“My sword would never hurt me. And my sword is the only one you can wield. ” He gently plucks out another broken feather and lays it on the blanket.
“How’s that?”
“You need permission to use an angel sword. It’ll weigh a ton if you try to lift it without permission. ”
“But you never gave me permission. ”
“You don’t get permission from the angel. You get it from the sword. And some swords get grouchy just for asking. ”
“Yeah, right. ”
He runs his hand over the feathers, feeling for broken ones. Why doesn’t he look like he’s kidding?
“I never asked permission and I managed to lift the sword no problem. ”
“That’s because you wanted to throw it to me so I could defend myself. Apparently, she took that as permission asked and given. ”
“What, it read my mind?”
“Your intentions, at least. She does that sometimes. ”
“O-kay. Right. ” I let it go. I’ve heard plenty of wacky things in my time and you just have to learn to roll with them without directly challenging the person spewing the weirdness. Challenging weirdness is a pointless and sometimes dangerous exercise. At least, it is with my mom. I must say, though, that Raffe is even more inventive than my mother.
“So. . . you want me to bandage your back?”
“Why?”
“To try to keep infection out,” I say, rummaging through my pack for the first aid kit.
“Infection shouldnt be a problem. ”
“You cant be infected?”
“I should be resistant to your germs. ”
The words “should” and “your” catches my attention. We know next to nothing about the angels. Any information might give us an advantage. Once we organize again, that is.
It occurs to me that I might be in the unprecedented position of being able to glean some intelligence on them. Despite what the gang leaders would have the rest of us believe, angel parts are always taken from dead or dying angels, I’m sure of it. What I would do with angel intel, I don’t know. But it can’t hurt to gain a little knowledge.
Tell that to Adam and Eve.
I ignore the cautionary voice in my head. “So…are you immunized or something?” I try to make my voice casual as though the a
nswer means nothing to me.
“Its probably a good idea to bandage me up anyway,” he says, sending me a clear signal that he knows that Im fishing for information. “I can probably pass for human so long as my wounds are covered. ” He pulls out a broken feather, putting it reluctantly into a growing pile.
I use up the last of the first aid supplies to patch up his wounds. His skin is like silk-covered steel. Im a little rougher than I need to be because it helps keep my hands steady.
“Try not to move around too much so you dont bleed again. The bandages arent that thick and blood will soak through pretty quickly. ”
“No problem,” he says. “Shouldnt be too hard not to move around as we run for our lives. ”
“I’m serious. Thats the last of our bandages. Youll have to make them last. ”
“Any chance we can find more?”
“Maybe. ” Our best chance is from first aid kits in houses, since the stores are either cleaned out or claimed by gangs.
We fill up my water bottle. I didn’t have much time to pack supplies from the office. The supplies I carried with me are a random assortment. I sigh, wishing I’d had time to pack more food. Other than the single dried noodle cup, we’re out except for the handful of fun-sized chocolates I’m saving for Paige. We share the noodles, which is about two bites per person. By the time we leave the cottage, it is mid-morning. The first place we hit is the main house.
I have high hopes of a stocked kitchen, but one glance at the gaping cupboards in the sea of granite and stainless steel tells me well have to scrounge for leftovers. Rich people may have lived here, but even the rich didn’t have enough currency to buy food once things got bad. Either they ate all the food they could before packing up and hitting the road, or they took it with them. Drawer after drawer, cupboard after cupboard, there is nothing but crumbs.
“Is this edible?” Raffe stands at the kitchen entrance, framed by the Mediterranean archway. He could easily be at home in a place like this. He stands with the fluid grace of an aristocrat whos used to rich surroundings. Although the quarter-bag of cat food he’s holding up does mess with the image a little.
I dip my hand into the bag and bring out a few pieces of red and yellow kibbles. I pop them in my mouth. Crunchy, with a vaguely fishy taste. I pretend theyre crackers as I chew and swallow. “Not exactly gourmet, but it probably wont kill us. ”
Thats the best we can do in the food department, but we do find supplies in the garage. A backpack that doubles as a duffle bag, which is great since he cant carry a backpack right now but might be able to later. A couple of boys sleeping bags all rolled and ready to go. No tent, but there are flashlights with extra batteries. A slick camp knife thats more expensive than any Ive ever managed to buy. I give mine to Raffe and keep this one for myself.