Page 18 of Wings of Lies
Groggy, I blinked up at him. He sat in the center of his bed—away from me.
He was scared of me. I was scared of me.
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” I whispered.
Horror squeezed my stomach, pushing bile up my throat and slapping a bitter taste on the back of my tongue. I couldn’t believe I wanted to hurt him. But it consumed me. A sweet little tune puppeteered my actions.
“I’m unsure of your power. But I can tell you it has something to do with being an…” he hesitated.
“A what?” I whispered, wanting him to continue.
“An angel.”
Chapter
Six
Stunned, I stared at Oliver. “We’re angels?”
He moved his head from side to side. “Ehhh, sorta.”
“Explain.”Please, please give me something to explain what I almost did.
“The purple ring signifies angel blood. But that doesn’t mean you’re a pure angel. Most of the time, at least around here, if you see someone with a purple ring, they aren’t full-blooded, or they’re Fallen.”
I blinked. Besides the continuous flutter tickling my mind, none of this sounded familiar. And yet, probably because I was locked in a cage and most likely half-insane, I believed him. Although, glowing hands and Oliver’s bluntness helped.
“Which are you?”
“I’m a Nephilim. Half angel, half human.”
“And what am I? Am I a Nephilim like you?” The thought eased the tension in my shoulders, especially since he didn’t say anything toset my guilty conscience of murder at ease. But if I was like him, he could explain what was happening to me.
“I don’t know. It’s hard to tell a Nephilim and an angel apart,” he said. “But you have two rings. I’ve never seen any Nephilim with two rings. I’ve never even heard of it. And I’ve heard of a lot.”
“Have you heard of angels with them?”
He sighed, scrubbing at his head. “No.”
“Okay, what about a Fallen? Am I one of those?”
Oliver scooted back to the edge of the bed and slid to the carpet, brave enough to be near me again. He rested his arms on his knees. “A Fallen is a fallen angel. They did something bad, disobeyed angelic law, were cast out of whatever place they came from, and had their wings ripped out of their back.” He raised his arms and twirled his finger. “Turn around and lift your shirt.”
“Why?”
“Fallen have scars on their backs.”
I turned, grabbed the edge of his sweater, then paused. I wasn’t wearing any underwear.
“Here.” He handed me the comforter off the bed.
I wrapped it around my waist and pulled his sweater up to my shoulders. “Well?”
He was silent.
“Oliver?” I flinched as his icy finger traced a line along my back.
“You’re not Fallen,” he whispered. “But you do have scars. It looks like someone carved five tally marks across your lower spine.” His somber tone hinted at the meaning behind his words.
