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 throughher 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?”
Her face crumples again, and big tears leak from the corners of her wide blue eyes.“Di sibme, snisekh. Kong nikhat,”she wails, pointing to her thin chest as she sobs.
My shoulders stiffen. Anika blames her parents’ death on a plague and claims she’s immune, but I’ve never known sickness to spread in the celestial realm. Granted, my common tongue is rusty. I only remember the word plague from history books.
Voices echo in the distance, and I exchange a worried glance with Luca. We may not know how this young angel ended up here, but we can’t leave her to be discovered by humans. If we don’t get her out of sight, those wings will raise a whole lot of unwanted questions for the supernatural community living among them.
Holding out my hand, I ask her to come with me. She backs up a step.
