Page 27 of Angel's Smoke

“I . . . I think I know that.” It was true. The fear receptors in her body, the ones that had initially spiked her pulse and urged her to seek out anything other than the flaming man in her living room, had since dissolved into whispered echoes. In their place was a pleasant warmth not unlike the sensations she’d used to feel upon waking from her dream encounters with . . .

Iron.

Anna’s hand flew to her forehead, but she couldn’t stop the smile that broke free. “Holy shit, you were really in my dreams. For months, it was actually you!” Then a distressing thought occurred to her. “Wait, I’m not dreaming now, am I?” Anna started tugging at her hair and pinching her skin.

“No, you’re not dreaming. This is all real. Unbelievable,” he admitted in a rush of breath, “but real.”

“So, everything you just said is true, then? You’re an angel? And we’re connected somehow?”

Iron didn’t say anything, because what else was there to say? He’d done the right thing by urging her to find out for herself, by showing her that bone-like shard thing and letting her witness the circumstances of a fire that there could truly be no earthly explanation for.

Anna stepped fully into the living room, admiring the quick redecorating job Iron had done in preparation for the only form of proof he knew would convince her she wasn’t, as he’d firmly established, crazy. When her calf bumped her coffee table, the small curved shard—a piece of a celestial relic, he’d said—sat there nestled within its little innocuous test tube. The thing looked like no more than a small antler, similar to the ones she’d often seen shed by the deer around her house. It was no longer glowing and, strangely enough, didn’t scare her, nor did it look entirely out of place, well, sans test tube, among the dark wood of her cabin. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine it was just that—a shed antler, a token brought home from a hiking trip. It could almost be . . . normal.

She was about to mention as much, as well as ask about the whole lack-of-wings thing, if he really was an angel, when a quivering unease tightened her abdomen. Like a bad penny that always returned, a familiar sensation crashed through her, and her mouth puckered in preparation.

Shit. I thought I was past this.

Iron scrutinized her, a worried expression pinching his features. He took a step toward her. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

Anna shook her head, then brought one hand to her stomach and cupped the other over her mouth. All she could leave him with was a muffled “Excuse me” before she bolted to the bathroom. Her knees barely had time to hit the tile. Then a torrent of nausea squeezed everything out of her. Apples, coffee, the two bites of oatmeal she’d managed. It all came rushing forth in violent spasms.

Vaguely, she thought she heard footsteps, but even those weren’t clearly defined. Thuds, echoes, poundings, they were all the same as another surge took control and flung her head farther into the toilet bowl. After two more rounds of that, she was bracing herself to take another hit when rough fingers brushed the sides of her neck and gathered her hair back from her face.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Iron’s low voice in her ears dug its heels into her scrambled mind, anchoring her nerves against the waves of nausea. He kept collecting more pieces of her hair, gathering them loosely at her back. The rhythmic soft tugs straining gently against her scalp seemed to be the distraction her body needed. Like flicking the hair tie on her wrist during departure when she used to fly, the diversion worked. Soon, Anna was able to close the toilet lid, flush, and crawl to the vanity below the sink to pull out her mouthwash. Once Iron helped her to her feet, he stepped back out into the hallway, giving her the space she needed to defunkify herself.

“Sorry about that,” she said after splashing water on her face. “Man, I thought I wouldn’t have to go through that anymore, but I guess it can still linger.”

“What could you possibly have to be sorry for?”

The towel she’d been drying her face with halted beneath her chin. Iron didn’t just look confused but angry.

“Getting violently sick in front of someone isn’t generally a good thing. My fault for not closing the bathroom door. Kind of ran out of time, though. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve had to deal with this, so my reflexes aren’t what they used to be.”

“This happens often?”

“Well, not so much anymore, but it used to, yeah. It was pretty much a semi-daily occurrence for the better part of two months.”

“Why? Are you ill?” Iron pelted her with that topaz gaze, the one that housed a host of swirling flames dancing through his irises, instead of the bicolored ones she’d grown used to. It was yet more proof of his wonderment and words. The effect would have been beautiful if not for the tension pulling his jaw into even harder lines.

Anna cleared her throat. “No, I’m not sick,” she said, hoping to infuse some lightness into her response, if only so it could melt away some of whatever had just soured his mood.

“Then why?—”

“I’m pregnant.”

Iron hadn’t movedfrom his post in front of the picture window since Anna had practically dropped a fucking football stadium on his head and politely dismissed him so she could shower and get dressed. The hot water was still pumping strongly thanks to the generator, though in another few hours, he’d have to go out and check on the fuel.

If Iron had learned one thing during his years in the mortal realm, it was that Mother Nature had a penchant for irony. A small snow squall had decided to move through, whipping its load around like a kid who’d just discovered packing peanuts and a box fan. Nothing devastating, since driving was out of the question, but definitely not something even he would brave, metallic armor or no. Thankfully, it would pass soon enough.

What wouldn’t pass was the image of Anna on her knees, heaving up her breakfast, and the casualness with which she declared her condition.

Pregnant. She was pregnant. By another man. And alone.

Outside, the snow whipped through the trees with the force of a sea gale, peeling off chunks of bark and leaving behind frosty coatings that would build up and ice over throughout the rest of the storm.

In a way, it was a type of defense through endurance. Whichever trees were still standing despite the assault were the ones that saw another season. It was a monumental bet in arboreal evolution, a gamble that those trees would heal and thrive in time.

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