His eyes are focused on my knife and face. Easy to do since my hands are up near my face in a fighter stance.
But my heel is still on my back foot, several inches higher than my front foot. No way can I have decent footwork limping around like this. So I do the only thing I can do.
I kick him in the face point blank with my high heel.
He wasn’t expecting that.
The angel flies back off the stage.
“It really is you,” says Raffe.
He’s staring at me, stunned. His fist is mid-air but paused in the middle of pummeling the hell out of Beliel who is bloody and staggering.
He starts a slow smile that melts my bones.
Beliel interrupts the moment by butting him in the head.
Raffe staggers back.
Beliel takes a good look at me. He smiles like he now knows a secret. His teeth are covered in blood dripping from his gums.
He jumps off the stage, sweeping his wings.
Raffe leaps and grabs Beliel’s leg. He yanks back, keeping him from taking flight. Raffe is about to get his wings back.
I yank off my remaining shoe, ready to dive in and help him.
Before I can move, though, the bloody angel I kicked off stage drags himself back up from the mass of seething bodies.
Boy, does he look pissed.
My heel caught him in the nose, which now looks exploded on his face. His once festive mask is now like something out of a horror flick.
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.
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.