Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Watch and learn, but don’t tell anyone you don’t already know.
CELINE
I open my eyes and yawn, throwing back the covers reluctantly. Despite feeling as though there’s glue on the insides of my eyelids, I wake naturally—no two-thump knock on the door for an alarm. I don’t expect one, but I’m disappointed.
Luca can sulk if he wants. I won’t trip over myself to fix things; not this time. Our argument made me sick to my stomach, and I spent the rest of my shift getting the silent treatment. At first, I felt bad about it, but I’ve realized this is a Luca issue.
He needs to figure out why seeing me with Alistair made him angry. We aren’t dating. We’ve never dated—never even kissed.
Luca doesn’t get to stomp around playing the part of a jealous ex or overprotective big brother.
The only person being misled in this situation is Ciprian, and that’s entirely by design.
Alistair knows the score, and I do too. Luca needs to get on board.
I won’t dance around his mood swings any longer.
After a long shower, I settle on the couch, armed with a moisturizing face mask and every intention of spending my afternoon relaxing.
I’ll watch a half hour of TV, then reorganize my pantry.
I already have a system in place, but the most critical part of any successful system is maintenance.
If I’m still in the mood after I finish that, I’ll deep clean the kitchen.
Now that I’ve thought about it, I’m itching to sort. Grabbing the remote, I hover over the show Luca and I have been watching, before grumbling and picking something else. If he doesn’t pull his head out of his ass soon, I’ll finish it without him.
I only make it fifteen minutes before washing the face mask off and diving into the pantry.
My shelves are organized and labeled, with all the canned foods and dry goods lined up alphabetically.
Starting with almonds and applesauce, I check the expiration dates, tossing the few out-of-date products in a garbage bag.
Another pile takes shape, made up of the items I doubt I can eat before they go bad.
Those will go to Harry’s since she has a pile of mouths to feed.
The faces of the little angels run through my mind as I work. Stress over this impossible situation replaces my chill, transforming my wings until they’re as rigid and sharp as knives. Calm down, I tell myself. It doesn’t help.
As I pivot to add a can of green beans to Harry’s stack, my left wing rakes a bag of rice off the shelf, slicing it open. Grains scatter all over the floor, peppering my bare feet in the process.
“Motherfucker,” I snarl, forcing myself to chill out when the feather-shaped blades begin to smoke. Setting all my food on fire is the last thing I need.
It takes three minutes and thirty-seven seconds of deep breathing to get my temper under control enough to sweep up the spilled rice. Get ahold of yourself, Celine.
My wings have always been frustrating. No matter how calm I act on the surface, they broadcast my real feelings. If I’m relaxed, they’re soft, white, and fluffy. If I’m not . . . Well, stand back and watch out.
Because of my wings, I learned how to defend my emotions at a young age. Both the nish misha and nish salum wanted to study me. Father refused, screaming for days that no lowly academic or healer would get their hands on his daughter. It’s one of the few decent things he’s ever done for me.
If I’m the only one who isn’t curious about why my wings are the way they are, it’s because I already know. They are truth made physical and a defense mechanism rolled into one.
Almost all of my negative emotions manifest as weapons. They’ve kept me safe when I had nothing and no one else. Anger creates fire, and stress and anxiety generate the knives, which lash out even while they defend me—just ask the bag of rice.
Sadness sucks the most. Unless I want someone to slip and fall, the dripping is useless. Thankfully, my body knows better than to let me grieve unless I’m able to do it safely. It’s the emotion I hate the most. It reminds me of too many bad memories.
Running a damp rag over the newly organized shelves, I recite all the magical characteristics I’ve seen angels exhibit: mold, echo, limit—all radiant powers that are confusing until you see them in action. It’s common to develop gifts in my echelon, but I’ve never met anyone with wings like mine.
When the feathers finally stop switching between normal and stressed, I let out a relieved sigh and rock back on my heels.
I’ve got a bag full of things to take over to Harry’s, and I’ve hopefully worked through the worst of my tension in the pantry. I don’t have enough time left to deep clean the kitchen, but that means I have something to look forward to.
When I throw myself on the couch again, I’m able to relax.
After dinner, I load the groceries into my backpack and head out. It’s early enough that Harry won’t be asleep and late enough I won’t have to deal with traffic, although my bike makes navigating the city easy, even on a bad day.
Since I texted her earlier, Harry is expecting me. I’m not surprised to see her head poke out the door the second I park.
“Anything but beets,” she says, waving me inside. “I’ll take anything but beets.”
“Good to know.” I chuckle, patting the backpack. “I don’t think there are any beets here, but you’ll find plenty of peas and corn. The version of me who buys the groceries is healthier than the one who eats them. Too many aspirations, too little willpower.”
