by Susan Ee
I school my face back to what I hope is neutral and force my shoulders to relax, or to at least look relaxed.
I’d kissed guys before. Sometimes it got awkward afterward, but never like this. I’ve always found kissing nice and pleasant, like smelling roses or laughter on a summer day. What I just experienced with Raffe was another animal. This was a knee-melting, gut-twisting, vein-tingling, nuclear meltdown compared to other kisses I’ve had.
I take a deep, deep breath. Hold it. Let it out slowly.
He doesn’t even like me.
I let the thought roll around in my head. Anything I feel as the thought rolls around gets shoved into the vault with the ten-foot thick door slamming as soon as it goes in, just in case something in there has any intention of crawling out.
Even if he did want me, so what? The end result would be the same. A dead end. Our partnership is on the verge of ending. As soon as I find Paige, I need to get out of here as fast as I can. And he needs to get his wings sewn back on, then deal with whatever enemies are causing him trouble. Then it’s back to him destroying my world with his buddies, and me scrambling for survival with my family. And that’s just the way it is. No room for high school fantasies.
I take another deep breath and let it out slowly, making sure all residual feelings are under control. All that matters is finding Paige. To do that, I need to work with Raffe just a little longer.
I walk to the double doors and push my way in to find him.
CHAPTER 29
As soon as I step inside, the world fills with the roar of jazz, laughter, and chatter along with a blast of heat, the scent of pungent cigar smoke, perfume, and scrumptious food all rolled into an incomprehensible wave of sensation.
I can’t shake the surreal feeling of being thrown back in time. Outside, people are starving and homeless in a world shattered by a world-wide attack. In here, though, the good times never ended. Sure, the men have wings, but other than that, it’s like being in a 1920’s club. Art Deco furniture, men in tuxes, women in long dresses.
Okay, the clothes don’t all look 1920’s. There is the occasional ’70’s or science fiction futuristic outfit, like a costume party where a few of the guests didn’t understand what a 1920’s outfit should look like. But the room and furniture are Art Deco, and most of the angels are in old fashioned long-tailed coats.
The room glitters with gold watches, shiny silks and sparkling jewels. The angels are dining and drinking, smoking and laughing. Through it all, an army of white-gloved human servers carry trays of champagne glasses and hors d’oeuvres under the winking chandeliers. The band members, the servants, and most of the women look human.
I feel an unreasonable blast of disgust for the humans in the room. All traitors like me. No, to be fair, what they’re doing is nowhere near as bad as what I did by not disclosing Raffe at Obi’s camp.
I want to dismiss them all as gold diggers, but I remember the woman with the husband and hungry kids hanging onto the fence as she walked toward the aerie. She is probably that family’s best hope of getting fed. I hope she made it in. I scan the crowd, hoping to see her face.
Instead, I see Raffe.
He leans casually against the wall in a shadowy corner, watching the crowd. A brunette in a black dress with skin so white she looks like a vampire leans into him suggestively. Everything about her oozes sex.
I’m inclined to go anywhere but to Raffe right now, but I have a mission and he’s a crucial part of it. I’m certainly not going to give up the chance to find Paige just because I feel socially awkward.
I steel myself and walk over to him.
The brunette puts her hand on his chest, whispering something intimately. He’s watching something across the room and doesn’t seem to hear her. He grips a glass of amber liquid that he tosses back in one swig. He places the empty glass in a row of other empty glasses on a nearby table.
He doesn’t look at me as I lean against the wall beside him, but I know he sees me, just like he sees the girl who is now giving me a death-glare. As if her message isn’t already clear, she drapes herself onto Raffe.
He grabs another drink from a passing waiter who holds a tray full of various drinks. Raffe tosses that one back as well and grabs another before the waiter leaves. He’s downed four drinks in the short time it took for me to get myself together and find him. Either he’s shaken by something or he’s falling off the wagon hard and fast. Great. Just my luck to be partnered with an alcoholic angel.
Raffe finally turns to the brunette who gives him a dazzling smile. Her eyes sparkle with an invitation that makes me embarrassed to watch.
“Go find someone else,” says Raffe. His voice is distracted, indifferent. Ouch. Even though she gave me that murderous glare, I still feel a pang of sympathy for her.
But then again, he only told her to go away. At least he didn’t tell her he doesn’t even like her.
She pulls back from him slowly, as if giving him a chance to say he was just kidding. When he goes back to people watching, she shoots me one last scathing look and leaves.
I scan the room to see what Raffe is watching. The club is cozy and not as big as I’d initially thought. It has the energy of a larger place because of the boisterous crowd, but it’s more of a lounge than a modern club. My eyes are immediately drawn to a group sitting in a booth as though it is a king’s dais and they are the chosen ones.
There are certain kinds of groups who can do that: popular kids on lunch benches, football heroes at a party, movie stars at a club. There are half a dozen angels lounging in or around the booth. They’re joking and laughing, each with a drink in one hand and a glamour girl in the other. The area is thick with women. They’re either rubbing their bodies on the men to get their attention, or strutting by slowly as though they’re on a catwalk, watching the men with hungry eyes.
