He sighs, seeming tired. “Use it as a crutch, what do you think?”
There is a moment when a decision hangs in the air. The truth is that he doesn’t need the sword to beat me now that he’s free and on his feet. He could just take it, and we both know it.
“I saved your life,” I say.
He arches an eyebrow. “Questionable.”
“Twice.”
He finally drops the hand that had been reaching for the sword. “You’re not going to give me back my sword, are you?”
I grab Paige’s wheelchair, stick the sword in the seatback pocket. So long as he’s too tired to argue, I’m better off maintaining control. Either he really is exhausted, or he’s decided to just let me carry it for him like a knight’s little squire. By the way he glances at the sword with a half-grin, I’m guessing it’s the latter reason.
I wheel Paige’s chair around and roll out.
“I don’t think I’ll be needing that chair anymore,” says the angel. He sounds exhausted, and I’m willing to bet he wouldn’t say no if I offered to push him in the chair.
“It’s not for you. It’s for my sister.”
He is silent as we walk into the night, and I know he thinks Paige will never see the wheelchair.
He can go to hell.
CHAPTER 10
Silicon Valley is about half an hour by car from the forest in the hills. It’s also about 45 minutes away from San Francisco if you’re driving on the freeway. I figure the roads will be clogged with deserted cars and desperate people. So we head for the hills where there are fewer people and more places to hide.
Until a few weeks ago, rich people lived along the lower hills. They either lived in three bedroom ranch houses that cost a couple of million dollars, or in fairytale mansions that cost ten million dollars. We stay away from those, my logic being that they probably attract the wrong kind of visitors. Instead, we pick out a little guest house behind one of the estates. A not-too-fancy kind of guest house that won’t attract any attention.
The angel just follows me without comment, and that works fine for me. He hasn’t said much since we left the office building. It’s been a long night, and he can barely stand by the time we reach the cottage. We make it to the house just before the storm hits.
It’s strange. In some ways, he’s shockingly strong. He’s been beaten, mutilated and bleeding for days, yet he can still fight off several men at a time. He never seems to get cold despite being shirtless and jacketless. But the walking seems hard on him.
When we finally sit in the cabin as the rain starts, he eases off his boots. His feet are blistered and raw. They’re pink and vulnerable as though they haven’t been used much. Maybe they haven’t. If I had wings, I’d probably spend most of my time flying too.
I dig through my pack and find the small first aid kit. In it, there are some blister packs. They’re like adhesive bandages but bigger and tougher. I hand the packages to the angel. He opens one up and stares at it like he’s never seen one before.
He first looks at the skin colored side, which is a shade too light for him, then at the padded side, then back at the skin colored side again. He puts it up to his eye like a pirate’s eye patch and makes a grimace.
My lips crack into a quarter smile even though it’s hard for me to believe I can still smile. I grab it out of his hand. “Here, I’ll show you how to use it. Let me see your foot.”
“That’s a pretty intimate demand in the angel world. It usually takes dinner, some wine, and sparkling conversation for me to give up my feet.”
That calls for a witty comeback.
“Whatever,” I say.
Okay, so I won’t be getting the Witty Woman of the Year Award. “Do you want me to show you how to use this or not?” I sound surly. It’s the best I can do right now.
He sticks out his feet. Angry red spots scream for attention on his heel and big toes. One foot has a burst blister on the heel.
I look at my meager supply of blister packs. I’ll have to use them all on his feet and hope that my own will hold out. The small voice pipes up again as I gently place the adhesive around his burst blister: He won’t be with you for more than a couple of days. Why waste precious supplies on him?
He pulls a glass splinter out of his shoulder. He’s been doing that the whole time we’ve been walking, but he keeps finding more. If he hadn’t stepped in front of me when he broke through the window, I’d be peppered with glass shards too. I’m almost sure he didn’t protect me on purpose, but I can’t help but be grateful that he did.
I carefully soak up pus and blood with a sterile pad, even though I know that if he is going to get an infection, it would come from the deep wounds on his back, not from a few blisters on his feet. The thought of his lost wings make my hands more gentle than they would be otherwise.