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Ochre yellow empty polystyrene cartons from a local fish and chips shop litter the pavement, dimly glowing in the dark like little islands amongst a dark night sea.
Small pieces of rubbish, sweets wrappers and old newspapers twirl and dance under our feet, but when picked up by a strong gust of wind, they would race past us as if alive, hurrying like a morning heard of commuters flooding a platform at Victoria station on their way to work.
The streets are pitch black as the street lamps are already turned off for the night – it must be well past midnight. But the steady, soft, pearly glow comes off his body, dimly illuminating the pavement and the surrounding air as if we’re followed by a personal street lamp.
The streets of the town are filled with the salty smell of the sea and a faint stench of rotting rubbish from nearby takeaways and restaurants that are now closed for the night. Rats rustle and squeak in the bins, fighting for the juiciest scraps.
The air has the faint, crisp smell of upcoming winter and it probably will be a week before rain puddles begin to freeze at night, giving young children the acute satisfaction of jumping into the thin crust of bright ice in the mornings and hearing it crunch under their feet. And a week after that, the snow will come.
The day of the fire in the science class, the day when my life irreversibly changed, and I learnt not only that angels exist but I’m one of them, was a breezy English summer. Somehow it is late autumn now. Somehow, somewhere I’ve lost half a year.
A chilling east wind throws fine drizzle in my face, whipping my damp hair around, seeping its numbing cold fingers through my muddy jeans and a sweatshirt. I didn’t have a chance to change earlier and now I’m paying for it with smelly crusted over attire, which stands rigid like stinky armour.
My wings are behind me.
It’s weird to have them there.
Most of the time I don’t even think about them, don’t feel them. But now and again they would flutter ever so slightly, move my hair or brush past my shoulders or arms, reminding me of their presence. They are there like long hair over the back of my neck, constant, familiar and inconspicuous. I only notice and think about them in the moments like now, when they gently rise and spread, covering me from the wind and rain.
But I’m still cold.
A few streets back my teeth began to chatter. At first it was short, sporadic clucks of a convulsing chicken, but now the chatter has upgraded to a steady rhythmic pulse. The shiver descends over my body, raking over me, twisting and shortening my muscles as if I touch exposed wires.
I need to get warm. I need to get to warmth, but I don’t know what to do or where to go next.
I left Uras decisively.
I made the decision and now I need to follow through with it. The problem is I knew I needed to leave, and I knew I needed to come here, needed to see my sister, to make sure that she’s alright, safe, but that was as far as I went in my preparations or in my planning.
I have no idea what to do next or even where to begin.
Rafe’s heavy footsteps echo behind my back and I can hear his laboured breathing.
I can feel his presence. I sense him with the hair at my nape, and I can smell the scent of ripe fruits and sun around me. I can feel his pulsating life energy with my wings.
My wings know without a shadow of doubt that it is him behind me. My wings know that he is in pain and know that it’s bad.
But he doesn’t share it with me. He doesn’t say a word.
He just walks behind me, keeping up with my intentionally shortened steps. He didn’t want to share his pain with me then, and he’s not sharing it now. He is just here for me, insistent and constant, even after everything I put him through.
Without a question, he followed me on the path that I chose for us, and the earlier guilt stirs again inside me.
The swords that Sam gave me are awkwardly stashed away, looped through the belt at the back of my jeans. I’ve never carried weapons before nor have I used them until today.
I sober in an instant thinking of Mia. I still can’t believe that I’ve done it, done to another human, to another living being.
And then answering my call, the memories of our fight rush back, spreading the dark chill from within, matching the chill of the autumnal wet wind. The memories bring the crisp stabbing details of her beautiful porcelain pixie face: frozen in shock, with her eyes and red mouth wide open, her surprised gaze locked to mine.
I remember watching her body unnaturally folded on the floor. I remember that feeling, that knowledge: she’s dead.