Chapter 19 Feather
Feather
“Stop freaking out,” I repeated. Mikhail had more or less collapsed into a giant rough wooden chair and was staring with glazed eyes at the now-silent bell in his hands.
He didn’t respond, just kept muttering, “Must be broken, but it can’t break.
Evil forces at work, maybe. But how?” Then he would hold the chime over his own head and say what sounded like a title, but must be his name, since every time he did it, the thing pealed out like a hundred church bells.
“Mikhail the Great-Souled, Maker of Sanctuary.” He said it in a language I could understand, and then again in that weird, painful angelic language that hurt my head.
My ears were still ringing from the last time, and when he held it over his head yet again, I threw my regular toga back over my bikini and hunted for something to help. Maybe he had some liquor or ambrosia stashed away for nervous breakdowns.
I couldn’t find anything, other than tons of craft supplies in drawers, even a paint-by-numbers kit on black velvet of dogs playing poker.
I scrambled back up on a table, waving my hands in front of his face to get his attention.
But Mikhail just kept mumbling, his wings drooping lower as he rubbed at his head like he was having an aneurysm.
Could he be having one? I didn’t think so, but I was new here. And this was way above my paygrade.
It was time to find someone in charge. The VP of Sanctuary, some kind of manager. Or at the very least, an assistant manager.
“Stay here, Mikhail the Great-Souled. I’m getting help.” I jumped down from the table, stopping for only one split second to admire my pure golden toenails. Maybe I’d missed my calling as a pedicurist. They’d be perfect with a little glitter polish.
I threw myself against the heavy door, just managing to budge it open a few inches.
“Hey, someone! Help!” I shouted out the opening.
I pushed again, managing to open it enough to slip outside.
Of course, no one was in the hallway. “Hey, I need help! A Guide, someone official? Hellooooo!” I ran a few yards down the hall, turning a corner that I knew led to the cafeteria—and crashed headlong into the one “manager” I knew would not be the least bit helpful.
Righteous stood silent, eyes blazing as I lay in a heap on the floor.
His eyes were bright gold, but the rest of him…
I felt vaguely ill. He was a wreck. His lips were almost festering with smut, his hair lank and greasy.
The oily clay had made what looked like a rash spread from his scalp all the way down to his toes.
“Wow, Ry, you look terrible,” I squeaked, before I couldn’t talk any more.
Because his fingers had closed around my throat and he was holding me up against the wall, choking me to death.
You can’t die, Feather, I chanted internally. You are already dead.
His grip on me didn’t hurt, either. Not nearly as much as the knife I used every day.
I mean, it wasn’t a massage, but it could have been worse.
Although after a few seconds, I started feeling lightheaded and kind of death-ish.
Was he really trying to kill me? Poor guy, my smut infestation had made him crazy.
Crazy. Like Mikhail. I needed to get back to him. But I was seriously dizzy now, only another minute or so and I’d black out. Not die, though… really? Hadn’t someone told me Protectors couldn’t die here? We had to be unmade. Righteous had to know that rule.
But from what he was ranting—words that sounded like “Get out of my head,” and “Must extinguish you from my thoughts”—Righteous didn’t know it right now, anyway. He truly was trying to kill me.
Time to get creative. Or... dramatic. That might work. I’d been in a fifth-grade school play once, a wretched one called The Lottery where the villagers all stoned me to death at the end. My death scene had been one for the prepubescent ages.
I made myself relax, my eyes closing and my body slumping after one more solid twitch.
I even let a trickle of drool seep out one corner of my mouth.
And when his fingers relaxed on my throat and he released me, I made my body drop bonelessly to the floor, being careful not to let my head hit too hard.
Honestly, I’d been actually dead enough times on Earth to be really good at it.
But I had a feeling this would be my best “death” yet.
I couldn’t see him, but Righteous’s breathing changed. “What am I doing? What have I— Oh, Great Soul, what have I done?”
What I wouldn’t give for a solid video clip of this one.
Suddenly, he was shaking my shoulders. I wasn’t fooled. If I popped my eyes open and yelled “Ta-da!” like I wanted to, he would probably snap back into kill mode. So I let him shake me, let my cheeks lie soft, my lips gap open, my lips…
Oh wow. My lips were being covered by his, his warm breath pushing into my lungs, his hands moving up and down my arms, my shoulders, moving through the muck like he didn’t care if he got even more on him. Like he… cared.
