Bladed Wings (21 page)

              Everything waited for her answer.

              In that moment of hesitation, Timothy wanted to be rational and cling to common sense. She was just a girl. This was one shot. It was a crush. It didn’t matter. People fell in love every day. People broke up every day. This wasn’t supposed to matter.

              But it was Jenny.

              So he surprised her.

              He kissed her.

              Timothy pulled her close and kissed her. One palm to her cheek, the other hand at her waist, he pulled her close. It was a soft kiss at first, a heartbeat of exploration before she closed her eyes too and pressed into him.

He did it without thinking. Every movement and sensation rushed at him, slow and fast at the same time.

They were together in front of her door, held together like nothing else could ever matter or exist like Timothy and Jenny in that minute. Then she tugged away, just a few inches, and he didn’t know how much time collapsed. It could’ve been a second, could’ve been a minute.

              “That,” Jenny said, “that was fun.” She whispered to him, their lips so close he still thought he could feel her, ripples of energy and heat. He grinned back and touched his forehead against hers. The scent of her shampoo was on the air, the warmth and solidity of her body in his arms.

              “Surprised?”

              “Oh yeah,” Jenny said. And Timothy was about to tell her how great she felt when she asked, “What, just once?”

              “Maybe you make me nervous.”

              “Me? How could I make someone big and strong like you scared?”

              He watched her as he said, “You’re important to me.”

              “Maybe I do make you nervous,” Jenny leaned in this time and touched her lips to his, and it was night and winter, but they were hot there, in front of her door. He pulled her close, their bodies tight together, arms encircled together, as they bound themselves together.

              On Monday Timothy was on his way from one class to another, trying to remember everything he’d need for the next anthropology quiz. Their instructor was big into dates so he ran through them again, summoning numbers like the incantations he need to hold off a bad grade.

              “You’re really doing it, aren’t you?” Isis asked. She’d just detached herself from one of the other streams of students headed from one building to the next.

              “What, what are you doing here?” Timothy hissed. It was dumb, but he glanced around anyway to make sure no one would recognize her. Of course they wouldn’t, but it made his heart speed to see her there. The demon girl wasn’t supposed to be a part of his regular life.

              “Erzu wanted me to tell you that you did a good job. Oh, and to check up on you. When you just ran away like that, we got worried.”

              “That was two days ago.”

              “We weren’t that worried.”

              “Thanks. I’m fine. Tell him I’m fine.” Timothy got to his class, one of the big rooms in Tahoe Hall, their school’s cinder block shaped building of concrete with its open-air arboretums. He didn’t know why his anthropology class was in the Business Department, but Sac State wasn’t big on putting classes in the buildings that housed the departments too. That’s why his Philosophy class was in the English building even as the English department put their classes in the Criminal Justice building. “And I wanted to know what’s happening,” Isis said, following him in.

              Timothy sat down, sliding his backpack onto his lap so he could fish out his binder, pencils, and notes. He checked the clock, seven minutes before class started. “Happening with what?”

              “You and the angel,” she slid into the desk behind him.

              “Don’t say that here.”

              “No one’s listening.”

              “I don’t care.”

              “Worrywart.”

              “Things are fine. Everything’s fine.”

              “You sound stressed.”

              “Because I have a quiz and there’s a demon asking about my love life.”

              “I just wanted to know if you’d really go through with it.”

              “Why?”

              “Lots of reasons. Your life is dangerous, you could get her hurt, she’s an angel, you’re a demon, she could break your heart, you could break hers. There are plenty of reasons not to get involved with someone, especially her.”

              “Especially her?” Now Isis had all of his attention.

              “You could lead Despada to her.”

              “That won’t happen.” He turned back to the board, maybe hoping that if he didn’t see her, Isis would just go away.

              “How can you know?” Isis sounded more curious than defiant.

              “Everything I do could hurt someone. I could bake my best friend a pie and accidentally poison him. I’m not going to let what might happen dictate how I live my life.”

              “There’s a difference between an allergy and a demon. But I guess it’s your choice, free will and all,” Isis giggled.

              Timothy inhaled for an answer, but when he turned around, she was gone. The door clicked shut and their teacher started talking about the quiz. For the next few minutes, Timothy scribbled answers until he listened to a lecture, and it was time to go back to his place. Forty-eight hours ago he’d been fighting demons, almost been killed in a cloud of black fire that still made him shiver, and now he was a person again. He pushed a mail cart between cubicles and felt normal. For once.

Seven

“You’re really going to do it?” Jeremiah asked from his usual spot in their living room. He sounded bored, but Timothy knew his roommate better. A vein of interest snaked beneath the lit major’s voice. That might’ve made Timothy feel a little better, except it was the same curiosity that might go with someone checking out a car crash.

              “You sound surprised.” Timothy wanted to look in a mirror, but knew he wasn’t that vain. Besides, he didn’t know what he’d change if he saw something he didn’t like. So instead, he put on his coat, bracing for Jeremiah’s logic.

              “It’s just old-fashioned. Old-fashioned the way it could scare her off or freak her out or just make you look like an idiot.”

              “I don’t care.”

