World After - Page 33/43

I back away, quickly glancing at Raffe. He’s pulling with all his might to keep Beliel from flying off. This is the perfect opportunity to get his wings back. Who would question one more act of brutality among so many? He might not get a chance this good again.

Raffe glances over at me and our eyes meet.

The wind blows my hair across my face and billows my split dress around my legs.

I’m not sure which is more mortifying—that my thigh-high nylons are showing all the way to their tops or that my fairy wings are fluttering in the wind right before a fight.

My opponent draws back his fist for a punch that may flat-out kill me if it connects.

I get ready to deflect and stab. I tell myself I can take him on but I can’t escape the fact that I will only be delaying the inevitable. I know when I’m outgunned.

His fist comes flying at me.

Before I can react, it’s deflected by a forearm just as big as his. Raffe punches him so hard, he lands flat on his back and stays there.

Beliel, poised on the edge of the stage, watches us with his bloody grin as if he likes what he sees.

He leaps into the air.

On Beliel’s back, Raffe’s beautiful snowy wings beat back and forth. Once, twice. Waving a graceful goodbye.

The giant demon disappears into the fist-throwing, flight-hopping crowd.

Chpater 58

RAFFE RIPS the tuxedo jacket off my dazed attacker and drapes it over me. It covers my entire upper body including my head. I can peek through the slit of the collar as I hide in the oversized jacket.

A warm arm enfolds me like a shield around my shoulder and turns me toward the side of the stage.

“Stay with me,” says a familiar masculine whisper from above my head. Even over the yelling of the mob and the roaring of the waves, something unfurls in my chest at the sound of that voice.

I look up to say something but he puts his finger to my lips and whispers, “Don’t talk. You’ll just spoil my fantasy of rescuing an innocent damsel in distress as soon as you open your mouth.”

I’m so relieved I might laugh hysterically if I open my mouth anyway.

My vision shrinks down to a sliver between the jacket collars as I trot along in the warmth of his cocoon. He holds me tightly against him, guiding and shielding me with his body. I shuffle beside him, trying to become invisible.

We descend four steps into the seething mass of violence.

As soon as we step down, we get jostled. I grip my knife even tighter, trying to be ready for whatever might come next. Raffe freely shoves and jostles right back in a very dominant way. He holds me behind him as he plows through the crowd in front of us.

We’re near the edge of the masses but we still have to work our way through to reach open space. We step over bodies and I try not to look down.

Most of the crowd is too busy with their own fights to bother with us. It’s now mostly angel-on-angel but there are still a few humans on the ground with their arms raised protectively against pummeling fists and kicks. Some warriors shake their heads in disgust at the sight but it’s not much of a consolation. A part of me wants to slash at the attacking angels while another part of me wants to run and hide.

Raffe drags me along too fast for me to dwell on it. I can’t see much in the crush of bodies and I knock into him as he suddenly stops.

We’re on the outskirts of the crowd with most of the fighting behind us. Ahead of us is the bluff that drops down to the dark beach. The only thing between us and freedom is a brawl.

Two angels go at it while two others circle each other. Neither of them have their swords drawn. These fights aren’t meant for real damage, at least not to each other. They’re like drunk Viking warriors with a hellacious vicious streak that Uriel thought he could control.

One of the angels gets thrown our way. His arm grazes me as he whizzes by. I half-spin and stagger, my head accidentally popping out of the oversized jacket.

“What’s that you got there?” the one still standing asks. “There’s still one left?” He swaggers over and grabs for me.

Without warning, Raffe throws a punch into his face, followed by two hits so fast that his fists are almost a blur.

I duck out of the way and step out from his shadow. When the other angel lurches back, Raffe doesn’t follow. He hovers near me.

I’m fully out in the open now. I drop the jacket, step into a defensive stance, and lift my knife in front of me.

Like the previous one, this angel smiles when he sees my blade. He’s up for more of a challenge than squashing an ant. At least this ant has a sharp knife and an attitude.

My back feels exposed but I’ll just have to assume the angels will be more sportsmanlike than to attack from behind while I’m fighting, since this is nothing but sport to them anyway.

Beside me, Raffe is already exchanging blows with an angel. He slams his attacker with the force of a head-on collision.

My own opponent makes the first move. His grin is so wide, you’d think I was cooking up a treat for him.

Males—they’ve all trained against each other. They expect attacks to certain zones on their bodies and from someone who’s used to relying on upper-body strength. And they always, always underestimate women.

Me, I don’t have much upper-body strength, nothing compared to most men, much less these guys. Like many women fighters, my power comes from my hips and legs.