“Damn, I would love to get that on a T-shirt.” Harry wraps me in a warm hug. It feels like a mom hug. I sink into her, letting out a deep sigh. Harry shakes her head and leans back to study my face. “Honey, if your day is that bad, you should throw it back.”
“I’m not in the mood to dance today,” I tease.
“Not your ass! Gods, have you never gone fishing?” Harry laughs when I shake my head. “If the day is bad, toss it back and try again.”
I shrug. “How would I do that? Do harpies have a secret power I’ve never heard of?”
“Loads of them probably.” She winks, her lips stretching into a wide grin. “But resetting the day isn’t a magical power—it’s a mental one.”
I groan. “Count me out then. I’ll push through.”
“Suit yourself.” Harry takes the backpack from me, grunting under the weight.
I smirk and help her hoist it onto the counter.
Together we unpack it while talking about the kids.
As I predicted, Anika is already conversational in English.
She’s been translating for the newcomers to make their transition easier.
“They’re out back,” Harry says, tilting her head in the direction of her cramped urban patio. Seeing my raised eyebrows, she smiles. “It’s not much, but a powerful witch I knew back in the day spelled it for me as a favor. They have more room to play and exercise than it seems.”
I wrap my arm around her shoulders, squeezing gently. “You’re amazing, Harry.”
“I’m happy to do it,” she sighs. “But we aren’t swimming in other options around here. If you’re not a demon, shifter, or fae, you’ve got to figure things out yourself. I’ve had the chance to be a lot of things in my life. These kids deserve the same—better even.”
I nod, meeting Harry’s eyes reluctantly. “I can’t help thinking . . .” I sigh, then rip the bandage off. “That these kids are connected to me somehow. I’m the only angel around.”
“So what?” Harry taps her nails against the kitchen counter, the ink-black, hardened tips a sign of her nature that’s impossible to disguise.
I blink at her, confused. “I mean—”
“Did you kill their parents, leave them all alone in the world, then drop them here in the desert to be food for the vultures?”
“Of course not, but—”
“But nothing,” Harry insists. “There’s plenty of blame to go around without borrowing some that doesn’t belong to you.”
“I guess I hadn’t thought of it like that,” I admit, my forehead scrunching as I consider what she’s saying. Can it be that simple? I didn’t cause the problem myself, therefore I shouldn’t feel bad about it?
“That doesn’t mean you bury your head in the sand, Celine. You can do right by these kids—which you are—without drowning in misplaced guilt.”
“When did you get this smart?” I ask, studying Harry as if I’ll find her secrets written somewhere on her skin like mine are.
“Hmm.” She laughs. “Somewhere between fleeing the monster realm, shacking up with a wraith, and shaking my ass on stage at the Fang.”
“We miss you there,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows. “No one can match your moves.”
Harry sighs, and a twinkle lights up her eyes. “I know that’s right. Dancing is about more than having a good body you’re willing to show off. It’s about personality—the meaner the better.”
I grin. “Mean, you say? That’s it—I’m telling the other girls you said I’m the best.”
“Better to let the tips do the talking.” Harry winks at me, then dips her head toward the back door. “They’d love it if you said hi before you go.”
I nod, then head to the patio. With my hand on the doorknob, I watch them through the window.
Angels from three different echelons playing in a harpy’s backyard.
In the celestial realm, they may as well have lived on different planets.
Now, after a few days on Earth, they’re moving as a unit—the universe’s cutest miniature support system.
Tears well up in my eyes, although I’m not sad. This emotion is far more complicated than that. Even my wings can’t make sense of it. Harry pats my back and remains silent. Blinking back the unwanted feelings, I open the door, smiling as the kids spot me and rush over.
Ladonis’s wing is bandaged and connected to his shoulders by an intricate splint. I’m relieved to notice that he doesn’t seem to be in pain anymore. Hope and surprise strike me back-to-back when he grabs my hand in his smaller one and pulls me down to sit on the ground.
For half an hour, I chatter to them in the common tongue, hearing about the animals they’ve seen.
Anika may be the youngest, but she’s clearly their leader.
My lips twitch as she corrects the boys’ descriptions of a squirrel.
None of their arguments get heated, and from the long-suffering expressions on their faces, they’ve already accepted her need to ensure that only correct information gets transmitted.
By the time I go inside to leave, my stress has completely melted away. I slide the empty backpack over my shoulders, zip my leather jacket, hug Harry goodbye, and climb on my bike feeling lighter than I have in days.
The kids are okay. They may be orphans, but they’ll grow up better than I did, and that’s the best I can do.