              “You’re sure?”

              “It’s not a big deal.”

              “First time since you kissed her?”

              “Why do you think I kissed her?” Timothy asked. He didn’t tell Jeremiah about that part of Friday night.

              “You’ve been too happy not to have kissed her. And now you’re bringing her that.”

              “It’s not a big deal,” Timothy repeated. But it felt like a big deal when he left his apartment and headed down the stairs. And walking the concrete, bordered by windows and walls to one side, a metal guardrail to the other, Timothy felt the heat of his hand, pooling against the thin cone of plastic. He tapped his knuckles against her door. The wood was cold, the paint slick, and then he had to stand there. Waiting.

              Jenny opened the door. “Hi,” he managed and held out the silk rose.

              “Oh,” she said, smiling. Between two fingers, Jenny pulled it from its plastic case. “Smells like cherries,” she said, holding it to her nose. Eyes returned to Timothy, he didn’t expect it when she slipped her hands over his shoulders, pressing her lips against his. He didn’t respond at first, but half a second and he kissed her back until she let go.

              “What?” Jenny laughed. “You weren’t expecting that?”

              “I just didn’t think it was a big deal.”

              “Well, that’s your fault then.”

              She kissed him once on the cheek. Nervous, he took the risk, slid his arms around her waist, and kissed her. She responded, pushing against him and he pushed back. They stood there like that for what felt delightfully long, painfully short, and was probably just a few seconds. Jenny pulled away and said, “It’s good to see you too.” Timothy squeezed her hand again and said he had to go. He just came by to give her the rose.

Walking back to his car, he wanted to turn back and run back to her, to skip classes, work, and pretend life could stop. But he didn’t, promising himself he’d get to see her again, and in less than an hour he was back in class.

              He got to hear two of his classmates fight over God. He thought their names were Claire and Zach, and Timothy only paid attention because it was the first time in Atheism anyone said more than fifteen words in about a month. Sure, people spoke a lot in the beginning, but Professor Nogales had the kind of tone and classroom management style which kept people frozen and staring at the clock like souls hungry for escape from limbo. But today one or both of these students were tired or hungry and everyone else was happy to listen.

              “You can’t prove that,” Claire insisted. She sat up, her short blond hair shivering with a shake of the head. A couple guys were looking at her because they liked her idea. Other guys were looking at her because she was hotter than the clock.

              “Depends on what you mean by proof,” Zach answered. “Look at the Bible. That is a form of proof.”

              “A form of proof for an idiot.”

              “Hey now, hey now,” said their teacher.

              Claire ignored her. So did Zach when he said, “What’s wrong with that kind of evidence?”

              “Anyone could have written it.”

              “So how would you explain the fact that so many people accept it then?”

              “Popular opinion doesn’t mean anything when we’re talking about truth.”

              Timothy picked up his pen and wrote a J in the margins of his notes. He slid the pen across the paper, all thought on remembering those feelings. It was this awesome drug he could summon with a little recall. It was a memory and it didn’t feel real because it was that good. He might’ve been idealizing it. He didn’t care and only half-heard Zach say, “I’m not talking about using popular opinion to prove it’s true. I’m asking, why do we discount the fact that so many people read these books and feel truth?”

              “Intuitionism?” Claire asked.

              “Why not?”

              “Because feelings like those can prove anything.”

              “But in this case they prove people should be good to one another. Christian ideals are basically good. I grant that they’ve been used to cause a lot of problems, and they can be twisted to cause even more, but the basic tenets of respecting others and trying to make the world a better place are essentially good things.”

              “Essentially good?” Claire asked, “How’s that?” She might’ve waited for an answer, but instead plowed ahead with, “Every Christian ideal can be shaped—you’re right. But then how do you tell which is the right one? If someone advocates Christian ideologies and then does something we generally consider evil, how do you tell who’s evil and who’s good? What evidence do you use? The Bible’s old. Depending on the parts you look at, it accepts genocide, slavery, and rape.”

              “Remember now,” Professor Nogales said, “we’re looking at all religious backgrounds. Not just Christians.” Everyone waited, patient, while she said that. Then they went back to listening to Claire and Zach’s debate.

              December Seventh, Timothy remembered. That was about—he counted the months on his fingers, tracing the calendar—ten months away. So he had ten months to plan for Jenny’s birthday, and he smirked because that was so far off and he was dumb for thinking about it. Of course those little truths didn’t stop him.

              Claire said to anyone who was paying attention, “Books don’t work, especially ones that are so old we can’t really be sure who wrote them.”

              “If they work,” Zach replied, “they work. Who wrote them is irrelevant.”

              “But that doesn’t tell you how to interpret them.”

              “The interpretations are pretty obvious. Sure, the little stuff might get confusing when you start look at the history, but when you’re told not to murder someone, you’re told not to murder someone.”

              “Define murder.”

              “Killing someone,” he snapped too fast. A second later he knew it too. Timothy listened with one ear as he thought about where he could take Jenny. The first date was big. Then he paused and stopped to think if they were together. That was a scary thought. He gave her a rose, and she kissed him. That should’ve meant they were together. But he wasn’t a caveman and couldn’t just lay claim like that. Did they have to say it out loud? He didn’t know what assumptions he could make with her. He didn’t need anyone else, yet she didn’t have to feel the same way.

