Angelfall

CHAPTER 24

When I open my eyes, dappled sunlight streams through the window. I am alone in what was once a lovely bedroom with high ceilings and arched windows. My first thought is that Raffe has left me again. Panic flutters in my stomach. But it’s daylight, and I can handle myself in daylight, can’t I? And I know to head for San Francisco, if Raffe is to be believed. I give it a fifty-fifty chance.

I pad out of the room, down the hall and into the living room. With each step, I shed the remnants of my nightmare, leaving it behind in the dark where it belongs.

Raffe sits on the floor repacking my pack. The morning sun caresses his hair, highlighting strands of mahogany and honey hidden among the black. My shoulder muscles relax, their tension seeping out at the sight of him. He looks up at me, his eyes bluer than ever in the soft light.

For a moment, we look at each other without saying anything. I wonder what he sees as he watches me standing in the stream of golden light filtering through the windows.

I look away first. My eyes roam the room in an effort to find something else to look at and settle on a row of photos sitting on the fireplace mantel. I wander over there to give myself something to do other than stand awkwardly under his gaze.

There’s a family photo complete with mom, dad, and three kids. They are on a ski slope, all bundled up and looking happy. Another photo shows a sports field with the older boy in a football uniform doing a high-five with dad. I pick up one that shows the girl in a prom dress smiling at the camera with a cute guy in a tux.

The last photo is a close-up of the little kid hanging upside down on a tree branch. His hair spikes out below him and his mischievous smile shows two missing teeth.

The perfect family in a perfect house. I look around at what must have been a beautiful home. One of the windows is broken and rain has stained the hardwood floor in a big semi-circle in front of it. We are not the first visitors here, as evidenced by scattered candy wrappers in one of the corners.

My eyes drift back to Raffe. He is still watching me with those unfathomable eyes.

I put the photo back into its place. “What time is it?”

“Mid-morning.” He goes back to rummaging through my pack.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting rid of things we don’t need. Obidiah was right, we should have packed better.” He tosses a pot onto the hardwood floor. It clunks a couple of times before settling down.

“The place is cleaned out of food, every last scrap has been licked away,” he says. “But there’s still running water.” He lifts two filled water bottles. He’s found a green daypack for himself, and he puts one bottle in it, the other in mine.

“Want some breakfast?” He shakes the bag of cat food that I had carried in my pack.

I grab a handful of the dried kibbles on my way to the bathroom. I’m dying for a shower but there’s something too vulnerable about stripping down and soaping up right now, so I settle for an unsatisfactory wipedown, toweling around my clothes. I at least manage to wash my face and brush my teeth. I pull my hair back into a ponytail and prop a dark cap on it.

It’s going to be another long day and this time, we’ll be out in the sun. My feet are already sore and tired, and I wish I could have slept with my boots off. But I can see why Raffe didn’t bother to take them off, and I’m grateful for it. I wouldn’t have gotten far without my boots if I’d had to run into the forest.

By the time I come out of the bathroom, Raffe is ready to go. His hair is wet and dripping onto his shoulder, and his face is clean of blood. I doubt he took a shower any more than I did, but he looks fresh, much fresher than I feel.

There are no visible scars or wounds anywhere on him. He has changed from the bloodied jeans of yesterday into a pair of cargo pants that fit the curve of his body surprisingly well. He’s also found a long-sleeved T that echoes the deep blue of his eyes. It’s a little tight around his broad shoulders and a little loose around his torso, but he manages to make it look good.

I wish I could take the time to check out the wardrobe this house has to offer but I don’t want to waste the time. Even if Obi and his men aren’t out looking for us, Paige needs rescuing as soon as possible.

As we head out of the house, I wonder how my mother is doing. A part of me worries about her, a part of me is glad to be free of her, and all of me feels guilty for not taking better care of her. She’s like a wounded feral cat. No one can truly take care of her without locking her in a cage. She would hate that, and so would I. I hope she’s managed to stay far away from people. Both for her sake and theirs.

Raffe immediately turns right as soon as we get out of the house. I resume following him and hope he knows where we’re going. Unlike me, he seems to have no stiffness or limping. I think he’s adjusting to being on his feet. I don’t say anything about it because I don’t want to remind him why he’s walking instead of flying.

My pack feels much lighter. We won’t have anything we need should we need to camp outside, but I do feel better knowing I can run faster. I also feel better having a new pocketknife attached to my belt. Raffe found it somewhere and gave it to me as we headed out. I also found some steak knives and stuck a couple into my boots. Whoever lived here liked their steaks. These are high-quality, all-metal German knives. After holding these, I never want to go back to serrated tin with wooden handles.

It’s a beautiful day. The sky is a vivid blue above the redwoods and the air is cool but comfortable.

