Angelfall (Penryn & the End of Days #1)(45)

A warm hand touches my shoulder, and a water bottle is thrust in front of me. I take a swig, swish it around, then spit it out. The water lands on the eggs, tilting them with the force of my ejection. One egg oozes dark yolk down its side like old blood. The other wobbles unevenly down the hill until it rests safely against a tree root, its pink tint darkened by wetness, like the flush of guilt.

A warm arm circles my shoulder and helps me stand up. “Come on,” says Raffe. “Let’s go.”

We walk away from the damaged eggs and the hanging girls.

I lean into his strength until I realize what I’m doing. I pull back abruptly. I don’t have the luxury of leaning on anyone’s strength, least of all an angel’s.

My shoulder feels cold and vulnerable once his warmth is gone.

I bite the inside of my cheek to give myself something more demanding to feel.





CHAPTER 25



“What do you think they were doing?” I ask.

Raffe shrugs.

“Do you think they were feeding the low demons?”

“Maybe.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I’ve given up trying to make sense of humans.”

“We're not all like that, you know,” I say. I don't know why I feel I have to justify what we're like to an angel.

He just gives me a knowing look and keeps walking.

“If you ever saw us before the attack, you'd know,” I say stubbornly.

“I know,” he says, not even looking at me.

“How do you know?”

“I watched TV.”

I snort a laugh. Then I realize he's not joking. “For real?”

“Doesn't everybody?”

I guess everybody did. It was on the air for free. All they had to do was catch the signal and they’d know all about us. TV wasn’t exactly a manifesto of reality either, but it did reflect our greatest hopes and worst fears. I wonder how angels think of us, if they think of us at all.

I wonder what Raffe does in his spare time, other than watch TV. It’s hard to imagine him sitting down on his couch after a rough day at war, watching TV shows about humans to wind down. What’s his domestic life like?

“Are you married?” I instantly regret asking this question as it conjures up an image of him with a painfully beautiful angel wife with little cherubs running around some estate with Grecian pillars.

He pauses in his trek and glares at me as if I just said something totally inappropriate.

“Don't let my appearance fool you, Penryn. I am not human. The Daughters of Men are forbidden to Angels.”

“What about Daughters of Women?” I attempt a cheeky smile but it falls flat.

“This is serious business. Don’t you know your religious history?”

Most of what I know about religion is through my mother. I think about all the times she raved in tongues in the middle of the night in my room. She came in so often while I slept that I’d gotten into the habit of sleeping with my back to the wall so I could see her coming in without her knowing I was awake.

She’d sit on the floor beside my bed, rock back and forth in a trancelike state, gripping her Bible and speaking in tongues for hours. The nonsensical, guttural noises had the cadence of an angry chant. Or a curse.

Really creepy stuff while you’re lying in the dark, mostly asleep. That’s about the extent of my religious education.

“Uh, no,” I say. “Can’t say I know much about religious history.”

He begins walking again. “A group of angels called the Watchers were stationed on Earth to observe the humans. Over time, they got lonely and took human wives, knowing they shouldn’t. Their children were called Nephilim. And they were abominations. They fed on humans, drank their blood and terrorized the Earth. For that, the Watchers were condemned to the Pit until Judgment Day.”

He takes several steps in silence as if wondering whether to tell me more. I wait, hoping to hear as much as I can about the world of angels, even if it’s ancient history.

The silence is heavy. There’s more to this story than he’s telling me.

“So,” I prod. “The long and short of it is that angels aren’t allowed to get together with humans? Otherwise, they’re damned?”

“Very.”

“That’s harsh.” I’m surprised I can feel any sympathy for angels, even ones in ancient stories.

“You think that’s bad, you should have seen the punishment for their wives.”

It’s almost as if he’s inviting me to ask. Here’s my chance to find out more. But I find that I don’t really want to know the punishment for falling in love with an angel. Instead, I watch the dried needles crunch under my feet as we walk.

~

Skyline Blvd. abruptly ends at Highway 92, and we follow Highway 280 north into the once highly-populated area just south of San Francisco. 280 is a main artery into San Francisco, so it shouldn’t be a surprise to hear an actual working truck on the road below us. But it is.

It's been almost a month since I heard a moving car. There are plenty of cars that work, plenty of gas, but I hadn't realized there were any clear roads left anymore. We crouch down in the shrubs and scan the road. The wind cuts through my sweatshirt and teases hair strands loose from my ponytail.