoring it over the palm and drawing his blood from a deep wound. I shiver, watching the blood drip down his arm while he cradles his hand to his chest. “You’re a liar, Alfred. I’m not going to trust you.”
“That was a mistake, Evie. I’m going to bring you so much pain you’ll beg me to take your soul,” he promises evenly as bitterness seeps into his tone.
“Don’t, Freddie …” I beg with my voice shaking. “You can just leave … please … leave us alone …” Holding the knife tight in my hand, I swipe it at him in desperation, but he is no longer listening to me. He is watching the fight behind me between Gaspard and the girls. The frown on his face tells me what I want to know: Gaspard is losing.
Glancing over at Russell, Freddie smirks, “You lose, Evie. Your soul mate is dying. Sucks to be human. I’ll be back when it’s your turn,” he snarls quickly. Then, in the time it takes me to exhale, he circumvents the girls and Gaspard and is gone from the store.
Hearing Russell gasping, I turn back to see his still body lying on the floor. Crawling on my hands and knees to his side, I clutch the knife in a death grip. Russell’s face is pale as I put my hand on his cheek. He looks at me then; his brown eyes are dilated so that most of the brown is obscured by the blackness of his pupils.
“Russell!” I say in misery, dropping the knife and searching for his hand. Finding it, I squeeze it firmly. He coughs, and blood runs from his mouth. Alfred is right, Russell’s dying.
“Please don’t die, Russell,” I beg, “please …”
Hot tears slide from my eyes down my cheeks as I panic, looking around for something that I can do to help him. I put my hand on his wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood as it pumps out of him. God, please help me! I beg in my mind.
All of the fluorescent lights in the building flicker as my hand on Russell’s wound begins to heat up and glow; it is as if my hand is being lit from inside of me. Crying out in agony, I try to pull my hand away from Russell because the intense heat is turning to fire. We are both burning from the searing inferno of energy pulsing out of me. Screaming in pain, I can’t lift my hand from him. We are welded together like scalding hot metal.
Other pain registers in my mind, too. A throbbing ache, building in my thigh, finally breaks over me in a crescendo of pain. Putting my other hand to my thigh, I attempt to ease the white-hot ache. A sob twists from me before my chest breaks open, and I sag to the floor. Feeling something warm and wet pooling on my stomach, I look down listlessly; a growing blotch of red spreads over my blouse as my blood seeps out from my chest. The heat in my hand lessens, but I hardly realize it because of the stabbing pain near my heart. Tasting blood in my mouth, blackness obscures my vision. Waves of energy are flowing out of me to slip away into the air, like the scent of a flower drifting in the breeze. I can rest now … so tired, I think as I begin to float away. …
***
“You promised me,” a whispering voice says in my mind, its tone caressing me. Light dances in my eyes as I try very hard to see the lovely one speaking to me in such a graceful voice. Images fracture and obscure as colors meander and bleed together in a distorted kaleidoscope of pain. The darkness is so cool … soothing; it floats and sways around me, wrapping me in a blanket of nothingness, away from the pain that torments me.
“Fight …” the voice whispers to me, but it no longer sounds lovely—it sounds taut and filled with an urgency that I don’t understand. I have to find him—tell him not to be sad. As I struggle, the darkness recedes; searing, ragged pain replaces it, making me want to go back into the darkness.
I can’t find him, I think, disoriented. Trying to move my ear closer to his voice, my head lolls as I search for him. Reed’s voice sounds broken—hushed—speaking to me in Angel—compelling me to find him.
Another voice interrupts the steady stream of musical words that have me clinging to the clouds they create in my mind. It is a deep, commanding voice that I think I recognize, but I just can’t think …
“Reed,” the commanding voice says, “you have to let us help. We have to stop the bleeding …”
Another, much softer voice adds, “Sweetie, give Evie to Zee. He’s going to bind her wounds so that you can move her. We’ll give her right back to you,” it says plaintively. My heart races painfully. “Sweetie, here … you can put her down here, and then you can hold her hand.”
A low, growling snarl rumbles from Reed. “Don’t touch her …”
“Sweetie, please …” comes the soft voice. A moment passes, and then every cell in my body begins objecting to the fact that I am being moved.
The commanding voice says, “You can hold her hand while I wrap her chest.” I think I cry out as sheer pain collapses in on me like an avalanche of snow, covering me beneath its depths, and I surrender to it.
