World After (29 page)

Does he recognize me yet?

Uriel’s group begins leaping off the stage and taking to the air like a multi-winged organism. Beliel is the last to leave. He opens his stolen wings to their full glory and starts to beat the air.

Raffe leaps and tackles him.

They slam onto the stage with a bang, but no one notices one more pair of warriors fighting.

We are now the only ones left on stage. Below us is the shrieking slaughter. Above us is the seemingly never-ending mass of scorpions thundering through their flyby. In between, it’s a drunken angel free-for-all with some even having mid-air collisions.

A bloodied angel thunks onto the stage from above.

So much blood streaks from him that it splashes onto my dress. His shoulder is badly ripped like he got scraped against the pointy tip of a lamppost. But he doesn’t seem to notice as he jumps up, instantly ready for more.

I become acutely aware that I’m the only human around.

W
HAT
I
wouldn’t give for Raffe’s sword right now.

The bloody angel takes a step toward me.

I snatch a high-class steak knife from the table and kick off my heels.

Or I try to.

One of my heels refuses to come off without a helping hand. Either my foot has swelled or the shoe was too small for me.

I don’t know a single fighting art that doesn’t require good footwork, and I’m pretty sure that having one bare foot and one in high heels is not a recommended technique.

My dress is also a problem. It’s full length and shapely. It looks great but doesn’t exactly give me enough room to kick. My legs are the strongest part of my body and I’m not about to hobble myself in a fight for the sake of modesty. I slit my knife through a seam, ripping the skirt all the way to my thigh.

I angle the knife so it’ll slip between his ribs when I stab.

The throat is a better target but I’m too short to go for that with this beast. At least not on the first thrust. The second move, after he’s taken a hit, is another story.

He almost smiles at my knife as if that just adds more fun. He raises an eyebrow when he sees that I’m holding it like I know
how to use it. But his sword stays untouched in its scabbard as if this massacre and brawl don’t merit the use of his sword.

His eyes are focused on my knife and face. Easy to do since my hands are up near my face in a fighter stance.

But my heel is still on my back foot, several inches higher than my front foot. No way can I have decent footwork limping around like this. So I do the only thing I can do.

I kick him in the face point blank with my high heel.

He wasn’t expecting that.

The angel flies back off the stage.

“It really is you,” says Raffe.

He’s staring at me, stunned. His fist is mid-air but paused in the middle of pummeling the hell out of Beliel who is bloody and staggering.

He starts a slow smile that melts my bones.

Beliel interrupts the moment by butting him in the head.

Raffe staggers back.

Beliel takes a good look at me. He smiles like he now knows a secret. His teeth are covered in blood dripping from his gums.

He jumps off the stage, sweeping his wings.

Raffe leaps and grabs Beliel’s leg. He yanks back, keeping him from taking flight. Raffe is about to get his wings back.

I yank off my remaining shoe, ready to dive in and help him.

Before I can move, though, the bloody angel I kicked off stage drags himself back up from the mass of seething bodies.

Boy, does he look pissed.

My heel caught him in the nose, which now looks exploded on his face. His once festive mask is now like something out of a horror flick.

I back away, quickly glancing at Raffe. He’s pulling with all his might to keep Beliel from flying off. This is the perfect opportunity to get his wings back. Who would question one more act of brutality among so many? He might not get a chance this good again.

Raffe glances over at me and our eyes meet.

The wind blows my hair across my face and billows my split dress around my legs.

I’m not sure which is more mortifying—that my thigh-high nylons are showing all the way to their tops or that my fairy wings are fluttering in the wind right before a fight.

My opponent draws back his fist for a punch that may flat-out kill me if it connects.

I get ready to deflect and stab. I tell myself I can take him on but I can’t escape the fact that I will only be delaying the inevitable. I know when I’m outgunned.

His fist comes flying at me.

Before I can react, it’s deflected by a forearm just as big as his. Raffe punches him so hard, he lands flat on his back and stays there.

Beliel, poised on the edge of the stage, watches us with his bloody grin as if he likes what he sees.

He leaps into the air.

On Beliel’s back, Raffe’s beautiful snowy wings beat back and forth. Once, twice. Waving a graceful goodbye.

The giant demon disappears into the fist-throwing, flight-hopping crowd.

R
AFFE
RIPS
the tuxedo jacket off my dazed attacker and drapes it over me. It covers my entire upper body including my head. I can peek through the slit of the collar as I hide in the oversized jacket.

A warm arm enfolds me like a shield around my shoulder and turns me toward the side of the stage.

“Stay with me,” says a familiar masculine whisper from above my head. Even over the yelling of the mob and the roaring of the waves, something unfurls in my chest at the sound of that voice.

I look up to say something but he puts his finger to my lips and whispers, “Don’t talk. You’ll just spoil my fantasy of rescuing an innocent damsel in distress as soon as you open your mouth.”

