Seven fallen angels incapable of falling in love. One girl that can keep them from spiraling into darkness.
Used to waiting on others to make a decision, Grey is a waitress at a high-end cafe. That is, until she finds herself lured into a parallel...
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Grey's back pressed against the bathroom wall, the cold stucco resembling ice. Her legs were gelatin, arms cast around her nose and mouth like a breathing mask. Gasping for breath, she prayed that she was silent, that the nightstalker didn't hear the sharp intake of breath she stole before plunging back to cover.
She'd never heard a noise like the one that reverberated through the living room. Like splintering wood, like popping joints and knuckles. A ghastly crackle and pop that came in series or in agonizingly slow ticks.
Spreading wings of bone likely extending and retracting.
The unholy sight of them were burned on the backs of her eyelids when she blinked. Ivory arches the color of rust and ash and sickly yellow branching into separate, jagged points. Similar to a bat's wings, but lacking all of the lively support.
Not only that, but Amelia's body. Discarded and crumpled in a heap stained crimson by the open gash on her shoulder that was so close to her neck. Grey had never seen that much blood. Never pictured it flowing freely from someone she cared so much for.
And at the sight of it, fury boiled in her heart and overflowed. She saw red.
Still, an irkan was poised to kill her best friend in the entire world and she could only think rapidly as the adrenaline flowing through her veins catered to the fantasies of her survival, images of different outcomes, and what might happen after it grew bored of looming over her leaking shell.
First, she needed to find a weapon.
Surprising herself, she detached from the wall and scanned the bathroom countertop. There was a toothbrush, an impressive array of perfume, a few stray pieces of jewelry and lip gloss. Grey crouched and sifted through the bathroom cabinets to find shampoo bottles, exfoliators, shaving cream. Nothing effective. Nothing helpful.
If she could cover it's face with one of the yellow towels dangling from the rack, then maybe she could tackle it to the floor.
As though her survival instincts were a separate entity, she mentally eliminated the plan.
It'd tear the thing to shreds in seconds. If I take it down, that wouldn't be getting rid of it, only slowing it down and pissing it off.
She eyed the porcelain top of the toilet.
Don't. It's too heavy and if you aren't careful enough, it would hear the scraping.
Anxiously, Grey turned in circles around the small space, analyzing anything in sight. A clock on the wall, a soap dispenser, bottles of nail polish.
Then, she found the drawers above the cabinet. She held her breath and pulled the first one open. Floss, nail clippers... scissors.
Delicately, Grey wiggled her fingers through the scissor loops, embracing the cool metal on her fingertips. When they were unable to make any more noise, she held the loops in a fist and tested the point with her free hand. With her palms to the sharp end, there wasn't a pinch. But there could be if she added enough force.