CHAPTER 20 - REVELATIONS
My head hurts … no, scratch that … my entire body
hurts. Even my eyelashes are aching, I think, struggling to open my eyes. The light in the room is dim, but it feels blinding, bringing tears to my eyes. The white curtains, hanging in my room in Reed’s house, are closed, so I shouldn’t have this problem.
I gaze around in confusion because this doesn’t resemble the room I’ve been staying in for the last few weeks. It has hospital equipment in it. There are carts in here with machinery that I can’t even begin to name. Noticing an IV stand next to my bed, my eyes follow the plastic tubing down to my wrist where it is sticking out of my hand uncomfortably. I want to pull it out, but I am distracted from the discomfort by the angry, whispering voices just outside my door.
“You need to let the humans go home now—her fever has broken—you cannot persuade them to stay any longer,” Zephyr whispers tensely.
Reed’s voice, barely more than a growl, whispers, “I will tell the nurses to go, but I am keeping the doctor.”
“He is not necessary …” Zephyr begins to argue again, but Reed cuts him off.
“I will persuade the doctor into thinking that he has been at a medical conference when this is all over …” Reed argues in a low tone.
I am not sure what they are talking about, but it doesn’t sound good, and Reed doesn’t sound right either. He sounds irritable and unreasonable, which is not what is abnormal. What I find abnormal is that he sounds desperately so.
Zephyr starts to argue further, whispering harshly, “It is an unnecessary risk for them to remain.”
Feeling anxious about their argument, I say feebly, “Zee, leave Reed alone. He doesn’t sound right.” But, it is my voice that doesn’t sound right; it sounds weak and raspy. Am I sick? I wonder, not understanding what is going on.
There is a quiet pause from the hall, and then the door of my room crashes open. Instantly, Reed is in front of me. Smiling at him cautiously, I am overwhelmed by how he can look so good when he looks so bad. Although he is still breathtakingly handsome, he is uncharacteristically disheveled; his clothes are wrinkled, and his hair is tussled. He also looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He is pale and drawn.
“Hi,” I say in a croak that doesn’t sound like me. He doesn’t say anything, so I ask, “Are you okay?” Staring at me, Reed does not respond to my question either as his eyes search my face. “Here sit down next to me,” I manage to say with my gravelly voice, patting the empty space beside me on the large bed. He crawls up on the bed next to me, snuggling in close to my side. Resting his head on my pillow, his hair falls down over his eyebrow, so I lift my hand to his brow to brush it back from his face. My arm feels heavy, and I am having trouble keeping it from falling listlessly back onto the bed. “What’s wrong with me?” I ask Reed warily.
Tight, grim lines form at the corners of Reed’s mouth. “You have been ill …” Reed replies in a hush tone, his voice trailing off.
My eyebrows rise. “I have? Huh. Have you been sick, too?” I ask him sympathetically, because he looks really tired. He nods at my question, and when I put my hand on his cheek, he turns his lips to kiss my palm. “Stay here with me. You should rest …” I whisper. Reed inhales deeply, closing his eyes tight. I am startled by his reaction to my words. He looks very sad. “Reed, what’s wrong?” I ask him, dreading his response.
“Nothing is wrong, Evie. You are alive,” he replies in a hoarse tone.
“Oh …” I say, not really getting what he is saying. I must’ve been very sick. I can hardly move, and my chest feels like someone drilled a hole in it … I inhale a sharp breath.
As I bring my hand to my chest, my fingers skim over the over-sized white button-down shirt I have on. A flood of reality hits me all at once. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m panicking I have to … what? I have to stop him … I have to stop Freddie. He’s going to kill Russell!
“Reed!” I whisper urgently, in a voice that is so thin and breathless that I am not even sure he can understand me. “Freddie is bad—he wants to hurt me—he wants to hurt Russell—he killed Russell! Oh my God, Reed!” I rasp in horror, “He killed Russell—and I couldn’t—and I tried, but he just wouldn’t stop …”
Reed reaches over, pulling me into his arms. He strokes my hair as he says in a gentle, soothing tone, “Russell isn’t dead, Evie. You saved him.”
Weeping against his chest, I shake my head. “No” I sob, “Freddie stabbed him here, in the chest,” I say in denial, touching my own chest and wincing as if I have a wound there.
Reed’s arms tighten around me. “I know. You healed Russell. You took his wounds from him—you took them into your own body,” he says the last part angrily, like he doesn’t approve at all.
My breath hitches in my chest. “I healed … Russell? That’s … how could I have done that?” I whisper skeptically, still mourning Russell.
