Chapter 1

I lay in the middle of the street waiting for a car to come and end it. I was far too lazy to do it myself, so I rested on the cold pavement waiting for a complete stranger to do it for me. But of course, no one came. No one ever came. Mostly because no one ever drove down that street, especially at that time of night. My half-hearted attempt to kill myself was one more in an already long list of failed attempts.

I’m a freak, I thought to myself.

It wasn’t a self-deprecating comment—it was the truth. Humans would say I was far from normal. But then, I was never a huge fan of humans, so I couldn’t have cared less what they thought. What I did care about, however, was being discovered. If the majority of humans knew I existed, it would destroy their feeble sense of reality. After all, a six-foot tall female with large gray wings wasn’t something one saw every day.

“What the hell are you doing down there?”

I opened my eyes and found Sean standing over me. His slightly hefty body leaned down as he stared into my eyes with a look of consternation I’d grown to recognize over the years.

“Someone’s going to see you out here. Are you nuts?” he barked.

“Go away,” I said stubbornly, shutting my eyes.

“Why are you lying in the street? Trying to kill yourself again?”

I sighed heavily. I knew he meant well, but he was forever sneaking up on me and pissing me off.

“None of your damn business.” I opened my eyes and pushed myself up off the ground as he moved to the side, giving me some room.

“When are you going to realize it’s never going to work?” he asked. It was less of a question than an observation and was something he said every time I failed to die.

“I’m not a quitter,” I replied with sarcasm dripping from my voice.

I dusted myself off and shook the dirt out of my mop of hair.

“You’re an idiot.” Sean sighed, shaking his head. He reached over and pulled a twig out of my locks. “What brings you to my part of town anyway?”

I shrugged, honestly not sure what had drawn me to his trailer park. There were no street lights nearby, so the evening brought complete darkness. Nothing but the stars and moon in the sky to light my way. It was my favorite time to fly, and the safest, but it also forced me to reflect on everything in my life as I soared through the air. Somehow, I always seemed to end up on the ground at the end of his road, face up, staring at the stars, hoping and praying that a car would drive through and finally end my nightmare.

But it never worked. Dying wasn’t meant to be. Believe me, it wasn’t for a lack of trying. It had become a test in futility throughout the years. I played the odds, hoping perhaps one day I might succeed. I’d jumped off of buildings, impaled myself with iron rods, cut my wrists—you name it, I tried it. And each time, I suffered excruciating pain which was then followed by a sudden onset of healing as if the injuries never occurred.

It’s no wonder I felt like a failure.

“Well, since you’re not dead, why don’t you come inside? I just made a batch of chili. Ya hungry?” Sean didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and headed up the street toward his single-wide, knowing full well that I’d follow.

I begrudgingly made my way up his front steps and into his cramped house on wheels. He liked to collect anything and everything. Comic books, graphic novels, action figures, and collectibles littered his tiny home. He was a guy in his late-thirties, but his house looked an awful lot like it belonged to someone in his late teens. His coffee table was covered in comics and gamer magazines, and his end table was nothing but dirty dishes and take-out containers. His sofa was old and ugly with protruding springs precariously poking out through the fabric here and there. It was bright orange with large, brown leaves and worn in specific areas from years of sitting in the same spot, playing hours and hours of video games.

I had never understood how people could waste their time on such trivial things. But then, I wasn’t normal.

The sisters at the Order of St. Benedict had known I wasn’t normal, as well. I was just a little girl when I landed at their door. They saw I was afraid, unable to stop shaking. One of them had stepped forward to help take off my rather bulky coat. As my jacket slipped off my shoulders, everyone’s eyes became large with fear. The nuns dropped to their knees and began to pray at the sight of my wings, fearing I was a demon. I quickly backed myself into a corner and began to cry. It was only then that a nun by the name of Sister Mary Frances took pity on me and declared that someone so innocent could scarcely be evil. She scooped me into her arms and comforted me in her lap until I fell asleep.

As I was growing up, she often told me that I was a miracle child sent by God and was destined for great things—that I was blessed and touched by the hand of the Father.

