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.
CHAPTER 25
“What do you think they were doing?” I ask.
Raffe shrugs.
“Do you think they were feeding the low demons?”
“Maybe.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I’ve given up trying to make sense of humans.”
“We're not all like that, you know,” I say. I don't know why I feel I have to justify what we're like to an angel.
He just gives me a knowing look and keeps walking.
“If you ever saw us before the attack, you'd know,” I say stubbornly.
“I know,” he says, not even looking at me.
“How do you know?”
“I watched TV.”
I snort a laugh. Then I realize he's not joking. “For real?”
“Doesn't everybody?”
I guess everybody did. It was on the air for free. All they had to do was catch the signal and they’d know all about us. TV wasn’t exactly a manifesto of reality either, but it did reflect our greatest hopes and worst fears. I wonder how angels think of us, if they think of us at all.
I wonder what Raffe does in his spare time, other than watch TV. It’s hard to imagine him sitting down on his couch after a rough day at war, watching TV shows about humans to wind down. What’s his domestic life like?
“Are you married?” I instantly regret asking this question as it conjures up an image of him with a painfully beautiful angel wife with little cherubs running around some estate with Grecian pillars.
He pauses in his trek and glares at me as if I just said something totally inappropriate.
“Don't let my appearance fool you, Penryn. I am not human. The Daughters of Men are forbidden to Angels.”
“What about Daughters of Women?” I attempt a cheeky smile but it falls flat.
“This is serious business. Don’t you know your religious history?”
Most of what I know about religion is through my mother. I think about all the times she raved in tongues in the middle of the night in my room. She came in so often while I slept that I’d gotten into the habit of sleeping with my back to the wall so I could see her coming in without her knowing I was awake.
She’d sit on the floor beside my bed, rock back and forth in a trancelike state, gripping her Bible and speaking in tongues for hours. The nonsensical, guttural noises had the cadence of an angry chant. Or a curse.