Reed’s lips brush the top of my head. “Evie, how do you even exist? It all makes no sense, but here you are, and Russell is downstairs, and I thought that I had lost you …” he stops talking then. He just strokes my hair gently as if I am as fragile as glass. After a few moments, he says, “You were the conduit to heal him at the very least. It was your hand that touched him, your body that absorbed his wounds.”
I sniffle. “So … Russell’s alive?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies.
“And you think that I healed Russell?” I ask, wiping away a tear.
“Yes,” Reed says.
“And there is a downside in that I had to transfer his wounds to myself?” I ask Reed for clarity.
He nods briskly. “I will say there is a downside, Evie,” Reed says. Leaning over, he gently unbuttons my shirt and shows me the brutal looking scar on my chest. It is right in the same spot that Freddie had stabbed Russell with his knife. The necklace that Reed had given me rests just above it. Reed then pulls back my blanket, showing me the small, red scar from a wound in my thigh. It appears to be in the same leg and the same place where Russell had been stabbed.
As I touch the scar on my leg, I wince at its tenderness. “Russell is really downstairs?” I ask him softy.
“Yes. Do you want me to go and get him for you?” he asks with a deflated sigh.
I shake my head. “No, not yet. I don’t want anyone but you right now,” I whisper honestly. “Is he okay?” I ask as Reed tucks the blankets back around me.
Reed’s reply is stiff, “He is better than okay. You healed every wound he ever had. You even straightened out his nose for him. He looks different. I might have to break it for him again,” he grumbles, holding me tightly in his arms. “Brownie and Buns are downstairs, too,” he adds in a softer tone. “They wouldn’t leave you. They are worried about you, so I let them stay here.”
My eyes widen as I inhale deeply. “They’re angels! I didn’t know they were angels! Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I ask, astounded by their deception. “And their wings! You should see their wings! They look like butterflies!” I exclaim.
A small smile touches Reed’s lips. “They are Reapers,” Reed says, but when he sees fear enter my eyes, he quickly adds, “They are not Fallen. They both collect souls for Paradise. Reapers have different wings from ours. Some are like butterflies, and there are others that look like ladybugs and beetles,” Reed starts explaining to reassure me.
An ache in my chest makes my voice sound hollow as I murmur, “And … some look like dragonflies.”
Reed frowns. “Yes … until I find Alfred, and then he won’t have any wings to speak of,” Reed says calmly.
A shiver shakes me as I think, Freddie … he isn’t Freddie anymore—my Freddie is dead. All that’s left is Alfred.
Feeling my heart beating heavily in my chest, I ask, “How did Brownie and Buns know that we were there?” If it hadn’t been for the girls, I would’ve been without a soul, and Gaspard would’ve had a new toy to break.
Reed’s eyes darken as he frowns. “They weren’t aware that you were there at first. They became curious when they felt the souls that had been released by the
massacre. Alfred made a mistake when he allowed Gaspard to kill all of those humans. He should have made his lieutenant wait until after he had taken your soul to kill the humans,” Reed explains.
“But he didn’t …” I say, feeling sicker as I remember the dead lying strewn on the floor.
“No, he didn’t,” Reed agrees as his mouth forms a grim line. “Buns and Brownie were there to do their jobs and collect the souls, but then they found you there with Alfred and Gaspard. Apparently, the girls seem to believe that you are their girl, and they did not take it well that Alfred and Gaspard were killing you. Reapers are usually non-violent.”
I remember everything now with a clarity that makes me tremble in fear and loathing. I try to tell Reed everything I can remember, and some of what I have to tell him is so difficult for me that my throat burns in pain as if someone is choking me. I have to stop several times so that I can sip some water before I go on.
The hardest part is telling Reed that the fallen Seraphim know about me and had sent Alfred to watch me. I’m not exactly sure why I feel so much shame in telling him that, but I suspect it is because I am afraid of what it means. If they know that I exist and had sent someone to watch me—watch me, not kill me, does it also mean that they had a hand in my very existence? I don’t know, and neither does Reed, but the thought makes me nauseous.
Reed, seeing worry and pain in my eyes, squeezes me tighter as if he will protect me from my own fears. “I’m very sorry. I should’ve never let you go out,” he says self-effacingly. “I should have known about Alfred. The Reaper is right; I am blind when I’m with you. I can see nothing but you, and that makes me ineffective,” Reed says, bringing his hand to his forehead and rubbing it.
“Reed, the only reason I’ve made it this far is because of you,” I say incredulously. “If it weren’t for you, Sebastian probably would’ve made a pillow of my bones by now, or whatever it is that those vile things do.” I shudder, having seen firsthand what the Fallen are capable of doing.