Unnatural Instinct: Fallen

19.

Four days.

Only four days until the danger passes—or becomes realised. The Reckoning, the Apocalypse, Armageddon—all of it rests in your womb. Even despite all you've seen, it's still so hard to believe.

You're on the move again, as you've been on the move all morning. The dark angel never seems to tire. He never stops. You're getting used to it now—all the flying, to the point where you actually manage to fall asleep in his arms high in the clouds.

Apparently you're invisible to those below, which is a good thing, considering the towns and cities you pass over. By midday you take cover in an abandoned warehouse in some unknown street, in some unknown town. You don't even know what country you're in.

You only know it's somewhere far away from home.

He staggers as he lands and you realise that he lied—he does get tired, after all.

'Are you all right?' you say, touching his arm.

He nods. 'Just need a rest.'

His arms slump from his shoulders and the ends of his wings drag along the floor, the feathers glittering darkly against the sunlight.

He drops into a crouch in a corner of the room and leans his head against the wall. During your flight, you both swiped something to wear from a clothes line; he's back in pants, pale blue, and you're wearing a t-shirt and shorts. The shirt's a little tight across the shoulders and the shorts ride up your crotch but it's better than being naked, and far better still than that silky white slip.

You try not to show it but you're aching with hunger. Your throat is dry too. But in good conscience, there's no more you can ask of him right now. Sitting beside him, you lean your back against the wall and hug your legs to your chest.

The place looks like it might have been some kind of factory. There are old machines with even older conveyor belts that have worn through. Ancient ceiling lights hang crookedly from the ceiling. A bird has made a nest in one of them. The floorboards are rotting. You have to be careful not to scratch yourself on a rusty nail. God forbid you contract something like tetanus in the midst of all of this.

'What is your name?' you say. 'I never asked.'

He looks at you across his shoulder. 'It's been a long time since anyone's asked me my name. It's Joel.'

You raise your eyebrows. 'Such a common name. I thought it would be something more ...' You shrug.

He gives a small smile. 'God gave it to me.'

'God named you?'

'He names all his angels.'

You shake your head. 'I knew a Joel once, but he was no angel.' You pause to study him. 'Then again, you're nothing like I pictured an angel either. Except for your wings.'

Cautiously, you reach out to touch the closest one, uncertain if he'll let you. He doesn't stop you, watching as you stroke his feathers.

'They're so soft,' you say.

'They used to be beautiful once, white and pure, before I turned to my master.' He looks down at his hands. 'I used to blaze as bright as the sun.'

'You're still beautiful,' you say. 'You're the most beautiful angel I've ever met.'

He gives you a crooked smile. 'I'm the only angel you've encountered—except Satan.'

You chuckle. 'You've got me there.'

His smile softens into something other than a smile. Beneath his thick, dark eyelashes he watches you.

You clear your throat as you turn back to stroking his feathers. 'What will-what will happen when this is all over?'

For a long time he doesn't answer. 'I cannot say. That will be up to God.'

'Then I shall pray to him—every night, that he keeps you safe.'

He meets your eyes and reaches out to touch your hair. 'Enough rest. We should go.'

You fly on and off for the rest of the day. Twice, you stop for food, stealing once from a shopping centre and a second from a street market. You've never committed a crime in your life and you can't stop your heart from thumping as Joel returns with the goods.

'Wish I could be invisible,' you say to him.

For the first half of the day you think you might be somewhere in Eastern Europe but later in the afternoon you cross water, and from there you have no idea again.

All you know is that by the time the sun is descending again, you've taken up residence in the loft of an old stone building. Unlike the barn, this looks deserted. There's an old dusty bed with a sunken mattress and two even dustier chairs pushed up against the wall. The view, however, is spectacular.

'Wow,' you say.

A large window opens onto rugged grassy terrain that disappears into the horizon. In the distance, if you squint, you can see the faint outline of a range of mountains. The moon is full and is already glowing brightly against the pink sunset.

'Where are we?' you breathe.

'Iceland.'

You clutch at yourself at a gust of icy wind. The window has no glass and is open to the elements. 'It's going to be freezing tonight.'

The bed squeaks as he sits on the edge of it. He looks tired, his eyes sunken in his head, his feathers limp. He dangles his hands between his knees. You join him, sitting at his side as you rest your hand on his knee.

'What's going to happen tonight?'

'We stay here.'

'No, I mean—' you release a shaky breath '—in my dreams.'

'He will be there.'

You shiver. Wrapping an arm around your shoulders, he pulls you close. When you continue to shiver, he pulls you into his lap, then wraps both his arms around you, holding you against his warm chest.

'Don't you get cold?' you ask with a sigh as the shivering eases.

'No. Nor hungry or thirsty. It's rare for me to feel discomfort.'

Slowly, his great wings curl around you, and soon they cover you like the softest blanket you've ever known.

'Not even pain?' you murmur, resting your head beneath his chin.

'Sometimes.' He doesn't elaborate.

You feel so comfortable and so safe your eyelids slip shut. You snap them open with a jerk. The last thing you want is to go to sleep. You cannot face him again. Clutching at your belly, you wince. You can still feel the agony of it and you certainly haven't forgotten the horror.

'You must sleep,' Joel says. 'Have no fear. He cannot hurt you from afar.'

'Not physically.' You bite your lip, wondering if what you're about to do next is a good idea. Twisting your fingers through a tendril of his long, black hair, you press your lips to his throat.