“I’m not sure.” He wipes his sword on his shirt.
“They weren’t your kind, were they?”
“No.” He slides his sword back into its sheath.
“Well, they certainly weren’t mine. Is there a third option?”
“There’s always a third option.”
“Like freaky, evil demons? I mean, even more evil than angels?”
“Angels aren’t evil.”
“Right. Gee, how could I have forgotten? Oh, wait. Maybe I got my wacky idea from that whole attack-and-destroy maneuver you guys pulled.”
He heads back out into the forest through the far side of the clearing. I hustle after him.
“Why did you chase those things?” I ask. “We could have been miles away before they changed their minds and came back for us.”
He responds without turning around to look at me. “They’re too close to something that shouldn’t exist. Let something like that get away, and they’ll only come back to haunt you. Believe me, I know.”
He speeds up. I trot after him, practically clinging to him. I don’t want to be left alone in the dark again. He gives me a sidelong glance.
“Don’t even think about it,” I say. “I’m sticking to you like a wet shirt, at least until daylight.” I resist reaching out and grabbing his shirt for guidance in the dark.
“How’d you get to me so fast?” I ask. It must have been seconds from the time I screamed to the time he showed up.
He continues to trek through the woods.
I open my mouth to repeat the question, but he speaks over me. “I was tracking you.”
I stop in surprise. He keeps going so I run after him to make sure he’s only two steps ahead of me. All kinds of questions float in my head but it’s no use asking them all. I keep it simple. “Why?”
“I said I would make sure you got back to camp safely.”
“I wasn’t going back to camp.”
“I noticed.”
“You also said that you’d take me to the aerie. Leaving me alone in the dark was your idea of taking me there?”
“It was my idea of encouraging you to be sensible and go back to camp. Apparently, sensible is not part of your vocabulary. What are you complaining about anyway? I’m here, aren’t I?”
It’s hard to argue against that. He did save my life. We walk in silence for awhile as I chew that over.
“So your blood must taste god-awful to ward off those things,” I say.
“Yes, that was a little weird, wasn’t it?”
“A little weird? That was freakin’ Bizarroville.”
He pauses and looks back at me. “Are you speaking English?”
I open my mouth to make a smart comeback but he interrupts.
“Let’s keep it quiet, shall we? There may be more out there.” That shuts me up.
Exhaustion hits me, probably some kind of post-trauma something or another. I figure having company in the dark, even if it is an angel, is as good as I can hope for tonight. Besides, for the first time since I started this nightmare trek through the woods, I don’t have to worry about whether I’m going in the right direction. Raffe walks confidently in a straight line. He never hesitates, subtly adjusting our route here and there to get around some gorge or meadow.
I don’t question whether he actually knows where he’s going. The illusion that he does is enough to comfort me. Maybe angels have a special sense of direction the way birds do. Don’t they always know which way to migrate and how to get back to their nest, even if they can’t see it? Or maybe that’s just my desperation making up stories to make myself feel better, like a mental version of whistling in the dark.
I quickly become hopelessly lost and exhausted to the point of delirium. After hours of trudging through the woods in the dark, I start to wonder if maybe Raffe is a fallen angel leading me into hell. Maybe when we finally reach the aerie, I’ll realize it’s actually underground in a cave filled with fire and sulfur, with people skewered and roasting. It would explain a few things, anyway.
I hardly notice when he leads us into a house nestled in the woods. By that point, I feel like a walking zombie. We crunch over broken glass and some animal scurries away, disappearing into the shadows. He finds a bedroom. He pulls off my pack and gently shoves me onto the bed.
The world fades out the instant my head touches the pillow.
~
I dream that I’m fighting again by the laundry barrels. We’re soaked in laundry suds. My hair is dripping and my clothes cling, as wet T-shirts will do. Anita is pulling my hair and screeching.
The crowd is too close, hardly giving us room to fight. Their faces are contorted, showing too much teeth and too much white around their eyes. They yell things like “Rip off her shirt!” or “Tear off her bra!” One guy keeps yelling frantically, “Kiss her! Kiss her!”