These angels are bigger than the others in the club—taller, beefier, with an aura of casual danger that the others don’t have. The kind of danger tigers in the wild project. They remind me of the ones we saw coming out of the club, the ones Raffe wanted to avoid.
They all wear swords with casual elegance. I imagine Viking warriors might look like that, if Vikings were clean shaven and modernized. Their presence and attitude remind me of Raffe. He would fit in. It’s easy to visualize him sitting in the booth with that group, drinking and laughing with the gang. Well, the laughing part takes a little imagination, but I’m sure he’s capable of it.
“See that guy in the white suit?” He nods his head almost imperceptibly towards the group. He’s hard to miss. The guy is not only wearing a white suit, but his shoes, hair, skin, and wings are downy white. The only color on him is his eyes. From this distance, I can’t tell what color they are, but I’m willing to bet they would be shocking up close, just by contrast with the rest of him.
I’ve never seen an albino before. I’m pretty sure that even among albinos, his total lack of color is rare. Human skin just doesn’t come in that shade. Good thing he’s not human.
He stands leaning on the edge of the round booth. He’s the guy who doesn’t quite belong. His laugh starts with a half-second lag as if he’s waiting for the cue from the rest of the guys. All the women skirt around him, careful not to get too close. He is the only one without a girl draped over him. He watches them prowling by but doesn’t reach out to any of them. There’s something about the other women avoiding him that makes me want to avoid him too.
“I need you to go over there and get his attention,” whispers Raffe. Great. I should have known. “Get him to follow you to the men’s room.”
“Are you kidding? How am I supposed to do that?”
“You’re resourceful.” His eyes roam over my tight dress. “You’ll think of something.”
“What happens in the bathroom if I get him there?” I keep my voice as low as I can. I figure if I’m loud enough for the others to hear over the roar of the club, Raffe will surely let me know.
“We convince him
to help us.” He sounds grim. He doesn’t sound like he believes our chances of convincing him are great.
“What happens if he says no?”
“Game over. Mission abort.”
I probably look the way the brunette did when he told her to go away. I look at him long enough to give him a chance to say he’s joking. But there is no humor in his eyes. Why did I know that would be the case?
I nod. “I’ll get him to the bathroom. You do whatever it takes to get him to say yes.”
I push away from the wall and step out of the shadows, target in my sights.
CHAPTER 30
I’m not an actress and I suck at lying. I am also far from being a seductress. It’s hard to practice the art of seduction when you’re always pushing your kid sister around in her wheelchair. Not to mention that daily jeans and baggy sweatshirt do not a seductress make.
My mind spins, grasping for ways to get the albino’s attention. Nothing comes to mind.
I take the long way around the lounge, hoping to think of something.
Across the club, a small entourage of women and guards makes its way toward the warriors. They follow in the wake of an angel who has almost the beauty of the warriors with just enough normalcy to his looks to make him non-threatening. He’s good-looking without being intimidating. Toffee hair, warm eyes, with a nose that’s a touch big for his otherwise perfect face. This one is all smiles and friendliness, a born politician.
He wears a gray suit circa 1920s with polished shoes and a golden watch chain looping from his waist to his vest pocket. He pauses here and there to exchange a word or two of greeting. His voice is as warm as his eyes, as friendly as his smile. Everyone smiles back at him.
Everyone but the two women who flank him. They stand a step behind on either side of him. Dressed identically in silver dresses that pool on the floor at their feet, they are matching platinum trophies. They’re human, but their eyes are dead. The only time any life comes into them is when the Politician glances toward them.
Fear flares in their eyes before it is squelched, as if showing their fear would invite something truly frightening. I can almost see the trembling of their muscles as they tense to keep from cringing from the Politician.
These women aren’t just afraid of him. They are screaming-on-the-inside terrified.
I take another look at the smiling angel but see nothing but friendliness and sincerity. If I hadn’t noticed the women’s reactions to him, I would have thought he was best friend material. In a world where instincts matter more than ever, there’s something very wrong about not being able to directly detect the person that these women know him to be.
Because of the circular flow of the club, the Politician and I walk toward each other as we near the warriors’ booth.
He looks up and catches me watching him.
Interest lights up his face and he shoots me a smile. There’s so much open friendliness in that smile that my lips automatically curve up a split second before alarms go off in my head.
The Politician has noticed me.
An image of me dressed as one of his trophy girls flashes through my mind. My face waxy and empty, desperately trying to hide the terror.
What are these women so afraid of?
My step falters as if my feet refuse to get closer to him.
A waiter in a tux and white gloves steps in front of me, breaking the eye contact between me and the Politician. He offers flutes of bubbly champagne on his tray.
To stall, I take one. I focus on the rising bubbles in the golden liquid to center myself. The waiter turns and I catch a glimpse of the Politician.
He leans into the warriors’ table and talks in a low tone.
I let out a sigh of relief. Our moment has passed.
“Thank you,” I murmur to the waiter with great relief.
“You’re welcome, miss.”
Something familiar about his voice makes me glance up at the waiter to see his face for the first time. Until now, I’d been so distracted by the Politician that I hadn’t really looked at my savior.
