World After (7 page)

I could stop and fight. But my chances are pretty poor against three men with weapons.

I don’t like any of my options.

I run as fast and as far as I can go. My lungs burn and I’m getting a stitch in my side, but the closer I can get to Obi’s building, the better the chance that Obi’s men will see us and stop the attackers.

When my back prickles, telling me they’re getting too close, I turn around and pull out my sword.

Damn, I sure wish I knew how to use it.

The men skid to a stop and fan out around me.

One lifts his bat to striking position. Another pulls out two hammers from his coat pockets. The third pulls out the kitchen knife from his belt.

I am so screwed.

People pause to watch—a few faces through the windows, a mother and child at an open doorway, an older couple under an awning.

“Get Obi’s men,” I whisper-shout to the couple.

They grip each other tightly and hide behind a post.

I hold out my sword like a light saber. It’s about the only sword knowledge I have. I’ve trained with knives, but a sword is a whole other animal. I guess I could bludgeon them with it like a bat. Or maybe if I throw it at them, I might get a chance to run.

But there’s a gleam in their eyes that tells me this isn’t just about getting a pretty weapon off an easy target.

I start shifting to the side to line them up in a row so they’ll get in each other’s way if they rush me all at once. But before I can position myself, one of the guys throws a hammer at me.

I duck.

They pounce.

Then everything happens so fast I can barely absorb what’s going on.

I don’t have room to swing so I ram one of the attackers with the sword’s hilt. I feel the crunch of his ribs as he goes down.

I try to swing the blade at the other men but hands grab me and shove me off balance. I brace for a major hit, hopefully from the bat and not the hammer.

Just my luck, both weapons go up together, one in each man’s hand. The bat and the hammer are black cutouts against the twilight sky in that heartbeat moment before they come down for a smashing blow.

A growling blur crashes into the men, knocking them both to the ground.

One of them gapes down at himself. Blood seeps across his shirt. He looks around bewildered.

All our eyes land on the crouching, growling thing in the shadows that looks like it’s about to pounce again.

When the thing steps out of the dark, I see the familiar flower-print dress, tights, and pink sneakers of my sister.

A zip-up hoodie hangs off her shoulders and her hair streaks down her face, giving glimpses of her angry stitches and razor
teeth. Paige stalks around the men like a hyena, bent almost on all fours.

“What the hell,” says one of the attackers from the ground, crab-crawling backwards.

It’s freaking me out to see her like this. With all the slashes on her face and the metal shining on her teeth, she looks like a nightmare come to life, one I should be running from. I can tell the others think so too.

“Shh,” I say hesitantly reaching out toward Paige. “It’s okay.”

She growls a low guttural sound. She’s about to pounce on one of the guys.

“Easy, kiddo,” I say. “I’m fine. Let’s just get out of here, okay?”

She doesn’t even look at me. Her lip twitches as she eyes her prey.

There are too many people watching.

“Paige, put on your hood,” I whisper. I don’t care what the attackers think, but I worry about the stories the spectators might spread.

To my surprise, Paige pulls up her hood. Some of the tension eases from my muscles. She’s aware and listening to me.

“It’s okay,” I whisper inching toward her, fighting my instincts to run from her. “These bad men are going to go away and leave us alone.”

The men get up, never taking their eyes off Paige. “Get that freak away from me,” says one. “That thing’s not human.”

My mother has snuck up on the attackers without any of us noticing. “She’s more human than you could ever be.”

She shoves her cattle prod into his ribs. He jerks away from her with a muffled yelp.

“She’s more human than any of us.” Mom has a way of whispering that gives the impression of yelling.

“That thing needs to be put down,” says the guy who was holding the bat.

“You need to be put down,” says my mother, approaching him with her prod.

“Get the hell away from me.” Without his bat and his buddies backing him up, he looks like a regular-sized guy with less than regular courage.

My mom jabs her prod at him, zapping it in the air.

He jumps back, narrowly escaping. “You’re all goddamn crazy.” He turns and runs.

My mother runs after him as he scurries into a building.

That dude is not going to have a good evening.

I sheath my sword with hands trembling from the post-fight adrenaline. “Come on, Paige. Let’s go inside.”

Paige walks ahead of me. With her hood up, she looks like a docile little girl. But the couple under the awning isn’t fooled. They saw what happened and they stare at Paige with wide eyes, terrified. I wonder how many others are doing the same?

I almost put my hand on her shoulder but can’t quite do it. I let my hand drop without touching her.

We walk into our building with the weight of watching eyes on our backs.

T
HAT
NIGHT
I have a bizarre dream.

I’m in a village made of clay huts with thatched roofs. There’s a huge bonfire that lights up the night and everyone is eating, drinking, and running around in costumes. Music shrieks and people gyrate around the fire, throwing things into it.

All the hallmarks of a festivity are here but the people are too alert. They steal glances behind themselves into the darkness, and there are only a few shrill laughs. The big bonfire throws long shadows against the hillside that shift and twist like sinister beings.

Maybe I’m getting spooked because people are in monster costumes that are a little too organic for my taste. There’s no rubber and plastic to remind me that it’s just a costume. These people are wearing pelts, animal heads, and claws that look too real for comfort.

