World After (Penryn & the End of Days, #2)

by Susan Ee

“Hey! Back off from the dead girl. She’s Resistance property.” “Yeah,” says his twin brother Dum from inside the cab. “We need her for autopsies and stuff. You think girls killed by demon princes are easy to find?”

“We’re going back to high school where our survival instincts are at their finest.”

I can’t help looking up at the overcast sky for a particular angel with bat-shaped wings and a corny sense of humor.

“You’re naming your collector’s-item, kick-ass sword that’s made to maim and kill, specifically designed to bring your ginormous enemies to their knees and hear the lamentation of their women—Pooky Bear?”

“I’m gonna be sick,” I say. “I’m ordering you not to,” says Obi. “Ah, don’t say that,” says Dee-Dum. “She’s a born rebel. She’ll puke just to make a point.”

“That would have been so awesome. Can you imagine? Boom!” He mimes a mushroom cloud. “Moo!”

Raffe’s legs tremble violently and he’s losing consciousness, but he stays up out of sheer stubbornness and fury.

A small hand slaps him. He opens his eyes for a moment. Against the glow of the sky, dark hair flutters in the breeze. Intense eyes fringed with long lashes. Lips so red the girl must have been biting them. It takes him a moment to realize she’s the Daughter of Man who risked herself to help him. She’s asking him something. Her voice is insistent but melodic. It’s a good sound to die to.

His last thought before he blacks out is that his Watchers would have liked this girl.

That, and I’m dying to know what he felt during our kiss. I know it doesn’t matter. I know it won’t change anything. I know it’s juvenile. Whatever. Can’t a girl be a girl for, like, five minutes?

I can tell by their roughness that they expect a major struggle. We Young girls are getting a reputation.

“Of course you’re fine.” She keeps walking. “You’re the devil’s bride and these are his creatures.”

“I’m not the devil’s bride.” “He carried you out of the fire and is letting you visit us from the dead. Who else would have those privileges except his bride?” She sees me once in a guy’s arms and she has us married already. I wonder what Raffe would think of my mom being his mother-in-law.

It’s more the way a tough guy who doesn’t like cats might look at a kitten and notice for the first time that it can be kind of cute. Sort of a reluctant, private acknowledgment that maybe cats aren’t all bad.

Whatever the reason, he reluctantly pulls the cushions from the back of my couch. He pauses, looking like he’s about to change his mind. Then he slides in behind me.

He strokes my hair and whispers, “Shhh.” Whatever comfort he’s giving me, I’m giving at least that much back just by being a warm body for him to hold at a time when he needs it most. I snuggle closer to him in my sleep and my whimpering subsides to a contented sigh.

If I ever see the twins again, it looks like I owe them a zombie-girl mud fight.

“You’re a hero, Penryn, whether you like it or not.”

Of course she’s right. How bad are things when your clinically insane mother is more rational than you are?

It’s painful to see that people prefer a bad guy who looks like an angel to a good guy who looks like a demon.

I shove everything—fear, hope, thoughts—into the vault in my head and slam the door shut before they explode back out. It’s getting trickier to open that vault door.

CIGARETTES. Who knew they’d be such a problem at the end of the world?

I am dominant here. You live or die at my mercy and I say when you fight and when you don’t. It all sounds good in my head. Only it doesn’t play out that way.

“Your human privileges are being revoked, asshole.”

The alarm bells shriek again, echoing off the walls. “The hell is that?” asks Tattoo. “And why does it keep going off?” “There’s some crazy lady on the loose,” says Doc. “Keeps propping open emergency exits. Triggers the alarm. Are you going to let me go?” Well, at least my mom must be doing okay.

“If you see that emergency-exit woman,” I call after him, “tell her Penryn sent you. Take care of her, okay? I think that’s my mom.”

His lips twitch as if it’s funny to think about how my hair might have ended up on his shirt. My guess is that it must have happened when I kissed him in the hallway downstairs by the club. He thinks it’s amusing. If I had a body in this dream, my cheeks would be burning. It’s embarrassing just to think about it.

He rips open the package and pulls out the thread. It’s the same snowy white as his wings. He holds the thread and hair together and twirls them with his thumb and forefinger so that the two strands intertwine. Holding the ends together, he steps over to the sword that lies on the counter and wraps the strand around the sword’s grip. “Stop complaining,” he says to the sword. “It’s for luck.”

