Prompt: "They looked like angels, but their wings were wrong. Dark and sleek, short and oily, built for the water."
A stray tear rolled down my cheek; I didn't know where I was. They – whoever they were – had hurled me in a van, gagged me, and sedated me so I wouldn't try to run. Not that I would have had it in me anyway. I'm more the type to comply with the requests of armed men pointing guns at me so this roughhousing seemed a tad unnecessary.
A nervous laugh bubbled out, driving pain through my cuffed wrists. As far as I could tell, someone had carried me in their arms and then dropped me in the middle of a cold room, which they then left by slamming a door. Minutes later, the thudding of heavy-duty boots announced the arrival of a group of visitors who I guessed were now staring at me while I got my bearings. Or, at the very least, I tried to. One can never know how important eyesight is until they are robbed of it.
I smelled fish and not the good, cooked-in-a-pan kind. It was rotten fish, the type of which makes stomachs turn and bile rise into throats; it makes you stare while thinking you are just like it, albeit a bit more sentient. Water dripped somewhere from my right – or was it my left?
Someone grabbed my cuffs and unlocked them. I gasped and rubbed them, too concerned with driving the pain away to care if I couldn't see. My flesh was raw and even the lightest of touches brought fresh tears to my eyes. Another yanked off my blindfold, probably wanting to just get it done with and dispose of me as soon as possible. I was seated inside a circle – no, a pentagram – and the men around me resembled the angels in the Bible; they even had halos. But something was off about them. Their wings, I gulped, were dark and sleek, much shorter than what I was used to; they glistened with oil and seemed built for swimming in the Styx. As if someone had messed up the process of angel creation and the result…was this. A brooding creature, oddly resembling a vampire, its eyes alight with hunger and scorn.
A death angel. Lucifer would have been proud.
And they were all looking at me. I don't know about y'all but I have never had six good-looking men, stare at me like that. What sent chills down my spine – apart from the whole sacrificial ritual vibe – was they all looked the same. Their eyes were brown, their hair was blond; even their faces, jagged and strong-jawed, had the same bone structure. Only the noses seemed slightly different; one was crooked, the other large while the third small as a button.
I shuddered, lowering my gaze to minimize the effect they had on me. One stepped up to grab my chin and force me to look at his freckled face.
"Do you know why you're here?" He whispered, his voice low and guttural.
Vampirical, some may say.
"Beats me." I put on a brave face, hoping that would deter them from making me the crux of their ritual.
"The Court has lost its master." Another crouched beside me, drawing circular moves with his shoulders, working out the kinks.
Or a nervous habit – the one a desperate prisoner might use?
"We need a new one." The first hissed at the second and they stared at each other for a few moments.
They weren't pleased. Something was going on between them – I recognized the tension, and, like any sensible person in my situation, I decided to study it so I could use it to my advantage.
"Only a man can lead The Court." The second stood up, his lips parting to reveal a perfect set of teeth.
I couldn't see any fangs, thank God for that.
"A woman can do the job just as well."
How modern.
"We cannot stray from tradition."
"To Hell with tradition. Time is of the essence."
My eyes moved back and forth, trying to pinpoint the exact source of the argument. Was it simply patriarch versus matriarch or did it stem deeper?
"We should have taken her boyfriend."
I frowned; a reaction that drew their attention.
"What?" The second one, with the crooked nose, glared at me.
I reckoned he didn't like me very much, given I was a woman. Tough luck for him.
"I don't have a boyfriend."
"Then how do you explain this?" He whipped out a photo of me and my best friend riding a merry-go-round.
"Oh, you mean Tim? He's my best friend."
I kid you not – all the death angels, or whatever they called themselves – sighed while the first one muttered, "Stuck in the friend zone, then. I told you he wouldn't make a good master. He lacks basic skills. The man couldn't even come up with the courage to ask her out."
I knew Tim liked me, but I had no idea he would go that far. That's because he wouldn't; he would think of it, but he would never jeopardize our friendship. I licked my lips, replaying all our moments together, while, in the background, the two angels argued.
Me and Tim at Vicky's, enjoying Nutella pancakes. He had gone to the trouble to feed me the first and then wipe away the chocolate on my cheek.
That had been my first clue.
When I had asked him, he had denied it all. Then, of course, we had to go on that stupid ski trip, where Tim almost got himself killed by smashing full speed into a tree. I visited him in hospital, praying he'd be alright. I had gotten him on that trip; he would do anything to make me happy.
Clue number two: if he cares about your happiness more than you care about his, you should let him down as gently as possible. Otherwise, you might find yourself inside a pentagram.
"What has all this have to do with Tim?" I interrupted, suddenly realizing how little I was compared to them.
The fact that I was still on the ground didn't help either. I stood up, brushing specks of dust away from my shirt, wondering if there was any way to contact the police.
"Remember Tim's father?" The button-nosed angel asked.
How could I forget? He had died in a gruesome car crash, taking out a family of three on the road to suicide. I told them as much, making sure they took notice of my righteous anger.
"He was our master." The second angel replied, lowering his gaze as his cheeks turned red.
A meek what was all I managed to squeal.
"Rajesh was our leader. That's why Gabriel," the first angel looked at the second, "wanted us to choose him. But I think otherwise, and my brothers are keen on trying a new path."
Gabriel's gaze remained lowered as he clenched his fists and ground his teeth. His brothers had turned against him – that was a feeling I related to.
It was an experience I could understand.
"I'm Bruno. And these are Noel, Leo, Xavier, Kay, Michael, Ajay, Fredrick, Damon, Richard, and Quentin."
One by one, the angels took a step forward as their brother nominated them. They all looked the same to me – remembering their names would be a bitch.
I caught myself just in time; if I told them that, they would think I was considering joining whatever they were doing. The Court, they had called it. Which I wasn't. At least, I thought I wasn't.
I wondered if Tim knew about this little cult his dad was in charge of and whether he'd tell me the truth if he did know of it. He had never lied to me before but how far does a man's honesty go? At some point, one has to draw a line, even if it is a white lie, meant to only protect. Would Tim choose to protect me by hiding the truth?
Gabriel's looked at me as if he could guess my thoughts. "Tim knows."
Well…that sums it up.
"Fuck." I said.
The angels waited for more, but the truth is I had nothing else to state. So much for being childhood friends then.
"How long has he known?" I asked, without being entirely sure if it was just my curiosity or my masochist side wanting to throttle me and leave me crying in a pool of tears.
The pain would come later, right when I expected it less. It would start with uncertainty – mistrust and suspicion were going to bloom in my heart whenever someone told me anything, no matter how trivial. I would be alone forever, unable to believe anyone could genuinely be honest anymore. The pain would be dull, but it would never go away, pouring salt on my wounds every time I could even have a chance of evading.
I'd gone through this carousel before.
"Since he was a little child," Bruno's eyes softened as he took my hand, stroking it gently. "We asked him not to tell anyone. Do not fault him."
He knew that was impossible; beneath those doe eyes, I guessed a sharpness only age and grief can erect. A tower of thorns, right inside our very own soul.
"Are you going to join us?" Leo – I think it was Leo – stepped up, his hands hidden inside his jeans' pockets.
I thought about it, weighing the upsides and downsides, pretending I cared. The truth is, betrayal stings, especially when you aren't the one doing it.
"Why the hell not?"