Her eyes drift over my shoulder. I’m not sure what she’s looking at or what she’s thinking, but she takes a small step forward, and that has to be a good thing.
“There’s something else I know,” I add to drive the point home.
She pulls her eyes back to me. “What’s that?”
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I’ve looked for you around every corner, on every street, in every building I walked into over the last two weeks.”
She draws in a shaky breath and takes my hand. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you either.”
“Go out with me?” I ask again.
“Okay,” she says immediately.
I feel my heart rate spike. “Okay?”
She smiles and nods.
I smile.
And I swear someone in the back, maybe Brittany, gives a little whoop.
Juliette laughs and presses in closer. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“Because I could be a serial killer?” I say, hooking an arm around her waist, suddenly glad she didn’t take my offer to sit down. If she had, I wouldn’t be able to do this. I pull her forward until her body is snug against mine and curl my free hand around the back of her neck.
“Something like that.”
“Juliette?”
“Yeah?” she breathes.
I brush my nose against hers. Her sweet, minty breath fans my face. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
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ONE MORE STEP would mean certain death.
I could feel it in my bones.
“You cannot feel it in your bones,” my best friend, Trystan tells me as we stand on the ledge, peering out at the city below.
Way, way below.
“That’s not what I was thinking,” I lie. That’s exactly what I was thinking.
And it's creepy he knows that. But he has been my best friend forever. We were raised together. Went to school together. Are going to college together. We learned how to fly together.
Wait... did I not mention we were death angels?
Hmm... Maybe I should’ve.
But anyway, Trystan and I are death angels that live in a world full of all sorts of different magical creatures. We have wings and everything. Mine are lavender while his are silver and black. And despite contrary belief that probably stems from our species name, we can die. In fact, there have been many reported deaths among my kind.
“There haven’t been that many deaths,” Trystan says, the feathers of his wings moving against the wind along with wisps of his inky black hair.
“There’s been some, though.” I blast him a dirty look, knowing I’m being kind of ridiculous, but my fear is owning me right now. “And will you stop doing that?”
"Doing what?" he says innocently, but I can see all over his face that he knows exactly what I'm talking about.
Because I can read him as well as he can read me.
I put my hands on my hips, my violet hair dancing around. “You keep saying everything I’m thinking.”
He chuckles softly, squinting against the silver sunlight. “Yeah, well, it’s not my fault you’re so easy to read.”
“I’m not easy to read.”
“You are to me, little angel.”
My jaw ticks. “You know I hate it when you call me that. I’m not even little anymore.”
I was once, though. Like really small. In fact, the other angels at school called me a runt. I was teased relentlessly. And bullied. And there was one incident in particular that led to my phobia of heights.
I had been around eight years old when a group of angels I went to school with decided they didn't really believe I was one of them. I was so small, and I rarely took my wings out, mostly because I'm the only angel with lavender wings. That made me seem like more of a freak and they believed that because of this, I must not