Raffe is nearby in the shadows, standing tall with his snowy wings halfway open. It’s breathtaking to see his broad shoulders and muscular arms haloed by his own wings. It makes me sad to know that outside of this dream, he doesn’t have them anymore.

The villagers look at him, especially when they walk by, but their glances are not shocked and fearful like I’d expect. They act
as if they’re used to seeing angels and don’t pay him much attention. At least the men don’t.

The women, on the other hand, are gathering around him. Somehow, I’m not too surprised.

The women wear dark dresses that look like stage curtains. Their faces are made up with black circles around their eyes and bloody red lips. One has devils’ horns. Some have claws attached to their hands. Others wear goatskins complete with hooves and horns, and makeup to match.

They look bizarrely barbaric, and the shifting light of the fire adds to their savage appearance. Despite his wings, Raffe is the only one who looks “normal.”

Weirdly, my dream mind picks up on some of Raffe’s thoughts. I see humans the way he sees them, alien and bestial. Compared to the perfection of angels, these Daughters of Men are ugly and smell like pigs. He tries to imagine what his Watchers could possibly have seen in them. He can’t see anything worth risking a minor reprimand for, much less the Pit.

Even if he could get past their looks and behavior, they’re wingless. How could his angels stomach that?

“Where are our husbands?” asks one of the women. She speaks a guttural language I wouldn’t normally understand except that, in my dream, I do.

“They’ve been condemned to the Pit for marrying Daughters of Men.” His voice is controlled but there’s an undertone of anger. They had been his best warriors and good friends.

The women begin crying. “For how long?”

“Until Judgment Day when they’ll finally get their trial. You won’t see them again.”

The women cry in each other’s arms.

“What about our children?”

Raffe stays silent. How does one tell a mother that he’s here to hunt and kill her babies? He came to earth to spare his Watchers
the pain of having to hunt down their own children. Even if they were nephilim—monsters who eat human flesh—what kind of twisted punishment is that for a father? He couldn’t allow it, not for his soldiers.

“Are you here to punish us?”

“I’m here to protect you.” He wasn’t planning to protect the wives. But the Watchers begged him. Begged. He couldn’t fathom the idea of his fiercest warriors begging for anything, much less for Daughters of Men.

“From what?”

“The Watchers’ wives have been given to the hellions. They’ll be coming for you tonight. We need to get you someplace safe. Let’s go.”

I look around at all the costumes and the bonfire and realize that this must be some ancient version of Halloween when monsters and demons supposedly roamed the streets. They’ll be coming in force tonight.

The women clutch at each other in fright.

“I told you to stay out of the business of gods and angels,” says a gray-haired woman who holds a younger woman protectively. She’s dressed in a lamb’s skin, complete with the head that drapes over her forehead. It has fangs attached to it like some kind of saber-toothed beast.

Raffe begins walking away from the village. “Either come with me or stay. I can only help those who want to be helped.”

The older woman pushes her daughter toward Raffe. The others follow, huddling together and rushing to keep up like some weird menagerie.

Music builds near the bonfire as we walk away from it. The tempo speeds up and the beat throbs until the women’s breathing matches it.

Just as I think the crescendo will crest, the music stops.

A baby cries into the night.

Then it suddenly stops in the middle of a wail. It ends too abruptly to be natural, and the sharp silence makes the hair on my arms curl.

A woman cries out brokenheartedly. There’s no surprise to it, just pain and mourning.

It makes me want to both run to the fire to see if the baby is all right and to run away from these barbaric villagers. They seem mostly unsurprised and unaffected by whatever is happening near the fire, as if this is part of their normal ritual.

I want to tell Raffe that we’re not all like these people. That
I’m
not like these people. But I’m just a ghost in my own dream.

Raffe quietly pulls out his sword, on full alert.

They’re coming.

Just as the music begins again, this time accompanied by chanting, Raffe spins to look behind him.

The hillside slithers with shadows.

C
ROUCHED
AND
LOPING.
Stunted black wings. The shapes of emaciated men.

I don’t know what they are, but my primal brain recognizes them, because even in my dream, my heart speeds up and my instincts whisper
run, run, run.

The shadows leap toward us.

Two of them land on a woman, knocking her down. They claw at her. She begs Raffe with her terrified eyes.

One of his warriors loved this Daughter of Man. Gave up his whole life for her. Worried over her even as he was being condemned to the Pit. The why of it is beyond Raffe’s comprehension, but that doesn’t stop his compassion from blooming.

Raffe kicks off a hellion that lands on him and swings his sword at the demons attacking the woman.

Then a strange thing happens.

Strange even for this dream.

Raffe goes into slow motion.

And so does everything else—except for me.

I’ve never had a slow-mo dream before. I can see almost every muscle as Raffe shifts his sword and cuts into the hellions that are clawing at the fallen woman.

As one screeches its death cry, I get a decent look. It has a bat-like face, squished and wrinkled, with sharp fangs. Pretty damn ugly if you ask me.

I’m about to put up my hand instinctively to block the slow-mo blood coming my way, when I realize that Raffe’s sword is also in my hands even though he is already using it.