But I didn’t see it that way.

Over the next few years, I’d come to see my wings as more of a curse than a blessing. That was never truer than when I was a little girl growing up in the convent. It was painfully clear that I wasn’t like everyone else. The sisters kept me hidden from the nearby villagers in an effort to keep me safe, afraid of what people might do if they saw my wings. People fear what they don’t understand, so I passed the days watching the local children play tag from my bedroom window, wishing I could go outside and play with them.

It was lonely back then. As I grew older, I came to understand that even when I finally ventured out on my own, I was destined to continue to live that kind of life.

A life of seclusion.

I didn’t know how to control my wings as a youngster. Keeping them contained behind me was a chore and very uncomfortable. They were large, difficult to keep confined, and had a mind of their own. I was forever knocking things over and breaking patron saint statues wherever I went. There were even times when I would accidently smack someone in the face as my wings unexpectedly opened up against my will.

I knew with wings as large as mine, the prospect of flying wasn’t out of the question.

But there was one problem.

I wasn’t exactly sure I ever wanted to use them.

One night, after the sisters fell asleep, I crawled out of bed and made my way to the abbey’s bell tower. I climbed through the hatch and crept out onto the roof. There I sat for over an hour, trying to get up the nerve.

Not to fly.

But to die.

I was lonely and afraid. I didn’t know what I was or why I had been left with the nuns. The only clues to my past were the parchment pinned to my dress on the day I arrived and the key hanging from around my neck. Even though I’d been told my entire life that I was a gift from Heaven, I couldn’t be sure I hadn’t come from somewhere else entirely. The sisters had done their best to comfort me, but even they knew I had a monumental task ahead of me.

But they had faith I could handle it.

Me, not so much.

So, I stood at the edge of that roof and looked out at the dark, Irish countryside below me. It was lovely and picturesque.

And I thought to myself, what a beautiful place to die.

With tears flowing down my face and my hands shaking with fear, I took a giant step off the edge of the roof and began to fall.

My wings unfurled without warning or prompting. I became caught up by the air current. I could barely stay level, swaying back and forth. My desire to die was quickly replaced by the need to be in control. I took a deep breath and tried to relax in an effort to allow my wings to take over. The exhilaration of the wind as it whipped through my hair stirred something inside me. I was no longer confined to a room, on the inside looking out at the world as it went about its business. I was free. While it was true that my wings kept me prisoner to some extent, they also allowed me a freedom I hadn’t experienced before.

A mile later, I landed safely, albeit a bit hard, on a gravel road. I strolled back to the abbey in the darkness with a newfound resolve and tenacity.

“Are you going to sit down? Your wings are kinda knocking stuff off my coffee table.”

Sean stood in the kitchen pointing at me with a ladle.

I moved a handful of gamer magazines off Sean’s sofa and found a place to sit. He scooped some chili into a bowl and handed it to me.

I wasn’t hungry.

I was never hungry. I only ate for show—I didn’t need it to survive.

“It’s good,” I said, totally lying. It was too spicy for me, but I went ahead and shoved another bite into my mouth.

“You’re just saying that,” he said. “I know you don’t eat, but I figured it might warm you up a bit. It’s starting to get cooler out there.” Sean sat next to me on the sofa with his bowl in hand. “Especially when you’re lying on the ground.”

“You know the weather doesn’t affect me.” I tried to get comfortable on his couch, but the sagging cushions and loose springs made it impossible. “And, let it go, would ya?” I said, rolling my eyes.

Sean had discovered my secret fifteen years prior when he’d accidentally trespassed onto my property. He’d watched me land on top of my trailer after one of my night flights. He froze where he stood, trying to absorb what he’d just witnessed and stared at my unfurled wings. I’d thought about killing him at first to hide my secret, but his round face suddenly smiled so wide with joy at my presence that I didn’t have the heart to go through with it. He was a genuine friend from the start, swearing to keep my secret.

