Page 113 of Lourdes & the Mafia
It’s too soon.
I’ll scare them away.
I’m behind hunted.
I’m being stupid.
I’m—
“Who was that man?” I ask Ramiel, opting to ignore Lorenzo’s question entirely. It doesn’t go unnoticed, my abruptness, I’m sure. “He was…” The image of mangled wings come to mind. Of a glowing body and a cruel smile.
Of the promise of retribution.
Ramiel leans back in his chair with a sigh. A hand runs across the wide expanse of his chest, pressing over where the wound inflicted by an angry angel had been.
He stops, as if realizing what he’s doing, and lowers his hand in his lap.
“That was Thuriel.” He pauses, looks at me. “He was my brother.”
Kane and Lorenzo both tense at the word brother. I can feel their hatred for the easy use of the word burning around us. Darkness flickers in the corners of my vision but doesn’t expand. They keep their emotions perfectly contained, and if Ramiel notices the brief flickering display of jealousy, he doesn’t say anything.
“I suppose I should explain who and what I am, if you are to understand Thuriel, and why he felled me so easily.”
“You’re an angel.”
The words come to me like the lightning spear that pierced through his flesh. Violently. Easily. A spark in my mind like the impact of my own visions.
Ramiel nods tightly.
“But… but you’re a demon?”
“Not technically. Before I became the High King of the Underworld, I was an angel. An angel of death, if we want to get specific.”
An angel of death. Ha, he says it like it’s not a fucking big deal.
Don’t mind the scythe in my hands as I scoot past ya here, no biggie.
Don’t mind me while I tear your soul from your fucking body, no biggie.
Don’t mind me while I get attacked by some lunatic with sliced up chicken wings, no biggie.
No biggie, mi culo.
“I was an angel of death and then I fell.”
Wings. Mangled flesh. Golden glow.
Retribution.
Something beneath my skin tingles at the sound of his words. It sparks, the feeling of free-falling you get at the pit of your stomach overtaking my body. A flash comes to me, dancing at the edge of my mind.
I recognize it as what it is. A vision. I reach for it with what feels like desperate fingers, pulling it in front of my eyes, immersing myself in it.
And this time, there’s no pain to it. Not like the others. I wonder if it has anything to do with how I’ve finally merged with it. Felt it. Learned to recognize it.
Or I wonder if it’s because of the gentleness of the vision itself.
In it, Ramiel appears. But not the Ramiel I know. Not the Ramiel cloaked in darkness and a suit of black.
