Chapter 5
FIVE
Don’t show the humans anything.
CELINE
Sitting up in my tub, I dig through my bowl of bath bombs and select a lavender one. My favorite scent after a long shift. I drop it into the water and watch it fizzle, inhaling deeply as I lean back against the curve of my cramped tub. Relax, dammit.
My body doesn’t listen. I groan in frustration and drop beneath the water, blowing bubbles with my nose until I’m forced to come up for air.
I’ve got an itch, and it has nothing to do with my dry spell or keeping my wings tucked in public. This is a warning itch, a prickling across my palms as I hover over the edge of something unknown and outside of my control. I hate it.
Moving here at twenty and leaving everything I knew behind was supposed to give me a fresh start. Fewer resources, hence the cramped tub, but also something I couldn’t earn in a million years back home: freedom.
The itch . . . It reminds me of how I felt before he lashed out. I shake my head to clear the dread and remind myself he’s not here. I’m free of him. Safe. We both got what we wanted when I left, and even if he tries to bring me back, I’m strong enough to resist.
I’m powerful now. I don’t hide anymore. And if anyone has a problem with that, I’ll show them exactly how dangerous an angel can be.
I clench my fists and give up on the idea of fully relaxing. So what if I’m considering all the ways I can kill in less than thirty seconds? That’s doing more to relax me tonight than the lavender.
I’m wasting time dwelling on old, misplaced worries, anyway.
If bath time is doomed to introspection, I’d be much better off figuring out how I’m going to handle the Luca situation.
I’m feeling way too friendly toward him recently.
It’s clearly annoying him, because his behavior is all over the place.
I offered to apologize to get us back on track, something that’s easier said than done given my specific radiant gift, but Luca won’t take me up on it. Whether that means he doesn’t hold my behavior against me or if he’s decided to keep things normal at work is anyone’s best guess.
Fuck. I sit up with a splash. What if I made him uncomfortable when I invited him over to watch trash TV? I mean, we work at a strip club, and he sees my tits almost daily, but that’s business. Does Luca feel harassed?
Before I can freak myself out more, I decide to ask him. Luca loves to overthink, but I prefer to be proactive. I’ve always believed that awkwardness is the figment of an anxious imagination. If you approach things head on, you’d be surprised by how many weird conversations become straightforward.
Drying my hands on a towel, I grab my phone and pull up our message thread.
Celine
Do I make you uncomfortable? Sexually? If so, you can tell me, and I’ll clean up my act. You’re my friend, and I would never want to do anything to make you feel unsafe.
Luca
I don’t know what to say.
Shit, I knew it. I’m out of line.
Hang on. I’m processing. You’ve got to give me a minute.
I wait a minute, then watch the ticking hands on my phone’s digital clock move around the circle a second time.
I know he didn’t mean the minute literally, but I wish he did.
That would make this hang time easier to take.
I squirm around in the tub, my stomach doing its best to escape and float away to dissolve next to the fizzing bath bomb.
Luca
Okay, let’s clarify some things. First, you’ve never made me feel unsafe. I’m not sure you even could if we’re being honest.
I re-read his message, then scoff. He’s a little too confident in his own abilities. I’m scary when I want to be. Luca just hasn’t seen it.
Luca
Second, you don’t make me uncomfortable. If you ever did something I didn’t like, I would tell you.
My stomach settles slightly, but my head picks up the slack. Luca isn’t denying his discomfort, only that I’m the cause of it. So, what’s his problem?
Luca
And before you demand to know more, that’s something for me to deal with, not you. You can’t fix everything by bulldozing it.
Celine
Are you sure? It’s worked okay for me so far.
That’s debatable, but there’s no reason to dredge up ancient history. In my experience, if you have bones buried in the backyard, you shouldn’t fucking dig. I type a follow-up message before he can call me out.
Celine
Binge our show tomorrow?
Luca
Only if you go for a run with me first.
Ugh. Fine.
I put my phone down and prop one leg on the edge of the tub. The water is a little too hot, but I’ll make do. We’re in the desert. It would be wasteful to drain it all and start again. Maybe I should keep a thermometer in here, for precision.
The itch returns, directly between my shoulder blades this time, and I wince. If things are fine with Luca, why won’t it go away? I’m going to have to wait to find out.