I’m in the middle of another poorly thought-out, harebrained scheme that risks not only my life but all the other lives around me.

But as an angel, I doubt that he bothered to take much stock of the humans. When he looks at me, it’s the look of someone noticing a person for the first time, proving yet again that an angel’s arrogance knows no bounds. Which, now that I think about it, increases the likelihood that this is Raffe. He does a full evaluation of me, taking in the cut and curled hair accented with peacock feathers, the blue and silver makeup ribbons chasing around my eyes and cheekbones, the silky dress that clings to every part of my body. But it’s not until his eyes meet mine that a jolt of recognition passes between us. I have no doubt that it’s Raffe. But he fights his recognition of me. For a second, his defenses fall and I can see the turmoil behind his eyes. He saw me die. This must be a mistake. This glittery girl doesn’t look anything like the street waif he traveled with. Yet… His step falters and he pauses, staring at me.

I can’t think of any way to help Raffe that doesn’t involve getting my head chopped off or something equally horrendous.

I’m not usually a girl who hopes for a damsel-in-distress rescue but no matter the odds against it, this would be a freakin’ fantastic time for Raffe to come and sweep me into the sky.

I kick him in the face point blank with my high heel. He wasn’t expecting that. The angel flies back off the stage. “It really is you,” says Raffe.

He starts a slow smile that melts my bones.

A warm arm enfolds me like a shield around my shoulder and turns me toward the side of the stage. “Stay with me,” says a familiar masculine whisper from above my head. Even over the yelling of the mob and the roaring of the waves, something unfurls in my chest at the sound of that voice.

“Don’t talk. You’ll just spoil my fantasy of rescuing an innocent damsel in distress as soon as you open your mouth.”

Like the previous one, this angel smiles when he sees my blade. He’s up for more of a challenge than squashing an ant. At least this ant has a sharp knife and an attitude.

Males—they’ve all trained against each other. They expect attacks to certain zones on their bodies and from someone who’s used to relying on upper-body strength. And they always, always underestimate women.

I duck, crouching with bent knees, letting him almost sail over me. I leap up at the last second and stab my blade into his crotch with all the force of my springing legs. Why bother attacking their strengths when you can go straight for their weaknesses?

Raffe looks over at the bloody knife in my hand. “If I still had any doubts that it was you, that would do it.” He gestures toward my opponent rolling on the ground with his hands cradling his package.

“He should have been polite and just let us by,” I say. “Way to teach him some respect. I always wanted to meet a girl who fights dirty,” says Raffe. “There’s no such thing as dirty fighting in self-defense.” He huffs. “I don’t know whether to make fun of him or to respect you.” “Come on, that one’s easy.” He grins at me. There’s something in his eyes that makes my insides melt a little, like something deep inside us is communicating without me being fully aware of it.

I look up and see Raffe watching me. I feel a wave of awkwardness. Raffe grabs me around the waist and lifts me into his arms like in an old-time movie. His arms cradle my back and knees. I reflexively wrap my arms around his neck. For a moment, I’m confused, and the silliest thoughts flood through my head. “Don’t let me go,” he says.

Freedom in the shape of demon’s wings. I want to laugh and cry at the same time. I’m in Raffe’s arms, flying.

Angels are supposed to be beautiful creatures of light but the ones chasing us look more like a cloud of demons spewing forth from the mist. Raffe must be thinking something similar because he tightens his grip around my waist as if to say, “not this one.”

My only thought is that I am not going to end up truly dead this time in Raffe’s arms. I am not going to be one more wound on his soul.

It’s amazing how many times we have to go against our survival instincts to survive.

Raffe holds me tight with one arm while using the other to fend off the angel who is trying to punch him. I lean over and grab the sword’s hilt. I don’t have a chance of getting it away from him, but I might be able to distract him from his fight with Raffe. And if I’m really lucky, I might even convince the sword that an unauthorized user is trying to lift it.

“Let go,” I say into his ear. Raffe holds me tighter like there’s no room for discussion.

For once, I hold onto her craziness for strength. Sometimes, I just have to let go and let my inner Mom out.

I’ve heard that most drowning victims can’t calm down. They have to impose their will against every survival instinct to stop flailing and let themselves feel like they’re drowning. It takes an infinite amount of trust to count on someone else to save you. Raffe must have enormous willpower because he immediately stops splashing.