Then I hear a motorboat. It cuts through the floating ice chunks as it charges toward me. My mother is on the boat, driving it. With her free hand, she throws precious survival gear overboard, splashing it into the icy water. Cans of soup and beans, life vests and blankets, even shoes and blister packs go over the side of the boat, sinking among the bobbing ice.
“You really should eat your eggs, dear,” says my mother.
The boat heads straight for me and is not slowing down. If anything, it’s speeding up. If I don’t get out of the way, she’ll run me over.
Paige calls out for me in the distance.
“I’m coming.” I call out but only a croaked whisper comes out of my mouth. I try to swim toward her but my muscles are so cold that all I can do is flail. Flail and shiver in the path of my mother’s boat.
“Hush. Shhh.” A soothing voice whispers in my ear.
I feel the sofa cushions being pulled out from against my back. Then warmth envelopes me. Firm muscles embrace me from the space where the cushions used to be. I’m groggily aware of masculine arms wrapping themselves around me, their skin soft as a feather, their muscles steel velvet. Chasing away the ice in my veins and the nightmare.
“Shhh.” A husky whisper in my ear.
I relax into the cocoon of warmth and let the sound of the rain on the roof lull me back to sleep.
~
The warmth is gone, but I’m no longer shivering. I curl up on my own, trying to savor the heat left in the cushions by a body that is no longer there.
When I open my eyes, the morning light makes me wish I hadn’t. Raffe lies on his sofa, watching me with those dark blue eyes. I swallow, suddenly feeling awkward and unkempt. Great. The world has come to an end, my mother is out there with the street gangs, crazier than ever, my sister has been kidnapped by vengeful angels, and I'm concerned that my hair is greasy and my breath smells bad.
I get up abruptly, tossing aside my blanket with more force than is necessary. I grab my toiletries and head for one of the two bathrooms.
“Good morning to you too,” he says in a lazy drawl. I have my hand on the bathroom door when he says, “In case you’re wondering, the answer is yes.”
I pause, afraid to look back. “Yes?” Yes, it was him holding me through the night? Yes, he knows I liked it?
“Yes, you can come with me,” he says as though he already regrets it. “I’ll take you to the aerie.”
CHAPTER 11
The water is still running in the cottage but there is no hot water. I consider taking a shower anyway, not knowing how long it will be before I can take a proper one, but the thought of glacier temperature water hitting me full force makes me hesitate.
I decide to do a thorough sponge bath with a washcloth. At least that way, I can keep various parts of me from freezing all at once.
As predicted, the water is ice-cold, and it brings back pieces of my dream from last night, which inevitably brings back how I got warm enough to be cradled to sleep. It was probably just some kind of angel host behavior triggered by my shivering, the way penguins huddle together when it’s cold. What else could it be?
But I don't want to think about that—I don't know how to think about that—so I shove it down into that dark, overstuffed place in my mind that's threatening to burst any moment now.
When I come out of the bathroom, Raffe looks freshly showered and dressed in his black pants with boots. His bandages are gone. His wet hair swings in front of his eyes as he kneels on the hardwood floor in front of the open blanket. On it, his wings are laid out.
He combs through the feathers, fluffing out the ones that are crushed and plucking out the broken ones. In a way, I suppose he's preening. His touch is gentle and reverent, although his expression is hard and unreadable as stone. The jagged ends of the wing that I chopped look ugly and abused.
I have the absurd impulse to apologize. What, exactly, am I sorry for? That his people have attacked our world and destroyed it? That they are so brutal as to cut off the wings of one of their own and leave him to be torn apart by the native savages? If we are such savages, it is only because they have made us so. So I am not sorry, I remind myself. Crushing one of the enemy’s wings in a moth-eaten blanket is nothing to be sorry about.
But somehow, I still hang my head and walk softly as though I am sorry, even if I won't say it.
I walk around him so he won't see my apologetic stance, and his naked back comes into full view. It has stopped bleeding. The rest of him looks perfectly healthy now—no bruises, no swelling or cuts, except where his wings used to be.
The wounds are a couple of streaks of raw hamburger running down his back. They follow the ragged flesh where the knife sawed through the tendons and muscles. I don't like to think about it, but I suppose the other angel sawed through joints, severing bones away from the rest of him. I suppose I should have sewn the wounds shut, but I had assumed he'd die.
“Should I, like, try to sew your wounds shut?” I ask, hoping the answer will be no. I'm a pretty tough girl, but sewing chunks of flesh together pushes the limits of my comfort zone, to say the least.
“No,” he says without looking up from his work. “It'll eventually heal on its own.”
“Why hasn’t it healed already? I mean, the rest of you healed in no time.”
“Angel sword wounds take a long time to heal. If you’re ever going to kill an angel, slice him up with an angel sword.”
“You’re lying. Why would you tell me that?”
“Maybe I’m not afraid of you.”