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.
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.
Right now, the angel has enough space to reach back and skewer us or raise his sword and slice us. But if he was hugging us, a feeble cut would be the most he could do.
It’s just water. It’ll be cold as hell, but it won’t kill me if I fall.
Not right away, anyway.
It’s amazing how many times we have to go against our survival instincts to survive. I grip my legs even tighter around Raffe’s middle and push my upper body away from him.
His arms give way in surprise before they tighten back around me. That’s enough time for me to lean out and grab the angel’s sword arm in one hand and his high-collared tuxedo shirt in the other.
I lock my elbow and hold his sword arm to keep him from swinging toward us. I sure hope he’s not strong enough to crush my shoulder socket. With my other hand, I yank him forward.
It all happens within a second. If the angel had been expecting that move, there’s no way he would have let me do it. But what attacker expects his victim to pull him closer?
Without his wings fully in his control to balance him, I manage to pull the exceptionally light angel toward us.
Up close, his sword is less of a threat for skewering, but Raffe is forced to fly awkwardly to avoid shredding his wing on the blade. We teeter in the air, not far above the black waves.
Raffe holds me tight with one arm while using the other to fend off the angel who is trying to punch him.
I lean over and grab the sword’s hilt. I don’t have a chance of getting it away from him, but I might be able to distract him from his fight with Raffe. And if I’m really lucky, I might even convince the sword that an unauthorized user is trying to lift it.
We grapple in the air, awkwardly dipping, then gaining a little altitude, bobbing and twisting up and down above the water. I manage to grab the sword’s hilt with both my hands and although I can’t move it from the angel’s grip, I can angle it.
As soon as I do, the sword suddenly becomes heavy, so heavy that the angel’s arm flags.
“No!” the angel cries. There’s real horror in his voice as the sword threatens to drop from our hands.
Raffe slams him with the fist of his free arm. The angel lurches back.
His sword drops. And disappears into the water.
“No!” he cries again, horrified disbelief in his eyes as he looks at the dark water where his sword sank. I guess they don’t have scuba-diving angels to retrieve swords and other valuables from the bottom of the ocean.
He roars a war cry at us, bloodlust in his contorted face. Then he charges.