Not wanting to disturb him, Hazel approached quietly, uncertain how best to get his attention. After a few moments in silence, she cleared her throat.
“I’m not going to apologize for what happened back there, so if that’s why you’re here, you’re wasting your time,” he started.
She jumped, taken aback; so much for being civil. “Good thing I don’t want your apology then. You do, however, owe mean explanation as to where you’ve been hidingthose, and why you didn’t tell me you had gods-damned wings.”
“Didn’t exactly come up in conversation,” he quipped.
“Well, no, I should think not, seeing as they were hidden. I don’t know what kind of conversations you’re used to having, but where I’m from, we don’t exactly walk up to folks and check them for hidden wings.”
“Alright, smart ass. Calm down. Yes, I have wings.” He flared them for emphasis. “As for why you’ve never seen them, I keep them veiled. No one sees them unless I allow them to. And before you ask, yes, Magnus and his inner circle all know about them.”
“But, how…” she faltered.
“Hazel, I’m not… like you.” He didn’t meet her eyes.
“No shit, Slaide. But something tells you’re meaning something more than skin deep. So, what, are you going to tell me you’re not human?”
When he met her eyes, she got all the confirmation she needed. Of course he wasn’t human. She should have known.
She backed up a step, shaking her head in disbelief. He really was a monster, and he was having difficulty controlling himself.
“Hazel. This doesn’t change anything,” he said, but his words were hollow.
“What are you? I mean, if you’re not human, just help me work through this, please.” She was ready to beg. For her life, if need be.
Slaide sighed, hanging his head. He spread his wings wide, as though that was supposed to answer her question.
And then it hit her. Perhaps he had answered her after all. “You’re… an angel?” she stuttered, unable to believe the words coming out of her own mouth.
“Yes and no. It’s not that simple.”
Of course not. Nothing ever is.“Well thanks, that clears it up.”
“The problem is, I don’t entirely know what I am myself. I wasn’t born into a loving family, or really any sort of family. I was bred to serve a purpose—to be a mindless, ruthless killer—and my mother was discarded after my birth. I don’t know who or what she was, other than a slave. My sire was one of the Fallen. Beyond that, even I don’t know. I’ve heard them describe me asNephilim, but I’ve never figured out what that meant. Never cared to know.”
He had warned her it was complicated, hadn’t he? But she found herself with more questions than answers. He was right about one thing: she was in way over her head. A change of subject was in order.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You just did,” Slaide pointed out.
“I’m serious.” Hazel crossed her arms to emphasize just how serious she was.
“If I say no, is that going to stop you?” Slaide cocked his head to the side in question.
“Probably not.” She shrugged. It was something she’d wondered about since getting dressed.
“Go on then.” His expression rested somewhere between boredom and annoyance. The face of a parent dealing with a petulant child.
“It’s not overly important, but curiosity is getting the better of me.”
“Out with it.” He sighed.
“Fine. Where did you get fighting leathers in my size? I mean, it’s not a perfect fit, but it’s close. Did you get my measurements from the tailor? It’s impressive considering the short amount of time you’ve had to work with.”
Slaide’s gaze melted into a contemplative stare, rolling over her from head to toe. “No, I suppose they aren’t a perfect fit.” He poked at an anthill between his feet with a stick, sending the ants scurrying in alarm. “I wouldn’t expect them to be, because they weren’t tailored for you.”
“Whose are they then? Do you just go around raiding women’s closets?”