I’d been kissed before on Earth, plenty of times. But those kisses had been sloppy and weird. This wasn’t exactly a kiss—it had to be CPR, right?—but it was still the best kiss I’d ever had.
“Please, Feather, please, don’t die,” he begged, and then his lips were back. Blowing, moving. I couldn’t resist; I moved my lips, too. Just a bit, my tongue peeking through to taste him. He tasted like heaven.
And then the lips were gone. I let my eyelids flutter. “Don’t stop. I’m still partly dead. There’s a tunnel, and a bright light.”
A strange coughing sound had my eyes popping open. “What came over me? Oh, Great Maker, forgive me.” Righteous stood, shoulders slumped, head down, watching the muck dripping endlessly from his arms and hands to the floor. “I’m… I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop myself.” He looked defeated.
I hated it. This cocky asshole needed to stay cocky, and sure of himself. It was a part of him. And then he needed to come help me with Mikhail.
Well, I knew one way to make him switch out of kicked puppy mode and back into jerkface.
“Stop yourself from kissing me?” I batted my eyelashes, waiting for him to look at my face.
I batted a little harder when he finally did.
“I get that a lot. I’m a Protector magnet.
It’s my eyes. Or maybe my smut. My smutshakes bring all the boys to the yard… ”
As I spoke and sang, Righteous’s expression grew harder. He took a breath, about to say something cutting and cruel, I knew. And then the strangest thing happened. He looked into my eyes, straight on… and stopped. He let the breath go, his jaw slack.
“By the Gate, your eyes.” His breath stuttered and he took a tiny step closer, leaning down. “Your eyes, Feather.”
I blinked up at him. “Yeah, my eyes. I have two of them.”
“I thought I’d imagined it. No one in Sanctuary has eyes like that.” He rubbed a mucky hand over his own face, like he was trying to wake up.
“Are you okay, Righteous? I didn’t mean to break you again. And my kisses must be powerful shizz. Better than drugs, apparently. I might need to test them out a bit, see if it’s just you or all angel dudes.”
“Powerful, yes, those eyes are powerful. Need to get clean, need to touch... need to… kiss.” He started muttering to himself.
Muttering, just like… “Mikhail!”
Righteous stopped his extremely good impression of someone who’d forgotten their meds way too many days in a row. “Who?” His eyes narrowed. “You want to kiss Mikhail?”
“No! Well, yes. Maybe. I don’t know. That’s the thing. I think Mikhail is broken too!”
“Mikhail.” A sneer froze on his lip. “You kissed him. Or he kissed you?”
What the hell? Why did Righteous sound jealous? Maybe he was just disapproving. Yeah, that was probably it.
I rolled my eyes. “Slow down, lover boy. I haven’t kissed Mik yet. I’m working up to it. He was trying to find my name again, and the naming chime was acting all funky and—” I grabbed his arm. “Just come on. I think he needs help.”
“Of course.” Righteous took a deep breath, pulled his arm away, and followed quietly. But every once in a while, I could have sworn I heard him mutter something that sounded like, “Haven’t kissed him yet?” I ignored it. The day had been over-full of muttering men, and I was done with it.
When I pulled him through the doorway into the workshop, Righteous seemed to come back to himself. And by that, I meant back to his normal basshole self. He shoved himself in front of me. “Maker? Are you well?”
There was no answer, other than a softly uttered curse.
Was someone hurting Mikhail? I snatched up an adze from the closest tool bench, my eyes focused on the figure crouched by the sealed door of the Well of Souls.
I didn’t recognize the person, not that I could see anything but his back, and the folded wings that shone brightly even in the dim room.
On the floor lay the soul knife, and spatters of red and gold ichor.
Mikhail’s blood? Had this person hurt him?
Nobody hurts my Growly Bear. I lifted the adze and screamed, running forward, “Get away from him or I’ll kill you!” I took one more step before everything froze.
The creature straightened, resolving into a tall figure I knew as soon as he spoke my name in that sexy, judgy voice. “Feather. I should have known.”
For once, Gavriel wasn’t wearing the hooded robe that hid his body and features.
Instead, he was dressed in black boots and tight-fitting black leather trousers with a loop that held his soul knife in a small ebony scabbard, so dark it seemed to consume every bit of light that touched it.
His long-sleeved shirt was white, but splattered with red and gold, and murky gray smut.
Two leather bands crisscrossed his chest, and I could see the golden hilt of an enormous sword rising between his shining, golden wings.
At last, I let my gaze rise to his face…
and my thoughts stuttered to a screeching halt.