Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a woman-shaped shadow slipping out through a side door. She stops before the door closes and looks back at me. My mother frantically waves her hand at me to come with her. I should join her. I take two steps in her direction, but I can’t ignore the grunting and crashing of the colossal fight at the far end of the building.
The angel is surrounded by a gang of scruffy but deadly-looking men.
There must be at least ten of them. Three are strewn about at odd angles beyond the circle of the fight, unconscious or dead. Two more are taking a beating from the angel as he swings the cart like a giant mace. But even from here, even in the thin moonlight streaming in through the glass doors, I can see the crimson stains seeping through his bandages. That cart must weigh a hundred pounds. He is visibly exhausted and the others are moving in for the kill.
I’ve sparred with multiple opponents in the dojo, and last summer, I was one of the assistant instructors of an advanced self defense course entitled “Multiple Assailants.” Still, I’ve never fought more than three at a time. And none of my opponents have ever wanted to actually kill me. I’m not stupid enough to think that I can take on seven desperate guys with the help of a crippled angel. My heart tries to gallop out of my chest just thinking about it.
My mother waves at me again, beckoning me toward freedom.
Something smashes on the far side of the lobby and a grunt of pain blots out the other sounds for a moment. With every hit to the angel, I feel Paige slipping away from me.
I wave my mother away, mouthing the word, “Go.”
She beckons me once more, more frantic this time.
I shake my head and wave her away.
She slips into the darkness and disappears behind the closing door.
I bolt over to the filing cabinet beside the kitchen. I quickly think through the pros and cons of using the angel sword and decide against it. I might slice up one person with it, but without training, I’m sure it would be taken away from me in no time.
So instead I grab the wings and the key to the angel’s chain. I stuff the key in my jeans pocket and quickly unwrap the wings. My only hope is that the gang’s fear and desire for self-preservation will be on my side. Before my brain can kick in and tell me what a harebrained, dangerous idea this is, I rush over to the dim hallway where the moonlight is bright enough to silhouette me, but not bright enough to show much detail.
The gang has the angel cornered.
He’s putting up a good fight, but they’ve realized that he’s injured—not to mention chained to an awkward, heavy cart—and won’t give up now that they smell blood.
I cross my arms behind me and hold the wings behind my back. They wobble, out of balance. It’s like holding up a flagpole with my arms contorted. I wait until I can hold them steady, then step forward.
Desperately hoping that the wings look right in the shadows, I kick over a side table with a surprisingly intact vase on it. The unexpected crash gets their attention.
For a moment, all is silent as they look on my dark silhouette. I hope to all that’s holy and unholy that I look like an Angel of Death. If it was well lit, they would see a ski
“What have we here?” I ask in what I hope is a tone of deadly amusement. “Michael, Gabriel, come see this,” I call out behind me as though there are more of us. Michael and Gabriel are the only two angel names I can think of. “The monkeys seem to think they can attack one of our own now.”
The men freeze. Everyone stares at me.
In that moment, while I hold my breath, possibilities roll around the room like a roulette wheel.
Then, a really bad thing happens.
My right wing wobbles, then slips down a notch or two. In my rush to right it, I wiggle to get a better grip, but that just brings more attention to it as the wing waves up and down.