"When the angels heard this, they laughed," he says, lowering his voice to a sullen whisper, a gruffness to his voice that I have yet to experience, that honeyed coo quickly replaced with a spine tingling anger. To drunk to be nervous, I tighten my hand on his, worry swimming in my gut.
To think that the angels- a race esteemed for their purity, their power, and so called 'fairness' would laugh at such a tragedy? It is revolting. If that was me trying to make my way to Alastor, or even Alicia- if I got laughed at, belittled for simply wanting to be united... Smoke coils around my fingers as anger proceeds to bubble at my gut like a lava pool. I would be enraged.
Under the touch of my hand, I feel his body stiffen, his fingers clench tighter against the stool. Or perhaps that is merely the reaction to the heat that boils at my fingertips, threatening to turn the glass in my hand to a sticky pile of mush.
