Light-headed, I blinked a few times to clear my vision. Although I didn’t see angels flying above me, nothing looked familiar, and the sun had set. I knew enough to know I shouldn’t be walking around at night. I didn’t know where to go other than forward.
I moved down the street, taking in the city threaded with narrow streets and glued-to-each-other two-story houses. It looked more like a town than a city, and the more I walked, the scarier it became. The buildings weren’t the same as in LA, the houses weren’t the same, the streets weren’t paved with asphalt. The saving grace? The angels, bare-chested and winged, left me alone.
Shivering, seeking warmth, I stuck my hand into my pocket. Why was it cold in August?
White dust started falling from the sky.
I extended my hand.
Not dust. A snowflake melted on my palm.
Why is there snow in south Cali? Winds swept the street. Cold seeped into my bones. In a tank top and loose torn pants, I nearly froze. Everyone walking past me was bundled up. I felt as if they’d all been here all along, and I’d just arrived.
But the glass in my arm…
It remained. The pain. My backpack and torn jeans. The image of the beautiful angel I’d seen kept coming up. I couldn’t unsee him, forget him.
Dizziness made me sway on my feet, and I leaned against someone’s door. When my legs wouldn’t hold me, I slumped. If I passed out, I’d freeze to death. Even knowing I had to keep moving, had to get home, didn’t make my body move. I could barely keep my eyes open. So I closed them.
As the door opened, I fell back and stared up into the most frightening pair of eyes I’d ever seen, shaped like cat’s, slanted at the corners, one deep brown and the other deep green. The urge to flee overcame me, and I tried to sit up, but couldn’t.
The man stared down at me and quirked his lip—like the golden angel had—showing no fang. Despite the scary eyes, the man was exceptionally beautiful, and completely human. No wings.
“Welcome, Julia. Crawl in.”
As if on strings, I sat up, holding my arm. A wave of dizziness hit me. The wind outside blew right through my bones. How did he know my name?
“Close the door, dear. Winter is not a season that makes me jolly.”
Chapter Two
If I left this house, I would die. I didn’t understand how I knew this, but I knew it with certainty. A tear escaped my eye. My parents would worry. Dad and I were supposed to raid the two homes, then meet back on the street. Mom and Nathan, my little brother, expected dinner. I hoped Dad got lucky at the house next door. There is no house next door, my brain supplied.
“You are bleeding on my rug,” the man said.
With a shaking hand, I pushed against the floor and tried standing. I couldn’t. The backpack slipped off my shoulder, and I moved it to the side, then crawled to my left into the living space and straight toward the fireplace. I lay before it, breathing hard and cradling my injured arm.
“And now you are bleeding on my Persian carpet.”
The door slammed closed, and I jumped. Who the fuck closed it? There must be another person in the house. Eyes on the hallway, I expected someone to come in or walk by, but saw nobody. The man cleared his throat and drew my attention back to him. He wore a black turtleneck sweater over black pants, sat on an oxblood Chesterfield couch, and propped his black boots on the wooden table before him. He held up a cup of hot liquid, steam licking his handsome face.
I swiped my tongue over my dry lips.
He looked from me to the tea, then shouted, “Evangeline!”
Soft footsteps descended the stairs, and a brunette about my age walked into the room. Her large brown eyes widened when she saw me, and she rushed back upstairs.
“You left the medical kit in the kitchen,” the man deadpanned. “Why am I always stuck with forgetful people, hm?”
Expecting an answer, he stared at me.
“Because memory is a tricky bitch,” I said, thinking only half an hour ago, the entire city had changed and nobody seemed to give a shit. Once my arm got better, I’d figure something out. For now, I’d sit here with the only stranger who offered me a warm place. I didn’t have a choice.
“Hustle, Eve,” the man shouted. “She’s gonna go belly up on my carpet.”
Dressed in jeans and a black sweater, Eve returned, a bundle of blankets and clothes in her hands. She threw the bundle at me and rushed away, then walked back into the living room with a black suitcase.
“Ah, she remembers where she left the kit. She went upstairs to grab you new clothes. I stand corrected.”
Eve rolled her eyes. Kneeling next to me, she opened the suitcase and rifled through it. I lifted my head to see medical supplies, gauze, tapes, bandages, creams. “Thank God,” I said.
The girl cut me a look as if I’d said something wrong. And maybe I had. The angels walked among us now, when just a month ago, my family and I had witnessed them tearing people apart. Everything had collapsed, and I felt like I’d slept through the worst of it and woken up centuries into the future.
Eve picked up my injured arm. Pain sliced up it, and I pinched my lips against crying out. She wrapped a cloth above the cut and yanked out the glass. I yelped and slapped a hand over my mouth, tears fogging my vision. Pain made me whimper. Blood gushed out of the wound, but Eve didn’t move to stop it.
“Eve will mend you, and in exchange, you will owe me a favor.”
“What kind of favor?” I gulped, not liking the sound of that.