The sense of ease doesn’t last, though. My mind soon fills with worries of what might lurk in the forest, and about whether Obi’s men are hunting us. As we walk along the hillside, I catch glimpses of the gap in the forest where the road must be to our left.

Raffe stops in front of me. I follow his lead and hold my breath. Then I hear it.

Someone is crying. It’s not the brokenhearted wail of someone who’s just lost a family member. I’ve heard plenty of those in the last few weeks to know what they sound like. There is no shock or denial in the sound, just pure grief and the pain of accepting it as a lifelong companion.

Raffe and I exchange glances. Which is safer? Go up to the road to avoid the griever? Or stay in the forest and risk an encounter with him? Probably the latter. Raffe must think so too, because he turns and continues in the forest.

It’s not long before we see the little girls.

They hang from a tree. Not by their necks, but by ropes tied under their arms and around their chests.

One girl looks to be about Paige’s age and the other a couple of years older. That would make them seven and nine. The older girl’s hand still grips the younger girl’s dress like she had tried to hold the little girl up out of harm’s way.

They wear what look like matching striped dresses. It’s hard to tell now that the print is stained in blood. Most of the material has been ripped and shredded. Whatever gnawed on their legs and torso got full before it reached their chests. Or it was too low to the ground to reach them.

The worst by far are their tortured expressions. They were alive when they were eaten.

I double over and throw up kibble bits until I dry-heave.

All the while, a middle-aged man wearing thick glasses cries beneath the girls. He’s a scrawny guy, with the kind of look and presence that must have had him sitting alone in the cafeteria through his high school years. His entire body trembles with his sobs. A woman with red-rimmed eyes wraps her arms around him.

“It was an accident,” says the woman, soothing her hand over the man’s back.

“This was no accident,” says the man.

“We didn’t mean to.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“Of course it’s not okay,” she says. “But we’ll get through this. All of us.”

“Who’s worse? Him or us?”

“It’s not his fault,” she says. “He can’t help it. He’s the victim, not the monster.”

“We need to put him down,” he says. Another sob escapes him.

“You’d give up on him just like that?” Her expression turns fierce. She steps back from him.

He looks even more forlorn now that he’s unable to lean on her. But anger stiffens his spine. He flings his arm toward the hanging girls. “We fed him little girls!”

“He’s just sick, that’s all,” she says. “We just need to make him better.”

“How?” He hunches to look intensely into her face. “What are we going to do, take him to the hospital?”

She puts her hands on his face. “When we get him back, we’ll know what to do. Trust me.”

He turns from her. “We’ve gone too far. He’s not our boy anymore. He’s a monster. We’ve all become monsters.”

She cocks back her hand and slaps him. The crack of her palm against his cheek is as startling as a gunshot.

They continue to argue, completely ignoring us as if any danger we might pose is so irrelevant compared to what they’re dealing with that it’s not worth their energy to notice us. I’m not sure what they’re saying exactly, but dark suspicions edge my mind.

Raffe grabs my elbow and leads me downhill, around the mad people who ignore us and the half-chewed girls hanging grotesquely from the tree.

The acid in my stomach churns and threatens to come up again. But I swallow hard and force my feet to follow him.

I keep my gaze on the ground at Raffe’s feet, trying not to think about what’s just uphill from us. I catch a faint odor that clenches my stomach in a familiar way. I look around, trying to pinpoint the scent. It’s the sulfurous stench of rotten eggs. My nose leads me to a pair of eggs nestled in the dead leaves. They’re cracked in several places where I can catch a glimpse of the brown yolk inside. The stain of faded pink still shows on the delicate eggshell where someone had dyed it long ago.

I look uphill. From here, I have a perfect view of the hanging girls between the trees.

Whether my mother placed the eggs here as a protective talisman for us, or whether she is playing out the type of fantasy the old media would have headlined, “The Devil Made Me Do It,” I’ll never know. Both are equally possible now that she is completely off her meds.

My stomach cramps and I have to double over again to dry-heave.

A warm hand touches my shoulder, and a water bottle is thrust in front of me. I take a swig, swish it around, then spit it out. The water lands on the eggs, tilting them with the force of my ejection. One egg oozes dark yolk down its side like old blood. The other wobbles unevenly down the hill until it rests safely against a tree root, its pink tint darkened by wetness, like the flush of guilt.

A warm arm circles my shoulder and helps me stand up. “Come on,” says Raffe. “Let’s go.”

We walk away from the damaged eggs and the hanging girls.

I lean into his strength until I realize what I’m doing. I pull back abruptly. I don’t have the luxury of leaning on anyone’s strength, least of all an angel’s.

My shoulder feels cold and vulnerable once his warmth is gone.

I bite the inside of my cheek to give myself something more demanding to feel.