And he did. He was one of the few humans I’d ever trusted. He went into town for me on a regular basis to pick up art supplies and drop off my latest pottery and paintings at a tourist store in town. This enabled me to stay living in the area longer than normal. No one knew my face, and I liked it that way.

“I’m just sayin’. You know you can’t die. So why do you keep trying to off yourself?” Sean asked.

“Like I said—”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re not a quitter. Whatever, Skyy. You always give me the same answer. I just don’t understand what’s so rough about your life.” Sean shoved another spoonful of chili into his mouth, some of it dripping down his chin.

“You don’t understand?” My head snapped in his direction, and I looked at him incredulously.

“Well, no. I don’t! What’s so bad about it? I mean, you can fly. You don’t have to worry about getting fat because you don’t have to eat. You don’t age. You don’t get sick, get headaches, or have even had a single zit...ever. And best of all, you don’t have to deal with people. You get to hide away on that hundred acres of yours, and no one even knows you exist!” Sean started to scrape the bottom of his bowl with his spoon, making a god-awful screeching noise.

I slammed my bowl onto the coffee table. A bit of chili sloshed over the edge, landing indiscriminately on a Doctor Strange comic underneath.

“Jesus, Skyy!” Sean jumped into action. He lifted my bowl and pulled the comic out, all in one fell swoop. He rushed to the kitchen to grab a paper towel to try and undo the damage to Doctor Strange’s face.

After a few hasty dabs, he blew on the cover.

“This was a first edition. Now it’s ruined.”

“Sorry,” I spit out.

I wasn’t really sorry. He shouldn’t have left his rare comic books sitting out.

“What’s your problem? You’re moodier than usual.” Sean placed his damaged comic on the top shelf of his overly crowded bookcase, along with the rest of the comics I’d ruined over the years, and plopped back down next to me.

“I started hearing voices again.”

Sean was quiet. He mulled over my information.

“Same as before?”

“Yeah. Same ones. I can’t make out what they’re saying. It’s almost like they’re speaking a different language on a different frequency than what I’m on. I can’t explain it.” I picked up my bowl and took it to the kitchen where I dumped its contents back into the simmering pot on his gas stove.

“Who do you think they are?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t have ended up on my back at the end of your street for the nine hundredth time.” I didn’t know why I said things like that. I wasn’t sure why I constantly barked at him as if he was an idiot.

In fact, Sean was one of the smartest people I’d ever known. He owned and worked at a comic book store, but he once had the potential to be something so much greater. With his brains, he could have been a physicist or a bioengineer. Or even a college professor. Instead, he chose to live near a military town in a trailer park.

But if he was hurt by my outburst, he didn’t show it. He just scraped the last bit of his dinner from the bottom of his bowl and shoved it into his mouth. He wiped off his chin with the back of his sleeve and made his way into the kitchen where I still stood, leaning back against his counter.

He dropped his bowl in the sink and positioned himself silently, staring at me. His thinking stance was always the same. His feet were positioned a bit farther out than shoulder width, hips forward, and his arms crossed high against his chest, which ended up just resting on the top of his slightly protruding belly. His lips pursed and his eyes narrowed. It always gave the appearance that he was accessing the far depths of his brain’s databanks on anything that could shed light on my problem.

“Joan of Arc heard voices, you know. She always maintained that God would speak to her,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“You think God is trying to talk to me?”

“I didn’t say that. But, you got a better idea?”

“No. But I think God has better things to do than try and communicate with a freak-of-a-girl with large, gray wings.”

“You’re not a freak.” Sean uncrossed his arms and shoved his hands into his jean pockets defiantly.

“Not a freak?” I slid off my trench coat and allowed it to slip off to the floor. I stretched out my wings, careful not to knock anything over in his tiny dwelling. The wingspan reached approximately fifteen feet, tip to tip. “If I’m not a freak, then what do you call this?”

“Me? I’d call that the coolest thing to ever happen to anyone,” Sean replied.

He didn’t seem to understand what a burden my life had been.

“The only good thing about these damn things is the freedom they give me,” I said.

I tucked my wings behind me and pulled my coat on.

