around, a flash of shimmering apricot sky hurling past me.
And I’m not alone on the sidewalk any longer.
It’s Damien. On Main Street.
His wings are black and tattered, his form rife with thick, pink scars. Jagged fangs hang over his charred, scabby lips, but it’s his eyes that frighten me.
They’re wide open. Two black moonstones mounted in a melted face.
I stumble backward, colliding with a newspaper stand. On impact, the Celestial disappears along with Damien and his frightening stare.
I gasp and gasp. My elbow stings and my hands tremble, but now I’m certain.
It’s the lack of sleep or the anxiety brought on by the nightmares or . . . or . . . something.
Because Jake assured me Damien was long gone. That Canaan’s sword of light banished that demon to the pit of hell, where the Prince would leave him sweltering and burning—punishment for all the mistakes he made pursuing Jake.
Pursuing me.
I push away from the newspaper stand.
Jake wouldn’t lie to me.
There aren’t many things I’m certain of as I step into the Photo Depot, but that’s one of them. Jake’s integrity. His constancy.
“What happened to your arm?”
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead; a computerized photo sorter churns away behind Jake.
“My arm?” It takes my brain a second to register the question, but eventually I look down. That’s right. It does sting. Blood runs in several small streams from my elbow to my wrist, looking like the pole outside Fancy Hill’s Barber Shop.
We’re alone. No other customers. No fellow employees. Jake pushes through the swinging door that separates the front counter from the lobby of the Photo Depot.
“What did you do?” he asks.
“I’m okay,” I say, my brain sluggish. “Ran into the newspaper stand outside. Clumsy, I guess.”
“I think Kaylee’s rubbing off on you. You need to spend some time with the coordinated.”
I laugh, but it’s stiff and unnatural. “Are you offering?”
“Here, sit,” Jake says, lightly shoving me into a chair by the door. “We’ve got a first-aid kit in back.”
Seven and a half steps take him through a swinging door and behind the counter. Another two take him into a staff room.
“Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you really need a first-aid kit?”
His head pops into view again. He stands there for a minute, thinking, staring.
Blinking.
He’s been skittish to use his gift. In the six months since the warehouse, I’ve not seen him use it once. It’s not like he’s gone out of his way to avoid the injured, but he hasn’t gone searching for them either, and right now I need to see it. I need to be reminded that I’m not the only one gifted.
His face brightens, and a smile emerges. A small one, the one that sits there at the corner asking for a kiss. “No, I guess I don’t.”
He walks to the door and flips the sign to Closed. Then he reaches behind me and drops the blinds. Fleetingly, I wonder if there’s any chance Damien’s there. Any chance that this small act could cost us something. But Jake wouldn’t keep that from me. Wouldn’t risk something like that.
He walks back to my chair and lowers himself to his knees. He has an apron around his waist, which he unties and dumps on the carpet. An ink pen, a notepad, and a couple film canisters topple to the ground. He folds the apron into a square and wipes the blood from my arm.
Then he drops it between us and wraps a single hand around my bicep just above the elbow.
He’s warm. So very warm.
And I’m tired.
My eyes flutter and my head seems to have doubled in weight. I lean my forehead against his shoulder, his temple pressing against my cheek. His pulse quickens, and my arm burns. And then . . .
“It’s done,” Jake says. He runs his fingers down my arm and over my elbow. “Good as new.”
I don’t want to move.
I’ve missed this closeness.
I’ve needed it.
“Your dad came in today,” Jake says.
“You are so good at ruining these moments, you know that?”
“Sorry,” Jake says, picking up his apron and the things he emptied onto the floor.
I flex my arm, feeling the wholeness of it, the strength I didn’t know had gone. “What did Dad want?”
“Dropped off some film. Old stuff. 35mm. Demanded that Phil take his order, though. Wouldn’t look me in the face. It was kind of funny.”
My stomach rolls. “I don’t think that’s funny.”
“Anyway, he dropped off an order—hour photo—but he never came back to pick it up.” Jake stands. “I’ll get it and you can take it home