Page 2 of Whispers of Fire

I hadn’t realized my house would be so close to 'em. I can literally walk into their garden from mine and see inside their living room. I used to live in a cramped apartment, but I wanted more space to work on my bikes, so this area on the outskirts of town was perfect. Just a bunch of quiet families, with white picket fences and suburban housewives.

No one would expect me to live here, least of all our enemies.

Like I said, perfect .

“Haven’t seen 'em yet. Outside looks tidy; doubt they’ll be any trouble.”

"Well, you're about to find out," she says, nodding towards the black sedan parking in front of my neighbor's house.

She whistles. "Damn, looking sharp."

I approach the window, eyeing the sleek car, expecting a normal family to come out of it but the folks in front of us don't match the usual expectation you have of what normal neighbors look like.

“Oh, that’s, hum, weird,” Erin murmurs.

More like fuckin’ strange. What the fuck is this?

What surprises me are the two people stepping out of it. A tall man in his fifties, dressed head to toe in black linen with a long beard and a strange top hat. The older woman is covered in a long black dress, as if she was coming from a funeral in the 1800s. Her hair reminds me of something from historical movies, intricate braids piled atop her head. She’s looking down, her steps faltering as if the wind could make her fall.

I take in all the details in an instant. It's my knack, observing and learning about someone as quickly as possible to figure out who they are and what they want. That’s what a good right-hand man does.

They’re both heading towards the house when I notice a third figure emerging from the car.

My body tenses.

"Pretty, ain't she?" Erin elbows me, bringing me back to reality.

"Pretty ain't the right word," I mutter to myself, keepin' my eyes on the woman who's captured my attention.

What I see is an angel, a vision out of a biblical story, a woman made of the most exquisite flesh. Golden long hair with a small figure struggling to conceal the curves under the fabric of her long dress. She has big doe eyes, full lips, and it hits me that she’s just the right size to fit under my chin.

Pretty doesn't do her justice.

Pretty is beneath her.

"Should see your face, Vox," Erin laughs. "Men." She shakes her head and heads into the garden.

I tear my gaze away from the angel's face to focus on her clothes.

What the fuck is she wearing?

Covered in a heavy brown fabric, her dress ends at her ankles and the top is buttoned all the way up to her chin. Her ashy blonde hair, that I wish I could run my hands through, is made into one long braid, reaching her lower back.

She’s like something out of an old photograph, dressed in clothes from an ancient era. But even with these strange clothes and hair, she still looks damn young.

She must be 18, 19 at most, her round cheeks giving away her youth. Before she reaches her porch, she turns her face slightly towards me.

Did she feel my gaze on her?

She must have heard the noise from my garden. I'm pretty sure this isn’t typical for this neighborhood. Her eyes scan the area until they meet mine. For a brief moment, I hold my breath, hoping she'll keep them locked on me. But she turns back to the door and disappears into her house.

Angel.

Who are you?

Rose

"We must pray, Lydia, pray all night to thank the Divine powers of the Ascension and their faith in us," says my father, excited like a kid who found out he was going to get candy after behaving himself. My mother isn't any better.

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