“Where did they take my sister?”
The briefest emotion flickers in his eyes, gone so fast that I can’t identify it. “How the hell should I know?”
“Because you’re one of the stinking bastards.”
“Ooh. You cut me to the bone with that one.” He sounds bored, and I’m almost embarrassed by my lack of a stronger insult. “Didn’t you notice I wasn’t exactly chummy with the other fellas?”
“They’re not ‘fellas.’ They’re not anywhere near human. They’re nothing but leaking sacks of mutated maggots, just like you.” Lookswise, he and the other angels I’d seen were closer to living Adonises, complete with god-like faces and presence. But inside, they were maggots for sure.
“Leaking sacks of mutated maggots?” He raises his perfectly arched eyebrow as though I’d just failed my verbal insult exam.
In response, I cut through several feathers of his wing with a cruel snap of my scissors. Snowy down floats gently onto my boots. Instead of satisfaction, I feel a wave of uneasiness at the expression on his face. His fierce expression reminds me that he had been outnumbered five to one by his enemies, and he had nearly won. Even hogtied and wingless, he sure could give an intimidating look.
“Try doing that again, and I’ll snap you in half before you know it.”
“Big words from a guy who’s trussed up like a turkey. What are you going to do, wobble over here like an upside-down turtle to snap me in half?”
“The logistics of breaking you are easy. The only question is when.”
“Right. If you could do it, you would have done it already.”
“Maybe you entertain me.” He says with supreme confidence as if he’s in control of the situation. “Like a monkey with an attitude and a pair of scissors.” He relaxes and rests his chin on the couch.
A flush of anger heats my cheeks. “You think this is a game? You think you wouldn’t be dead already if it wasn’t for my sister?” I practically yell this last part. I viciously chop through more of the feathers. The once exquisite perfection of the wing is now tattered and jagged at the edges.
His head pops back up from the couch, the tendons on his neck straining so hard that I wonder just how weak he really is. The muscles in his arms flex, and I start worrying about the strength of the bindings around his limbs.
“Penryn?” My mother’s voice floats through the door. “Are you all right?”
I look to make sure the door is locked.
When I look back at the couch, the angel is gone, with only shreds of duct tape where he should be.
I feel a breath on my neck as the scissors are snatched out of my hand.
“I’m fine, Mom,” I say with a surprising degree of calm. Having her nearby will only endanger her. Telling her to run will probably make her freak in panic. The only sure thing is that her response will be unpredictable.
A well-muscled arm slides around my throat from behind and begins to squeeze.
Grabbing his arm around my neck, I tuck my chin down hard, trying to transfer the pressure of his arm onto my chin rather than my throat. I have about twenty seconds to get out of this before either my brain shuts off or my windpipe collapses.
I crouch as low as I can. Then I spring backward, slamming us both into the wall. The impact is harder than if he’d weighed as much as a normal man.
I hear an “Oof” and the clattering of photo frames, and I know those gashes on his back must be screaming from the sharp frame edges.
“What’s that noise?” my mother demands.
The arm squeezes viciously around my throat, and I decide the term, “angel of mercy,” is an oxymoron. Not wasting my energy on fighting the choke, I gather all my energy for another slam into the wall. The least I can do is cause a lot of pain while he takes me out.
This time, his groan of pain is sharper. I would get a lot of satisfaction out of that, except that my head is feeling light and spotty.
One more slam and dark spots bloom all over my vision.
Just as I realize my vision is going out, he loosens his grip. I fall to my knees, gasping for air through my raw throat. My head feels too heavy on my neck, and it’s all I can do to not fall flat on the floor.
“Penryn Young, you open this door right now!” The doorknob jiggles. My mother must have been calling out all this time, but it hadn’t really registered.
The angel groans like he’s in real pain. He crawls past me and I see why. His back bleeds through the bandages in spots that look like puncture wounds. I glance behind me at the wall. Two oversized nails that used to hold up the framed Yosemite poster stick out from the wall, their heads dripping with blood.
The angel is not the only one in bad shape. I can’t seem to take a breath without doubling over in a coughing fit.
“Penryn? Are you okay?” My mom sounds worried. What she imagines is happening in here, I can’t begin to guess.
“Yeah,” I croak. “It’s okay.”