The stench of urine cuts through the air between us. It stains his light brown pants, and he shrinks back, apologies tumbling from his lips until the train stops, and he flees into the crowd on the platform.
Interesting.
Maddox warned me that humans were often terrible to one another. I have watched over wars, even genocides, but to experience it one-on-one is new.
I move to the end of the platform and wait for the crowds to clear before I hop down onto the tracks and stride deeper into the subway tunnels.
Once I have enough privacy that no one will notice me disappear, I pull out my phone. Killian taught me how to use the internet, and I bring up the browser to search.
Typical small town in the United States
Scrolling through the list, I’m drawn to the beauty of Big Sky, Montana. There are only a little over two thousand people in the entire city. This is a place I should see.
I picture it in my mind, and let my angelic power carry me there.
The motel’sscratchy sheets offend my skin. Sinclair was not pleased that I charged my stay at a “five-star hotel” in New York City to his credit card, so I chose a place with only one star in Big Sky. This…may have been a mistake.
My body still aches. I abandon the idea of sleep not long after 6:00 a.m. In the center of the small room, I unfurl my wings. Unchecked agony pulls a scream from my lips, but I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle the sound.
It has been four days since I flew into the fires of Hell, and the pain will not fade. Dying, blackened feathers litter the gaudy motel carpet. The mirror over the bed reveals the extent of the devastation. Even the skin on my back has not fully healed, though the blisters are gone.
I stare at my reflection and touch two fingers to my cheek. It is…rough. Dark. Covered in short hair halfway down my neck. What am I supposed to do about this? Is this normal?
Phone in hand, I hide my wings with a groan and stumble for the bathroom. Maddox and Killian would only call me naive again if I ask them for advice. The warlock tried to hide his laughter when I asked him if it was safe to purchase the pretzel from that “food cart” in New York City. So I dial the only other person in this realm who might be willing to talk to me.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing calling this early?” Sinclair growls.
His voice sounds strange. Rough. Then again, his consciousness did dive headfirst into the burning River Phlegethon only days ago. Perhaps there have been lasting effects I had not considered.
“Early?” I cannot stop staring at my reflection. “The sun is up. Is that not when most in this realm wake?”
Sinclair lowers his voice, and his tone changes completely. Gentle. An undercurrent of worry and concern. “Go back to sleep, my love. Gabriel needs a lesson on time zones. And common courtesy.”
My huff tugs at the muscles in my back. “I do not know what thesetime zonesare, but I seem to have grown hair. On my face. A fair amount of it.”
The demon’s laughter carries over the small device. He mocks me? This is serious, and I do not know if I like it.
“Gabriel, have you never shaved before?”
“Why the fuck would I need to? This does not happen in the celestial realm. Surely you remember…”
“Watch yourself. I was banished, then consigned to Hell’s endless torment for centuries. And you had a hand in it all. No one—not even the Almighty herself—would blame me for hanging up on you.”
He is not wrong.
“Sinclair, I do not deserve your forgiveness. So I will not ask for it. But Iamsorry for my part in what happened to you—and to Zoe.” I sink down onto the edge of the tub and run a hand through my hair. “I will not call you again.”
“Wait. Zoe needs sleep, and if I am to teach you how to shave, I require coffee. I will call you back in ten minutes. Donotpick up a razor before then lest you sever your carotid artery. Even with your angelic strength, that type of injury could still be fatal.”
Willow
It took me two days to work up the courage to try a secondOthermedical clinic. At least this one didn’t threaten to wipe my memory. They just laughed at me and gave me a referral to a therapist.
The kindly older woman—Dr. Nolan—balances her tablet on her knee so she can take notes. I’m pretty sure she’s a witch of some sort, because she doesn’t type a thing. Just waves her hand at the device as I explain everything that’s happened in the past three weeks.
“So…I can’t be human. Right? If my whisper looked like someone else, then sure. I could believe she was just a ghost whodecided to haunt me. Not that she has a reason.” I swipe at my damp eyes with a tissue and glare over Dr. Nolan’s shoulder. My whisper glares right back at me. “But she’sme. Right down to what I’m wearing every day.”
“Why do you call her your ‘whisper’?” the doctor asks.