I’m so relieved I might laugh hysterically if I open my mouth anyway.

My vision shrinks down to a sliver between the jacket collars as I trot along in the warmth of his cocoon. He holds me tightly against him, guiding and shielding me with his body. I shuffle beside him, trying to become invisible.

We descend four steps into the seething mass of violence.

As soon as we step down, we get jostled. I grip my knife even tighter, trying to be ready for whatever might come next. Raffe
freely shoves and jostles right back in a very dominant way. He holds me behind him as he plows through the crowd in front of us.

We’re near the edge of the masses but we still have to work our way through to reach open space. We step over bodies and I try not to look down.

Most of the crowd is too busy with their own fights to bother with us. It’s now mostly angel-on-angel but there are still a few humans on the ground with their arms raised protectively against pummeling fists and kicks. Some warriors shake their heads in disgust at the sight but it’s not much of a consolation. A part of me wants to slash at the attacking angels while another part of me wants to run and hide.

Raffe drags me along too fast for me to dwell on it. I can’t see much in the crush of bodies and I knock into him as he suddenly stops.

We’re on the outskirts of the crowd with most of the fighting behind us. Ahead of us is the bluff that drops down to the dark beach. The only thing between us and freedom is a brawl.

Two angels go at it while two others circle each other. Neither of them have their swords drawn. These fights aren’t meant for real damage, at least not to each other. They’re like drunk Viking warriors with a hellacious vicious streak that Uriel thought he could control.

One of the angels gets thrown our way. His arm grazes me as he whizzes by. I half-spin and stagger, my head accidentally popping out of the oversized jacket.

“What’s that you got there?” the one still standing asks. “There’s still one left?” He swaggers over and grabs for me.

Without warning, Raffe throws a punch into his face, followed by two hits so fast that his fists are almost a blur.

I duck out of the way and step out from his shadow. When the other angel lurches back, Raffe doesn’t follow. He hovers near me.

I’m fully out in the open now. I drop the jacket, step into a defensive stance, and lift my knife in front of me.

Like the previous one, this angel smiles when he sees my blade. He’s up for more of a challenge than squashing an ant. At least this ant has a sharp knife and an attitude.

My back feels exposed but I’ll just have to assume the angels will be more sportsmanlike than to attack from behind while I’m fighting, since this is nothing but sport to them anyway.

Beside me, Raffe is already exchanging blows with an angel. He slams his attacker with the force of a head-on collision.

My own opponent makes the first move. His grin is so wide, you’d think I was cooking up a treat for him.

Males—they’ve all trained against each other. They expect attacks to certain zones on their bodies and from someone who’s used to relying on upper-body strength. And they always, always underestimate women.

Me, I don’t have much upper-body strength, nothing compared to most men, much less these guys. Like many women fighters, my power comes from my hips and legs.

He dives for me, hands out to grab my knife, expecting me to go straight at him.

I duck, crouching with bent knees, letting him almost sail over me.

I leap up at the last second and stab my blade into his crotch with all the force of my springing legs.

Why bother attacking their strengths when you can go straight for their weaknesses?

He rolls around on the sand just like any other guy who gets kicked in the nuts. He’ll heal. But he won’t be breaking taboos anytime soon.

An angel gets tossed past me head first. I spin to see Raffe pummeling the last one. More are coming our way from the crowd, attracted to a good fight.

Raffe looks over at the bloody knife in my hand. “If I still had any doubts that it was you, that would do it.” He gestures toward my opponent rolling on the ground with his hands cradling his package.

“He should have been polite and just let us by,” I say.

“Way to teach him some respect. I always wanted to meet a girl who fights dirty,” says Raffe.

“There’s no such thing as dirty fighting in self-defense.”

He huffs. “I don’t know whether to make fun of him or to respect you.”

“Come on, that one’s easy.”

He grins at me. There’s something in his eyes that makes my insides melt a little, like something deep inside us is communicating without me being fully aware of it.

I’m the first to look away.

I slip the blade into the elastic band of my thigh-high stockings. If they’re tight enough to keep the nylons up when I fight, then they should do a decent job of holding my knife. I’m glad these things are good for something.

I look up and see Raffe watching me. I feel a wave of awkwardness.

Raffe grabs me around the waist and lifts me into his arms like in an old-time movie. His arms cradle my back and knees.

I reflexively wrap my arms around his neck. For a moment, I’m confused, and the silliest thoughts flood through my head.

“Don’t let me go,” he says.

He runs with me toward the bluff. Two steps into it, his wings burst out from their wing coverings. Madeline’s sparkly white feathers explode behind us as giant bat wings spread out.

Freedom in the shape of demon’s wings. I want to laugh and cry at the same time.

I’m in Raffe’s arms, flying.