              “The military kills people as a part of war, both just and unjust. State governments execute prisoners all the time too. Are these situations murder? Most people would say they’re not. I’d say they’re not,” Claire said.

              “That’s different.”

              “Why?”

              “Because as a society we’ve decided we need to kill people from time to time,” Zach explained. And Timothy decided they were together. He brought her the rose and they kissed. That had to mean it was official, but then he thought he’d never been in this kind of relationship and he felt stupid for having so little experience. Jeremiah would’ve had a thousand answers, all made up the moment he said them.

              “How do you make that determination?”

              “You have to figure that out for yourself,” Zach answered.

              “So what use is the Bible?”

              “It grounds us, and it makes people feel good.”

              “You could say the same thing about
American Idol
.”

              “Right. I’m sure they’re the same,” Zach snapped back. “One is a waste of time, the other has guided Western thought for a good two thousand years. Anyone reading it with common sense can see what’s being said.”

              “So why are there are so many sects? Why do you get Christians who can kill civilians, women and children?” Claire wanted to know.

              “Now, now, we need to get back to the lecture,” Nogales said, finally raising her hands. Zach’s face burned red. Claire was almost panting. If Jeremiah saw them, he’d suggest they’d been doing something else.

              The clock hit ten fifteen a lot earlier than Timothy expected. Of course his notes were covered in random ideas, places he could take Jenny, things he could say to her. He had it bad, and that should’ve scared him, but it felt good.

              Everything that day felt good. Pushing the mail cart through twenty-four floors of office space somehow felt good. It didn’t matter that one of the managers glared at him for putting her mail in that wire box face down. Then the freight elevator decided to be particularly lazy that day, crawling up and down the shafts, but Timothy sat there with his ear buds in, listening to different songs. Every love song felt a lot more personal.

              Even when he got outside to cold drizzle and a pushy wind, Timothy didn’t care. He walked through the six o’clock black and gold of night and streetlights. He even thought about skipping, but suppressed that urge. Instead, he walked and hummed and thought about all the ways life felt like a caress.

              Keys in hand, he looked ahead. Someone sat on the hood of his car, someone with dark blue hands and a knowing smirk. “You were hoping I was dead?” Roman wondered aloud.

              “It would’ve been nice,” Timothy said as he halted twenty feet back. With casual glances, he looked around, wishing he could see in the dark. To one side of the street towered a skyscraper. There wasn’t anywhere to hide unless one of Despada’s demons could fit behind a bus stop sign or under a mailbox. But to the right were bushes and corners, everything needed to make the sprawling apartment complex—The Governor’s Square—feel like home. And that meant about a hundred places to hide.

              “Unfortunate for you. And this time I know the truth.”

              “Truth?” Timothy asked with the tight feeling there was something he should know but really wouldn’t like.

              “You’re more unique than we would have guessed.”

              “I’m a human with a demon’s soul.”

              Roman chuckled, “Oh, there’s so much more.”

              “Like what?” Timothy asked. He stalled for time until he heard the grinding of stone on concrete, someone stepping on a rock. Again, trying his hardest to look casual, Timothy glanced back and he saw someone else. He didn’t know her name, but he remembered seeing her at Friday’s fight. If he remembered correctly, she’d burst into flames. Morgon was still nursing some burns from his fight with her.

              “Think he doesn’t know?” the girl asked.

              “Nah, Petra. He has to know. No one’s that stupid. He would’ve felt it.”

              “What are you talking about?” Timothy demanded like he was really annoyed they’d talk about him like he wasn’t there. Hoping for subtle, Timothy didn’t want them to notice the stalks of shadow slowly dripping from his wrists. He wanted to surprise his opponents. Timothy liked the idea of winning with stabs of tendril in both directions for an instant victory. That could be it for the night.

              Roman smiled a little when Timothy’s tenticle touched the ground; he’d spotted them. Of course he’d spotted them, but that didn’t keep Roman from explaining, “You have a human soul, the demon’s soul you stole from Cipher and strengthened by killing Darkor, but you also have an angel’s soul.”

              “What?”

              “Don’t lie,” Petra ordered. “Roman smelled it on you yesterday.”

              “I’m not an angel.”

              “You’re a demon,” Petra reminded him. “An angel, a human, and a liar.”

              “Makes sense, actually,” Roman said. “It would explain how you killed Cipher.”

              Timothy stepped back, but that must’ve been the wrong move because he heard a spark snap to life. At the edge of his vision he saw Petra burst to flames, fires running across every inch of skin, even over her clothes. Specially designed, they didn’t burn and in a safer moment, Timothy might’ve wondered how something like that could happen.

              Flames pooled in Petra’s palm, growing into a baseball sized sphere of energy. She lobbed her fireball at him, and Timothy felt the heat as he stretched to one side. Hissing pains flared from his side as the sphere passed him. It landed in the middle of the street, exploding into a black spot of ash no one would bother to explain.