Chapter 8
Dusk and I capture both sides of that dichotomy.
His unearthly beauty draws the ogling of nearly everyone with eyes, but he acts as if he doesn’t even notice the attention. His confidence is unwavering, his focus single-minded.
He is the sun, and humans shift to orbit around him.
Meanwhile, I act as if I have something to hide.
This nightmare of an airport is putting me on edge, and it gets worse by the minute.
At nearly every corner, there’s some sort of militarized policeman, watching the crowd like a hawk.
They casually tote semi-automatic rifles with zero regard for gun safety.
Pointing their barrels in every direction, their fingers hovering haphazardously over the triggers…
And they all look like fucking teenagers.
Fixing my eyes firmly upon the ground, I try my best to pretend they’re not there. It’s not like there’s anything I can do. “You’re doing all the talking for us, right?”
Dusk steps a bit closer to me, continuing to guide our walk to the customs and immigration area. “Absolutely. You nervous?”
I give a dry laugh. “Are you capable of stopping a bullet?”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
We take our place in line, and I tug on his sleeve. “Hey. That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, of course I can.” He glances down at me, briefly, before continuing his surveillance of the crowd. “Quit worrying so much.”
I shift my weight uncomfortably, my senses assaulted from every direction. Bright ass lights, dozens of voices in languages I don’t understand, the reek of unwashed bodies—I fucking hate it here.
In an effort to distract myself, I decide to resurrect an unanswered question from the conversation Dusk and I had over breakfast before we landed.
“You said this morning that ‘field agents’ prepared a car for us. What does that mean? Is there some sort of three-letter agency doing the angelic dirty work?”
“Basically, yeah. The Speculatores.” Even if he doesn’t look at me as he replies, a small smile forms on the corner of his lips. “So no acronym, but they’re definitely bureaucratic enough to deserve one.”
I tilt my head to the side. “So when they’re not in the ‘field,’ where do they go?”
“Elohim,” he answers flatly, as if I have the slightest clue what that is, before nodding toward the line.
“We’re about to be at the counter. I’ll talk for both of us.
All you have to do is give them your passport while looking like an innocent American on a poorly timed vacation. Shouldn’t be too hard for you, yeah?”
I swallow, forcing on a smile. “Sure. Totally.”
His personality changes the second we’re signaled forward.
He becomes the perfect traveler, oozing with charisma and professionalism.
When he greets the dark-haired woman at the counter in flawless Hebrew, she perks up, her eyes sparkling at him.
They chatter for a moment like old friends, then he waves a hand toward me with a stunning smile.
She laughs—at what, I have zero idea—and accepts my passport.
Moments later, we’re continuing our trek past security. His posture reverts to normal, and I give him a sidelong glance. “Do you really speak every language?”
“Yes,” he answers casually, briefly looking up at the direction signs before guiding us down another walkway. “Archangels are created with universal translation abilities. It’s about ninety-nine percent reliable.”
“What about the other one percent?”
“Words obscured by cultural differences.” We stop at the baggage area, where Dusk scans the conveyors for my checked bag. “It’ll come down number three in a moment. Do you need to use the bathroom or anything while we wait?”
“Oh! Yes, please.”
He nods. “Don’t get lost.”
I leave my carry-on with him and hurry to the nearest bathroom. By the time I return, he’s waiting with my luggage. A smile erupts on his face as he stands to greet me.
“I’ve got the perfect acronym! Check it out: A-I-D.” His hands motion through the air to accentuate each letter. “AID, for Angels in Disguise. What do you think?”
“You’re kidding, right?” I purse my lips, trying to keep from laughing.
“No.” His smile cracks, turning into a frown. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“Somebody’s already using that acronym. You know, AIDs? It’s quite a nasty disease, really.”
“Dammit,” he grumbles, turning towards the exit with my luggage. Finally, we’re leaving this godforsaken place! “Well, how about you come up with something better?”
“I’m not very, um… cr-creative…” The moment I step outside, my appreciation for exiting the building plummets into a tragic death.
There’s an unnerving amount of trigger-happy teenagers out here, crawling around the concrete like bees in a hive.
Only one seems to be paying attention to where his barrel is pointing, and coincidentally, he’s watching us like a hawk.
Something about the ferocity in his expression makes my skin crawl with unease.