“I don’t know why you hate them so much.” Sean threw his arms up in the air in exasperation and sat down on his sofa. He turned on his television and his Xbox and immediately began to bring up his newest video game.

I stared at him in awe, unable to understand why he couldn’t seem to grasp the gravity of my situation.

“Why? Because it isn’t normal! That’s why.”

“Normal is overrated,” he said. His television was suddenly inundated with zombies as he began to kill a hoard of them on his screen.

“You just don’t get it,” I said, rolling my eyes.

Sean paused his game and dropped the controller next to him.

“Look around, Skyy. Look at my house. My whole life revolves around comics and video games. I live vicariously through the superheroes or better-than-average human beings on these pages or on my television. I’m nothing. A nobody. No one special. I live in a trailer that leaks when it rains and shakes when it storms. And look at me. I’m no Chris Evans or any Hemsworth brother for that matter. But I can pretend, just for a little while, that I am who I’m reading about...or that I’m actually some kind of super soldier saving mankind from zombies or alien hordes. It makes me feel special, even if it’s only for a little while.

“And then there’s you. You haven’t aged in three hundred years. You’re tall, you’re beautiful, and by the grace of God, you’re allowed to fly. Not to mention, you’re indestructible. I once watched you fall out of the sky at over a hundred miles an hour and land on a chain link fence—and you survived. You’re special. You’re reaching an epic kind of special that you can’t even begin to appreciate. So don’t tell me that I don’t understand, because I understand far better than you realize.” Sean calmly picked up his controller and continued killing zombies.

This happened a lot in our relationship. I whined about my cursed life, and he shamed me into realizing how stupid I’d been. It was a common occurrence, happening almost weekly.

I stood in his kitchen, quietly contemplating the tongue-lashing I’d just received.

I felt the need to apologize, but instead I pretended the entire conversation never took place.

“I need you to go into town for me this week and pick up some more paint. I’m running low,” I said, matter-of-factly.

Sean briefly gave me a thumbs up without breaking his visual lock on his game.

“I’ll stop by tomorrow to drop off the list.”

He flashed me another thumbs up.

“And I could use some more library books if you have time.”

“Okay,” he said flatly.

“All right then. Um, well, see ya.” I turned and made my way outside.

I allowed his door to slam shut behind me.

I took a quick scan of the area. Everyone appeared to be inside with their shades or curtains drawn. The coast was clear, so I pulled up my hood, shoved my hands in the pockets of my faded jeans, and walked toward the hills. My bare feet easily maneuvered the terrain until the trailer park was far from view.

I again scoured my surroundings to make sure I was completely alone. I crouched down behind a large rock and located the bag I’d stashed there earlier that night. The wind blew my hair into my face as I slid off my jacket. I rolled the jacket up into a ball and slipped it into the bag, pulling the drawstring tight.

Closing my eyes, I smelled the night air around me, breathing it in deeply. That time of night was always calming. The sounds of nature permeated the air: crickets chirped, cattle bellowed, and the breeze whistled through the grassy hills behind me.

My hand reached up and touched the silver necklace draped around my neck. It had hung there for as long as I could remember, placed there by my mother. It resembled a key with three unrecognizable symbols etched into it. I’d been all over the world, and no one had ever been able to tell me what those symbols meant. It was one of the only things I had left from my past that could tell me who I was or where I came from. When I touched it, it reminded me that there was a possible reason for my existence.

I just wished I knew what that was.

That was the hardest part—not knowing why I was alive. What was my purpose? What was I supposed to do with my life? Clearly I was special, as Sean had mentioned. But why was I special? In over three hundred years, not once had I been given any indication as to why I was placed on Earth.

Hence the reason I was always trying to die.

Ready to head home, I stretched out my wings.

I leapt high into the air, caught the current, and took flight.

The breeze was cool. It was a cloudless night, the stars shining brightly as they lit my way. I drew in a long breath, taking in the unpolluted scent of the countryside, and grinned. The view was unparalleled.

Maybe Sean was right.

Maybe the flying thing was pretty cool.