My eyes widen in shock at the red haired, freckled-nosed face. It’s one of the twins, Dee or Dum.
The look he gives me is one of blank professionalism. Absolutely no sign of recognition or surprise.
Wow, he’s good. I never would have guessed it based on my interactions with him before. But they had mentioned that they were Obi’s spymasters, hadn’t they? I assumed they were joking or exaggerating, but maybe not.
He gives a little bow and drifts away. I keep expecting him to turn around and flash me a mischievous grin but he walks stiff-backed and offers drinks to people. Who would have thought?
I casually step behind a crowd to hide myself from the Politician. Did Dee-Dum know that he was rescuing me or was that a happy coincidence?
What’s he doing here? An image of Obi’s caravan winding its way up to the city comes back to me. The truck full of explosives. Obi’s plan to recruit resistance fighters by making a showy stand against the angels.
Great. Just great. If the twins are here, they must be scoping out the place for their counter attack.
How much time do I have to get Paige out of here before they blow the place to Kingdom Come?
CHAPTER 31
After a brief conversation, the Politician leaves the warriors’ booth. To my relief, he cuts across the club instead of coming toward me. He seems to have forgotten all about me as he makes his way through the club, stopping here and there to say hello.
Everyone watches him go. No one in the crowd near me speaks for a few moments. Then, the conversation begins tentatively, as if unsure whether it’s okay to talk. The warriors at the table drink grimly and silently. Whatever was said by the Politician, they didn’t like it.
I wait until the conversation rises to full volume again before I go back to approaching the albino. Now that I know the resistance is here, I feel an extra surge of urgency to get things rolling.
Still, I hesitate on the outskirts of the river of women. There’s a female-free zone around the albino. Once I step into it, it will be hard not to be noticed.
The angels seem more interested in socializing with one another than with the women. Despite their best efforts, the women are being treated like fashion accessories to the angels’ costumes.
When the albino turns my way, I catch a glimpse of what keeps the women at bay. It’s not his utter lack of pigment, although I’m sure that would put off some people. These women, after all, aren’t put off by men with feathers growing out of their backs, and who knows where else. What’s a little lack of pigment to them? But his eyes. One glimpse of those peepers and I understand why the humans stay away.
They are blood red. I’ve never seen anything like it. His pupils aren’t like any pupil I’ve ever seen either. They are so large they take up most of his eyes. A solid ball of crimson surrounded by a pink ring of irises shot through with white like miniature lightning bolts sizzling over blood. Long ivory lashes frame the eyes, as if they aren’t noticeable enough already.
I can’t help but stare. I look away, embarrassed, and notice other humans snatching nervous glimpses of him as well. The other angels, despite all their terrible aggression, look like they were made in Heaven. This one, on the other hand, looks like he walked right out of my mother’s nightmares.
I’ve had more than my fair share of being around people whose physical appearance is unnerving. Paige was a very popular kid in the disabled community. Her friend Judith was born with stumpy arms and tiny, malformed hands; Alex wobbled when he walked and had to contort his face painfully to form coherent words which often let out an embarrassing amount of drool; Will was a quadriplegic who needed a pump to keep him breathing.
People stared and skirted around these kids the way humans behave around this albino. Whenever a particularly bad incident happened to any member of her flock, Paige gathered them together for a theme party. A pirate party, a zombie party, a come-as-you-are party wher
e one kid showed up in pajamas with a toothbrush in his mouth.
They’d joke and giggle and know in their bones that they were strong together. Paige was their cheerleader, counselor, and best friend all rolled into one.
It’s clear that the albino needs someone like Paige in his life. He shows the familiar subtle signs of someone who is supremely conscious of being stared at and judged by his appearance. His arms and shoulders stay close to his body, his head is angled slightly down, his eyes rarely look up. He stands to the side of the group in a spot where the light is dimmer, where it’s more likely the curious stares might mistake his eyes for dark brown rather than blood red.
I’m guessing that if there’s one thing that might pique an angel’s prejudice, it’s someone who looks like he should be surrounded by hellfire.
Despite his posture and subtle vulnerability, he is unmistakably a warrior. Everything about him is imposing, from his broad shoulders to his exceptional height to his bulging muscles and enormous wings. Just like the angels in the booth. Just like Raffe.
Every member of this group looks like he was made for fighting and conquering. They enhance this impression with every confident motion, every commanding sentence, every inch of space they take. I never would have noticed the albino being just a tad uncomfortable if I wasn’t already in tune with that kind of discomfort.
As soon as I step into the human-free zone around the albino, he looks my way. I look at him straight in the eyes like I would anyone else. Once I get past the shock of looking into a pair of alien eyes, I see assessment and subdued curiosity. I weave a little as I smile brightly up at him.
“What lovely lashes you have,” I say, slurring my words a little. I try not to overdo it.
He blinks his surprise with those ivory lashes. I walk over, tripping just enough to slop some of my drink on his pristine white suit.
“Ohmygod! I am so, so sorry! I can’t believe I just did that!” I grab a napkin off the table and smear the stain around a little. “Here, let me help you clean.”