Until a few weeks ago, rich people lived along the lower hills. They either lived in three bedroom ranch houses that cost a couple of million dollars, or in fairytale mansions that cost ten million dollars. We stay away from those, my logic being that they probably attract the wrong kind of visitors. Instead, we pick out a little guest house behind one of the estates. A not-too-fancy kind of guest house that won’t attract any attention.
The angel just follows me without comment, and that works fine for me. He hasn’t said much since we left the office building. It’s been a long night, and he can barely stand by the time we reach the cottage. We make it to the house just before the storm hits.
It’s strange. In some ways, he’s shockingly strong. He’s been beaten, mutilated and bleeding for days, yet he can still fight off several men at a time. He never seems to get cold despite being shirtless and jacketless. But the walking seems hard on him.
When we finally sit in the cabin as the rain starts, he eases off his boots. His feet are blistered and raw. They’re pink and vulnerable as though they haven’t been used much. Maybe they haven’t. If I had wings, I’d probably spend most of my time flying too.
I dig through my pack and find the small first aid kit. In it, there are some blister packs. They’re like adhesive bandages but bigger and tougher. I hand the packages to the angel. He opens one up and stares at it like he’s never seen one before.
He first looks at the skin colored side, which is a shade too light for him, then at the padded side, then back at the skin colored side again. He puts it up to his eye like a pirate’s eye patch and makes a grimace.
My lips crack into a quarter smile even though it’s hard for me to believe I can still smile. I grab it out of his hand. “Here, I’ll show you how to use it. Let me see your foot.”
“That’s a pretty intimate demand in the angel world. It usually takes dinner, some wine, and sparkling conversation for me to give up my feet.”
That calls for a witty comeback.
“Whatever,” I say.
Okay, so I won’t be getting the Witty Woman of the Year Award. “Do you want me to show you how to use this or not?” I sound surly. It’s the best I can do right now.
He sticks out his feet. Angry red spots scream for attention on his heel and big toes. One foot has a burst blister on the heel.
I look at my meager supply of blister packs. I’ll have to use them all on his feet and hope that my own will hold out. The small voice pipes up again as I gently place the adhesive around his burst blister: He won’t be with you for more than a couple of days. Why waste precious supplies on him?
He pulls a glass splinter out of his shoulder. He’s been doing that the whole time we’ve been walking, but he keeps finding more. If he hadn’t stepped in front of me when he broke through the window, I’d be peppered with glass shards too. I’m almost sure he didn’t protect me on purpose, but I can’t help but be grateful that he did.
I carefully soak up pus and blood with a sterile pad, even though I know that if he is going to get an infection, it would come from the deep wounds on his back, not from a few blisters on his feet. The thought of his lost wings make my hands more gentle than they would be otherwise.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
I don’t need to know. In fact, I don’t want to know. Giving him a name makes it sound like we’re somehow on the same side, which we can never be. It’s like acknowledging that we could become friends. But that’s not possible. It’s pointless to make friends with your executioner.
“Raffe.”
I only asked him his name to distract him from thinking about having to use his feet instead of his wings. But now that I know his name, it feels right. “Rah-fie,” I repeat slowly. “I like the sound of that.”
His eyes soften as though he smiles even though his expression doesn’t change from his stony look. For some reason, it makes my face heat up.
I clear my throat to break the tension. “Raffe sounds like Raw Feet. Coincidence?” That gets a smile out of him. When he smiles, he really does look like someone you’d want to get to know. Some otherworldly handsome guy a girl could dream about.
Only he’s not a guy. And he’s too otherworldly. Not to mention that this girl is beyond dreaming about anything other than food, shelter, and the safety of her family.
I rub my finger firmly around the adhesive to make sure it won’t fall off. He inhales sharply and I can’t tell if it’s from pain or pleasure. I’m careful to keep my eyes down on my task.
“So, aren’t you going to ask me my name?” I could kick myself. That sounds just like me flirting. But I’m not, of course. I couldn’t be. At least I’d managed to keep the tone from being giggly.
“I already know your name.” Then he mimics my mother’s voice perfectly. “Penryn Young, you open this door right now!”
“That’s pretty good. You sound just like her.”
“You must have heard the old adage that there’s power in knowing someone’s true name.”
“Is it true?”
“It can be. Especially between species.”
“Then why did you just tell me yours?”
He leans back and gives me a bad boy, devil-may-care shrug.
“So what do they call you if they don’t know your name?”
There’s a brief pause before he answers. “The Wrath of God.”
I take my hand off his foot in a slow controlled motion to keep it from shaking. I realize then that if someone could see us, it might look like I am paying him homage. He sits in a chair while I kneel at his feet with my eyes downcast. I quickly stand up so that I am looking down at him. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and look him straight in the eyes.
“I am not afraid of you, your kind, or your god.”
There’s a part of me that cringes at the lightning strike that I am sure will come. But it doesn’t. There isn’t even dramatic thunder outside in the storm. It doesn’t make me feel any less afraid though. I am an ant in the battlefield of the gods. There’s no room for pride or ego, and barely enough room for survival. But I can’t help myself. Who do they think they are? We may be ants, but this field is our home, and we have every right to live in it.
His expression changes just a fraction before he shutters it in his godlike way. I’m not sure what it means, but I do know that my insane statement has some kind of an effect on him, even if it’s just amusement.