He dives for me, hands out to grab my knife, expecting me to go straight at him.

I duck, crouching with bent knees, letting him almost sail over me.

I leap up at the last second and stab my blade into his crotch with all the force of my springing legs.

Why bother attacking their strengths when you can go straight for their weaknesses?

He rolls around on the sand just like any other guy who gets kicked in the nuts. He’ll heal. But he won’t be breaking taboos anytime soon.

An angel gets tossed past me head first. I spin to see Raffe pummeling the last one. More are coming our way from the crowd, attracted to a good fight.

Raffe looks over at the bloody knife in my hand. “If I still had any doubts that it was you, that would do it.” He gestures toward my opponent rolling on the ground with his hands cradling his package.

“He should have been polite and just let us by,” I say.

“Way to teach him some respect. I always wanted to meet a girl who fights dirty,” says Raffe.

“There’s no such thing as dirty fighting in self-defense.”

He huffs. “I don’t know whether to make fun of him or to respect you.”

“Come on, that one’s easy.”

He grins at me. There’s something in his eyes that makes my insides melt a little, like something deep inside us is communicating without me being fully aware of it.

I’m the first to look away.

I slip the blade into the elastic band of my thigh-high stockings. If they’re tight enough to keep the nylons up when I fight, then they should do a decent job of holding my knife. I’m glad these things are good for something.

I look up and see Raffe watching me. I feel a wave of awkwardness.

Raffe grabs me around the waist and lifts me into his arms like in an old-time movie. His arms cradle my back and knees.

I reflexively wrap my arms around his neck. For a moment, I’m confused, and the silliest thoughts flood through my head.

“Don’t let me go,” he says.

He runs with me toward the bluff. Two steps into it, his wings burst out from their wing coverings. Madeline’s sparkly white feathers explode behind us as giant bat wings spread out.

Freedom in the shape of demon’s wings. I want to laugh and cry at the same time.

I’m in Raffe’s arms, flying.

Chpater 59

WE’RE IN THE AIR.

I cling tighter, and he shifts me so that I’m holding on like a kid with my legs wrapped around his middle. He’s warm even as the ocean wind blasts against my back. We pick up altitude to a frightening height, but his arms around me are secure and I can’t help but feel reassured.

That feeling doesn’t last long. Between Raffe’s wings, I get glimpses of what’s behind us.

Tipsy or not, the angels have no trouble lifting off into the air. The sight of demon wings must have incited them because there are more of them chasing us than we saw on the beach. They fly up through wisps of fog lit by pinpoints of firelight as we glide over the black waves.

Angels are supposed to be beautiful creatures of light but the ones chasing us look more like a cloud of demons spewing forth from the mist. Raffe must be thinking something similar because he tightens his grip around my waist as if to say, “not this one.”

He banks into a turn, flying farther away from the shore to where the mist turns into a blanket. He glides lower toward the water where the fog is thicker and the waves are louder.

We’re so low, the sea sprays over me as it surges. Water swells, turning into whitewater and rolling below us. It feels like mile after mile of black and raging surf.

Raffe zigs one way, then the other. He makes sharp, unexpected turns after going straight for a while. Escape maneuvers.

The fog is so thick that there’s a chance the angels are chasing shadows. The roar of the waves and wind means the angels can’t hear Raffe’s wings as they pump powerfully through the air.

I’m shivering against his body. The icy spray and ocean wind are freezing me to the point of not being able to feel my arms around his neck or my legs around his torso.

We glide along in silence, slicing through the night. I have no idea how close the angels are or whether they’re even on our tail any more. I hear and see nothing in the fog glow. We take another sharp turn toward the ocean.

A face pops up in the fog.

Behind it, giant wings with feathers the color of mist.

He’s too close.

He slams into us.

We spin out of control, bat wings tangling with feathered ones.

Raffe whips his wing with its extended scythes and gouges into the feathered wings. The blades rip through the layers of feathers until they catch on the angel’s wing bone.

We all tumble together in a mass as we fall through the air.

Raffe stabilizes us with great sweeps but he can’t fight with his wings and fly too. He untangles their wings as the angel reaches for his sword.

Raffe doesn’t have a sword.

And he has me—a hundred pounds of dead weight that can only mess up his balance and fighting technique. His arms are holding me instead of being free to fight. His wings need to work that much harder to keep us in the air.

My only thought is that I am not going to end up truly dead this time in Raffe’s arms. I am not going to be one more wound on his soul.

The angel pulls out his sword.

Having trained with the staff, I know there are weapons that need distance to be used effectively. The sword is one of them.