“I don’t believe that for one second.” Dusk doesn’t even notice my distraction, rolling my suitcases out towards the parking lot without stopping. “Your insults can get quite creative, Dawn.”
I hurry to catch up to him, taking to his shadow like it’s a blanket of security.
“So, property in a kibbutz isn’t technically for sale,” Dusk explains, glancing at me from the driver’s side of the van. “But I was able to work out an agreement with an interesting pair of brothers.”
“Uh-huh,” I answer absentmindedly, my focus glued to the window. The effects of a violent, three-party conflict are evident throughout the city—much more than the news back home was reporting.
For every religious center we pass protected by armed guards, there’s another one that’s burned to the ground.
Haggard and hungry, the homeless hang on every other corner, eyeing our van with simmering disdain.
I even spot a group of children who pick up rocks as we pass, whispering amongst themselves as if they intend to throw them at us.
Perhaps they’ve had to defend themselves that way before.
Or perhaps they’re orphans, simply angry at anything and anyone who looks militant.
At one red light, I catch sight of a Peace Corps humanitarian aid tent, as if manifested by my guilt.
My mission to open the Abyss feels so obscure, but that tent—that’s a tangible thing I could be doing with my time.
Just as the light turns green, though, I notice they’re turning people away empty-handed.
I don’t get a chance to catch why. I want to believe they’re simply out of resources, but my faith in humanity is slipping. There’s too much hate in the world.
A hollow feeling settles in my chest, and the rest of our ride through the desert passes quietly.
We arrive in Urim as the sun is beginning to set. It looks to be a quaint, traditional-style village. Unlike the city we landed in, it seems unbothered by conflict. Peaceful, even.
The sound of our vehicle rolling in must alert our hosts, because two men come out of the nearest house. They seem to be expecting us, walking casually in our direction.
“The brothers,” Dusk confirms, opening his door. “Time to go.”
Tentatively, I step out of the vehicle into the desert heat. The air is so dry, my lungs might shrivel up and combust. I glance at Dusk, where he’s leaning against the car, smiling at the men.
“Malak, my friend!” the first exclaims in a thick accent, brimming with warmth and over-enthusiasm.
He has a wiry frame, overstated eyeglasses, strange tropical clothes, and more hair on his face than in his receding hairline.
Like the kind of man who would be obsessed with fringe conspiracy theories—perhaps some involving a biblical apocalypse?
“Amit, good to see you,” Dusk answers, walking forward to meet the man with a firm handshake and a pat on the back. He looks to the other brother, nodding his head. “Ido.”
“Greetings, Sir.” Ido claps his hands together and bows, quite seriously. He looks like some sort of monk, with his rotund build, traditionalist robes, and complete lack of body hair. Definitely the polar opposite of his brother.
“And this must be Kae!” Amit clamors on. “It is such a pleasure to meet you. Welcome! Welcome to our humble kibbutz!”
“Thank you,” I respond politely, but my focus stays on Ido. And his focus stays unwaveringly on Dusk, his expression stoic and guarded. Rigid. Devoted.
A million questions rise in me. Most importantly, I need to know if these men are part of the 144k. And what that group actually knows about the angels.
Amit pulls a wad of keys out of his pocket, playfully shaking them. Annoyed, I force my focus back to him and his too-wide grin. “So! Should we call this a vacation home, or a new permanent residence for the lovely newlyweds?”
My face pales. “Oh, no, we’re not—”
“We’re not moving in,” Dusk cuts me off, talking loudly over me. In a pointed show of affection, he grabs my hand, tugging me closer. “My wife and I will just be passing through from time to time. We appreciate your help with this arrangement.”
I shoot him a salty side-eye, which he thoroughly ignores. He simply squeezes my hand, smiling broadly.
“Ah, yes, that’s right. For your ‘work’ on the SIGINT base,” Amit says with a wink. “I see, I see. Well, let’s get to it, then!”
My eyebrows lower in confusion. Does he… know? About Dusk?
The angel only flashes a sly smile at the man before leaning in towards me, his tone rich with amusement. “Shall we go see our latest vacation home, darling?”
As if I have a choice now. “Yes, honey.”
‘Vacation home’ is a generous euphemism for the single-room shanty Dusk acquired for us.
The moment we’re left to our own devices by Amit, I’m taken aback by the sheer amount of colorful rugs and linens that try—and fail—to hide how run-down the place is.