The clouds cleared and revealed an angel with massive golden wings, the span of them at least twelve feet. His golden hair swirled around his head, reminding me of Medusa. Blood dripped from his sword, but not a speck of it touched his flaring white kilt, which swirled, also in Medusa-like fashion, around his boot-covered feet.
The hair, the wings, the blood, the weird kilt and the bleeding cuts couldn’t distract me from the muscular structure of his bare chest. The first thing that came to mind was bloody perfection. My thoughts jumbled, and a vision of us on the bed appeared. The muscles of his powerful nude body flexed as he ground into me.
The male barked something at his wounded comrades on the ground.
They cheered, and my vision disappeared.
After landing, he climbed the steps, different pieces of his kilt floating above the ground as if they were living things. Abruptly, he stopped and jerked his head toward me. I ducked.
Crouching, I waited him out a few seconds, then peeked through the window once more. Golden eyes lifted at the corners as he smiled. He then proceeded to fly inside the fortress. The need to flee overcame me, and I stood, searching for a window latch, running my hand up and down the frame. When I couldn’t find one, I slapped my palm on the glass and tried to slide it up. It wouldn’t open. But the office door did.
He entered, both angels bowing before him.
There stood the angel I’d tried to kill. Shit shit shit.
I eyed the window, the desk, the filing cabinets on the opposite wall. No weapons, not even a damn pen I could poke his eyes out with.
“Hello again, mortal.”
Unable to make a sound, I stared.
The One I Tried to Stab flicked his wrist. Small metal latches I couldn’t find before flipped over the window frames, effectively locking them. “Leave us, but don’t leave the premises,” he ordered the guards.
Oh no. I didn’t want to be left alone with this dude.
The angels appeared confused, locking eyes with each other, but the second he turned toward them and tilted his head, they practically ran outside. The door behind them closed—I swore on its own— and I began to understand the terror that caged birds felt. Exposed, vulnerable, unable to flee…
My heart pounded, and I backed away until I hit the glass. A pigeon and a lion stuck in one room. This couldn’t be good for the pigeon. Ironically, the person with wings was no pigeon. In the bird hierarchy, he was an eagle.
“We have doors,” he said, approaching the window slowly, as if knowing I would jump through it at any sudden movement. He stopped before the glass, eyes on the city below, his profile to me. His nose was perfect. Masculine, though not curved, large but not too large.
“Tell me about yourself,” he ordered.
I remained silent. In the Mafia movies, the lawyers always advised the less you say, the better. I applied that rule now.
“You are from Los Angeles?” the angel prompted.
I wrung my hands, looking around for something to ground me. In my chest, something fluttered, and the energy in the room changed. I couldn’t explain it, and yet I felt it. I worried he’d recognize me as the girl who tried to kill him, though he seemed disinterested in the event that had happened only yesterday, and more interested in…me. Which was way worse. “Yes, sir.”
“Tell me more.” He brushed his wing with a fingertip, gaze sliding casually over my body. It was so brief that surely I dreamed it.
“I’m not sure where to start,” I said. This felt like an interrogation. Or maybe a job interview, and I’d only ever had one job. At my cousin’s gas station, washing cars part-time on the weekends. Obviously, I hadn’t interviewed. I showed up and picked up a rag, then started wiping.
“Start with the Before.”
I knew which Before he meant. Before they descended. “I was on summer break,” I started, then trailed off, having nothing to say, having too much to say.
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
Slowly, he turned and narrowed his perfect golden eyes. “What day is it today?”
“Let’s see.” I pursed my lips thinking. The apocalypse had messed up the calendar. Not just my internal calendar of waking and sleeping, but all my plans, my future. Life is canceled, it said.
Growling rumbled in the room. Holy shit, he was growling at me. “Sunday,” I answered, voice pitched high. “August twenty-sixth.”
“And the year?”
I answered.
“Typically, what do you do on Sundays?”
“Hm.” I looked up at the celling and wrung my hands, fear choking me, making me draw blanks.
“Do you have a last name?” he continued.
“DeLuca.”
“Miss DeLuca, your memories are of great interest to me. It is miss, correct?”
I nodded.
“Lucky me.”
“Yes.” That was the default to anything this man, or male, said.
“I want to know everything about you, and especially how you’ve retained memories and sanity at the same time. How far back do your memories go? You remember your childhood? Do note your survival depends on how you answer me.”
“No pressure,” I said.
“Hm?” He tilted his head like a confused lion.
“I can tell you everything.” Pigeon for the win.
“Today, and in two minutes.” From his pocket, he pulled out what looked like an ancient watch attached to a metal chain. He pressed a thumb over a side button, and it clicked. “Time,” he said.
“Two minutes. Oh my God.” My hand flew to my mouth. “That saying must hold a bit more meaning nowadays, huh?”
“Time,” he repeated and turned back to watching the people outside. “Start with a typical Sunday, Miss DeLuca.”
“On a typical Sunday,” I began, “I get up around three—”
He faced me, beaming. “An early riser. This is good.”
Dimples showed on his cheeks. I swallowed. This angel was so beautiful, and he gave me all his attention, and I was stupefied, barely able to say two words that would surely disappoint him. I didn’t want to disappoint, but I admitted, “Afternoon, sir.”
A sour face replaced the pretty, smiling one. “Your Sunday must be very eventful seeing as you’ve wasted the best part of it.”
“You sound like my dad.” Sorrow gripped my chest, and my chin quivered. I didn’t know what had happened to Dad. Clearing my throat, I continued so I wouldn’t break down and cry in front of this creature. “I get up and hit it downstairs, where my little brother plays video games on the big family TV. He gets the big TV on the weekends ’cause Dad’s always outside repairing one thing or another. Mom reads on the couch. That’s what we did. Typically. Before your kind descended.”
“We?”
“We. Me and my people.” I smiled. “I call them my people. Family, you know. Anyway.” I swatted the air. “I start fresh coffee and join her, watch my little brother kick ass in one game or another, then I get back upstairs, call my friends, check online, emails, whatever, go back down and help Mom with dinner. We do family movie night unless it’s Super Bowl Sunday. We’re big football fans. Dad’s from Denver and Mom’s from Oakland, so they always fight when their teams play.”