❝fallen angels are destined for little else but raising hell.❞
[dark angel!5sos au]
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cw: this book contains strong language, descriptions of blood/gore, supernatural occurrences, mild sexual content, talk of various religions, drug/substance abuse...
There ain't nothing in this world for free, I know I can't slow down, I can't hold back, Though you know, I wish I could, Oh, no there ain't no rest for the wicked, Until we close our eyes for good
Ain't No Rest for the Wicked ; Cage the Elephant
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✞
"Michael?" Despite everything, Eden continues to call out for her angel, not knowing that deep down in the Compound, Michael can hear her calls as softly as ghost whispers in the back of his mind. Worry plunges deep and cold into her heart. If Michael ever left for an emergency or an errand, he would always make sure to give her a heads up via text.
She pushes into his bedroom, the door left ajar from Michael's half-assed sleepwalk downstairs a day before. His bedsheets are slightly crumpled, evidence of nothing more than a restless night of sleep. It's eerie how quiet she finds this room. Nothing appears to be ransacked or pushed around; it almost looks like Michael had just left mere moments before. Eden's gut begins pushing her to look closer, in little cervices and corners where she wouldn't normally think to look.
Would he have left her a sign?
As she plunges deeper into Michael's room, Ashton takes his search down the stairs. Ashton steps around the corner, past the reading room, cascading his gaze over the unlit candles and books and cast aside cigarettes. At the sight of them, he pulls the last cigarette from the box in his pocket and tosses the box into the trash in front of him. He lights it with ease with his left pointer finger before taking a long, thick drag off of it.
Ashton, with the cig between his teeth, turns his gaze to the right, into the lobby and front desk area of the fortune shop. He drags his ringed fingers over the countertop, stepping behind it. Looking around, Ashton scrunches up his nose; everything seems so...sterile compared to the last time he was here. Something happened, but just what, he didn't know.
The register seems untouched, dispelling any worries of a robbery. As he steps towards it to make sure the silver beast was still locked, his fingers trace over scraps of receipt paper before a straggler piece falls to the floor.
"Shit," Ashton sighs, the word coming out muffled from behind the cigarette, kneeling underneath the countertop next to the register to pick up whatever fell. He pauses. A florescent green sticky note with four words and a signature is staring back at him. He pinches it between his fingers, slowly rising to his feet.
Gone out. Back soon. – M.C.
Ashton narrows his eyes; the paper crinkles between his fingers. He removes his cigarette from his mouth, tapping the ash from the tip into an ashtray on the counter.