Groaning, I stand up, giving up on my bath and wrapping the towel around my body. Not knowing is the worst, because even without answers, one fact remains absolute: when I itch, a scratch always follows, and only time will tell how deep it goes.
We start our regular five-mile route, and my itching gets better about half a mile in. Thank goodness. Exercise always makes me feel more in control, and I’m glad Luca suggested this.
The route is flat, matching the rest of the city, but there are mountains all around us, jagged, hulking, and red—especially imposing with the morning sun at their back.
Cacti dot the edges of the trail, the scraggly desert brush around them adding to the harsh, unforgiving vista, like stout and squat soldiers, outshone by their heartier, spikier neighbors.
Out and back, this trail is secluded, and one of the rare places in the area with a decent amount of shade. Even still, Luca and I are both pouring sweat by the time we turn around at the halfway point.
Since there isn’t room to run side by side, he’s slightly ahead of me, his shirtless, tanned back muscles bunching rhythmically with each stride.
I look my fill, relying on my angelic reflexes to keep me from tripping over roots and rocks.
It’s a little creepy, but I tell myself I’m not ogling my friend, I’m admiring him.
Like art. I can appreciate a good-looking sculpture, too. That doesn’t mean I want to ride it.
But what if Luca used all that sweaty stamina to wear me out?
My brain short-circuits as I picture it.
My heart races in a way that has nothing to do with the run or the heat and everything to do with the images in my mind.
I shake my head to clear the dirty train of thought before it can travel too far off the tracks, then slam directly into Luca’s back.
He grunts, throwing his right hand out to catch me before I fall. I’m about to yell at him for stopping with no warning when I see what made him do it.
A child, no more than seven or eight, sits on the trail ahead of us, her blonde curls tangled and matted to her head with sweat. Her small face is pink and scrunched up from crying, and as she spots us, unmistakable terror flashes through her eyes.
I go completely still, shocked and horrified. Luca and I only turned around a couple of minutes ago, and she wasn’t sitting here when we passed this spot the first time.
“Should we call the cops?” I whisper, searching for any sign of how the child might have ended up here.
At the sound of my voice, she stumbles to her feet, turning to run away from us.
Gasping, blood drains from my face as I take in the tiny, perfect wings on her back. Impossible.
“No,” Luca groans. “I don’t think we should involve any humans.”
My itch returns. It’s exponentially worse.
I open my mouth and force the words out anyway.
“Don’t run. We won’t hurt you. I swear it on my wings.
” I say the words in the common angelic dialect, my lips forming syllables they haven’t attempted in years.
While my kind have dozens of languages, many specific to individual bloodlines, the common tongue is used universally for communication between the different echelons.
If she’s an angel; she’ll stop. I hope she doesn’t.
When she turns, her tear-streaked face lined with hope, a pit the size of this planet forms in my stomach. Then she scowls, looking me up and down skeptically. “Mat ndaa?” she demands, pointing at my plain tank top.
Despite my dread, my lips curl into a smile. She’s a smart girl to demand proof before trusting a stranger. I fight the urge to chuckle, then weep. How in the many fucked up realms did she end up here?
I hold my finger up, then show her my back, pulling my tank top and sports bra out of the way enough that my wings can spread without damaging my clothes. She gasps, and I flap them a few times, enjoying the stretch before pulling them into my body and dropping my clothes back into place.
“Nish thatsha,” she murmurs, awe in her voice.
I wince. Turning back to face her, I take in the renewed fear in her eyes as she looks at me and repeat that we won’t hurt her. She considers that for a moment but doesn’t come any closer.
Luca shifts his weight uncomfortably, snapping a twig beneath his feet. “Celine . . .”
“Everything is okay,” I say, not entirely sure who I’m reassuring more at this point, me, the little girl, or Luca.
The itch is devouring my entire body, like millions of microscopic bugs are sprinting up and down my skin all at once.
I’m desperate to know who is responsible for this so I can take my frustrations out on them.
I ask the child how she got here, keeping my tone gentle. Her mouth opens, but she doesn’t answer. I ask again and get the same response, but this time a wrinkle appears on her brow as she looks around the park in confusion. Switching gears, I ask what her name is and watch the wrinkle smooth out.
“Anika,” she whispers.
I smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Anika. I’m Celine. Where are your parents?”