Lots of distraction—that’s good. Murderous angels everywhere—that’s bad.
That’s about as far as my frozen brain will go.
Beliel climbs onto the stage and shoves his way through the angels surrounding Uriel.
The screams, the yells, the smell of blood all assault me. My brain and muscles want to seize up and it takes everything I’ve got to keep myself from vaulting into the lethal crowd like Andi did. My choices are to stand here until angels converge on me or run into the slaughter and hope against hope that I can sneak out of here.
I’ve never had a panic attack and I’m hoping I’m not about to now. But I’m hyper-aware of what a flimsy, inconsequential creature I am compared to these demigods. Did I think for a second that I could have my own agenda among them? That I could beat any of them? I’m a little nobody, a nothing. By all the laws of nature, I should be crawling under a table and crying for mommy.
Only, relying on mommy is what other people do.
I get cold comfort from that. I’ve always been on my own and I’ve managed okay so far, haven’t I?
In my head, I run through a list of vulnerable body parts that makes size and strength irrelevant. Eyes, throat, groin, knees—even the biggest, toughest men have vulnerable spots that take very little force to damage. This thought soothes me enough that I can start looking for a way out.
As I survey the scene with a little less panic, I notice someone new on the stage stairs.
Raffe stands on the steps, as still as a statue, watching me.
In the twilight, his white-wing covering sparkles like stars in the summer sky. I never would have guessed that beneath that covering lies a pair of scythe-edged demon wings.
Does he recognize me yet?
Uriel’s group begins leaping off the stage and taking to the air like a multi-winged organism. Beliel is the last to leave. He opens his stolen wings to their full glory and starts to beat the air.
Raffe leaps and tackles him.
They slam onto the stage with a bang, but no one notices one more pair of warriors fighting.
We are now the only ones left on stage. Below us is the shrieking slaughter. Above us is the seemingly never-ending mass of scorpions thundering through their flyby. In between, it’s a drunken ang
el free-for-all with some even having mid-air collisions.
A bloodied angel thunks onto the stage from above.
So much blood streaks from him that it splashes onto my dress. His shoulder is badly ripped like he got scraped against the pointy tip of a lamppost. But he doesn’t seem to notice as he jumps up, instantly ready for more.
I become acutely aware that I’m the only human around.
Chpater 57
WHAT I wouldn’t give for Raffe’s sword right now.
The bloody angel takes a step toward me.
I snatch a high-class steak knife from the table and kick off my heels.
Or I try to.
One of my heels refuses to come off without a helping hand. Either my foot has swelled or the shoe was too small for me.
I don’t know a single fighting art that doesn’t require good footwork, and I’m pretty sure that having one bare foot and one in high heels is not a recommended technique.
My dress is also a problem. It’s full length and shapely. It looks great but doesn’t exactly give me enough room to kick. My legs are the strongest part of my body and I’m not about to hobble myself in a fight for the sake of modesty. I slit my knife through a seam, ripping the skirt all the way to my thigh.
I angle the knife so it’ll slip between his ribs when I stab.
The throat is a better target but I’m too short to go for that with this beast. At least not on the first thrust. The second move, after he’s taken a hit, is another story.
He almost smiles at my knife as if that just adds more fun. He raises an eyebrow when he sees that I’m holding it like I know how to use it. But his sword stays untouched in its scabbard as if this massacre and brawl don’t merit the use of his sword.
His eyes are focused on my knife and face. Easy to do since my hands are up near my face in a fighter stance.
But my heel is still on my back foot, several inches higher than my front foot. No way can I have decent footwork limping around like this. So I do the only thing I can do.
I kick him in the face point blank with my high heel.
He wasn’t expecting that.
The angel flies back off the stage.
“It really is you,” says Raffe.
He’s staring at me, stunned. His fist is mid-air but paused in the middle of pummeling the hell out of Beliel who is bloody and staggering.
He starts a slow smile that melts my bones.
Beliel interrupts the moment by butting him in the head.
Raffe staggers back.
Beliel takes a good look at me. He smiles like he now knows a secret. His teeth are covered in blood dripping from his gums.
He jumps off the stage, sweeping his wings.
Raffe leaps and grabs Beliel’s leg. He yanks back, keeping him from taking flight. Raffe is about to get his wings back.
I yank off my remaining shoe, ready to dive in and help him.
Before I can move, though, the bloody angel I kicked off stage drags himself back up from the mass of seething bodies.
Boy, does he look pissed.
My heel caught him in the nose, which now looks exploded on his face. His once festive mask is now like something out of a horror flick.