The wind below my wings tried to push me higher, but I flew as low as I could to keep from being detected by any humans that might be driving on the interstate or any of the backroads. It wouldn’t be good if they found out about me. I’d be hunted, imprisoned, or worse—studied. Very few people had ever been aware of my existence, and I planned to keep it that way.

I traveled by air for about ten miles, and then gingerly landed at my front door. I paused for a moment to look up at the stars. Out there, away from the city lights, the sky above me was clear. I was able to make out Orion’s belt and the outline of Pegasus. Most nights, I laid on the ground for hours counting the stars until the sun rose.

But tonight wouldn’t be one of those nights.

I looked around at my property. It was nothing but trees, open space, and a large tin shed that I used as an art studio. It sat about twenty-five yards from my dilapidated trailer. I’d managed to accumulate enough money over the years to build a mansion with giant walls to keep everyone out if I so desired, but I knew that would have drawn attention to myself. And that was the last thing I needed. So instead, I stayed isolated from society, near the foot of the hills, and away from any prying eyes that could discover my secret.

I reached for the door and climbed inside. My trailer’s interior was in stark contrast to Sean’s. It was clean without a speck of dirt anywhere. I didn’t own a table, plates, or even silverware. In fact, there was no food in my house whatsoever. There were no picture frames or photos of anyone since they would only serve to remind me of the people I had once grown close to and later lost. The only real sign of anyone actually living there, aside from an old wrought iron bed, was my books.

I owned hundreds of them. They were stacked neatly up against every wall in my trailer. Everything from ancient texts and the classics to modern paranormal fare was piled as high as me, taking up every available space throughout my humble abode.

My solitary life in the middle of nowhere left me with little to do. So, when I wasn’t working on my art or my sculptures, I read. I’d read nearly everything that had ever been written—twice. Considering how long I’d been alive, there had been a lot of time to read.

But, there was one book that had been read more than the others. A very worn Bible lay on my mattress. It was old and tattered, given to me by Sister Mary Frances on her death bed.

The faded parchment that my mother had pinned to my coat was used as a bookmark. The entire paper was blank with one exception—a reference to one specific chapter.

Genesis 6, to be exact.

I sat on the edge of my mattress and picked the Bible up off of my bed. My finger slid down my makeshift bookmark, and I opened it to the same page I always did, placing the parchment to the side. It spoke of giants existing on the earth and, as the generations continued, mighty men who flourished and became renowned. Because of the evil that had developed due to these men and their ways, God sent a flood to destroy everyone and everything—except for Noah, his family, and the animals of the earth.

I had read other books on the topic. Some people were staunch believers that the passages only referred to powerful men and not actual giants. Others believed that a race of giants had once existed on Earth and had taken mortal wives. Either way, Sister Mary Frances used to read Genesis 6 to me every night.

I chuckled to myself and shook my head at the memories.

Normal kids got normal bedtime stories.

I got biblical giants.

I didn’t believe any of it. Then again, I guess a girl with wings ought not to judge.

The parchment slid to the floor, and I leaned down to pick it up. I had looked at it a million times over the years, but I still couldn’t understand how a mother could give up her child that way. I tried to convince myself she was protecting me somehow—saving my soul. After all, I could only imagine how she must have reacted the first time she noticed my wings growing in. She must have thought I was something unnatural.

But if that was the case, what really confused me was why she left the note at all. There was no mention as to who she was, who my father was, or why she left me at the convent’s doorstep.

No mention of anything except Genesis 6.

I tucked the note back between the pages and shut the Bible.

The voices started. They were in my head, all talking at once. I covered my ears as if that would help keep them out. I dropped to my knees and leaned forward, rocking back and forth. The voices continued. They grew louder. The words made no sense, spoken in a language I didn’t understand.

My head pounded and my eardrums rang. I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Get out of my head!” I shouted.

As if on cue, the voices stopped.

Silence.

But one last voice broke through. It was different and whispered in words I could understand.

“We found her.”

I thought it would be comforting once I heard something intelligible; instead, all I felt was dread.