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She sways where she stands, limbs trembling. Something darker than pity roots itself in my chest. A possessive instinct so violent it nearly buckles my knees.

Mine.

The thought is pure instinct. She’s too fragile, too bloodied to be standing here alone among the dead.

I want to take her into my arms. Protect her. Slaughter whoever touched her and present her with his head.

But I’m on my way out, and she’s asking me to stay.

This is a test.

My guardian angel, fed up with my wreckage, has come here to chain me to this world. Tempting me with her beauty, appealing to my empathy.

I raise my gun. Aim it at her perfect face. If she insists on dragging me back to life, I’ll take her into death with me.

She sighs with a resignation that hurts my heart more than my own grief.

Her eyes close, accepting her fate. But my finger won’t tighten.

“Get the fuck away from her!”

The spell shatters. The voice belongs to the Bolton girl, charging across the graves, yanking her sports bra back into place. Her meathead boyfriend lumbers behind, still adjusting himself in his shorts.

She gets between us, shielding the girl like she’s some kind of warrior. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

My angel shakes her head in a daze. “I…” Her eyes drift towards the corn. “My brother…”

There’s blood on her hands. A rawness in her voice that comes not only from fear, but from grief.

The Bolton girl jumps into action. “Alright, come with me. Wayne, go get the car.” She barks orders, and the meathead runs off to the other side of the church.

Then she glares at me. “What are you even doing here? Go home.”

I stay silent. What could I say?

That I was about to abandon this world until something more beautiful than heaven told me not to? That one look at her made death feel secondary?

I don’t want to drag the girl down into my darkness after she’s just narrowly escaped someone else’s.

Her hand rises to her chest, grabbing a chain around her neck to pull up a pendant from inside her gown. My eyes lock onto it.

Before she can squeeze it for comfort, I get a glimpse of the emblem.

This angel has a Serpent’s Head.

A curious possession.

Who is she? How did she get it?

The Bolton girl and her oaf half-carry her, settling her in the backseat of the car. I haven’t moved an inch, watching with bated breath to ensure that she’s rescued.

As the car rolls past, the lovebirds glare at me like I’m the monster.

Maybe I am.

But the angel…

She turns, her face framed in the window. Our eyes lock, even from a distance, slowing time as if I could walk right up and grab her.