Blackridge Institute (wlw) - DA 1

Chapter 4

On a late afternoon, where she had bailed on a linguistics lecture in favor of coming home early, Solomon opened the door to her dorm room to find Casandra lying flat on her back on her previously unused bed. The angel had her eyes closed, entire body in a position that wasn't her personal favorite—her neck would start hurting. Obviously, she was sleeping.

Solomon seized with glee at the sight. She had never seen Casandra sleep; she had asked once if angels slept and the woman said, Not as such. Which had been cryptic and exciting.

Sol tiptoed around the room, preparing to get into her own bed—the reason she ditched class—and was halfway through pulling on her flannel shirt when she caught the sight of Casandra again.

What a fascinating and unorthodox way to sleep—Casandra was on top of the undisturbed blankets, shoes off. Everything else was on, tweed jacket and all.

Solomon wondered if this was normal, and decided it was not. But was it normal for angels? She had no metric for angels. Increasingly she considered that something had gone wrong, which was not a difficult conclusion to jump to because Sol never did manage to mind her own business. It felt so unlike Casandra to sleep in the middle of the day, or at all.

She crept across the room to stand over the inert body, her mind juggling scales labelled To wake and Not to wake. Solomon noticed that Casandra stopped breathing, or had not been breathing the whole time.

This bit of information placed itself squarely on the To wake scale and spun the whole thing to the metaphorical floor. Solomon grabbed Casandra by the arms—

And great, steaming tendrils of flesh unfurled through the sleeves, twining through her own arms and down her shirt, so hot it felt like they were melting into her skin. It happened in an instant; Solomon watched the meat creep up like a myriad-long motion picture.

The further it went—it traveled along her body, starting with her hands and had already reached down her waist, and it was climbing up her head like a caul—the tendrils became less pulpy fat and muscle and started becoming marrow and shanks of bone.

Locked in that embrace, Solomon's only course of action was to yell for help, but before she could, the delicate lashes flashed open—shuttered open, like a very confident garage door—and Casandra's eyes were black sclera.

Like most angels, Casandra was beautiful. So beautiful that it almost went full circle to land in horror territory, with a face that people receive prophecies from in their dreams. The kind of beautiful made from unmarred skin, eyebrows growing perfectly sculpted from the root, and lips bowed like shying away from a lover's touch. Those lips twisted in scorn, presently.

"Do not touch me when I'm sleeping," spat Casandra, so near that Sol could feel her breath.

"Sorry," said Sol, unable to express just how sorry she was.

Cas withdrew her meat and bones, leaving behind giblets of flesh on Sol and the sheets. Casandra stood, the goop absorbing through her clothes, but not from her bed.

"You've made a mess," she said, tut-tutting and shaking her head. Casandra had recently learned to click her tongue against her teeth and did it obnoxiously often, because apparently Sol did things that warranted the Tut.

"Me? I didn't do anything. That was all you, angel." Sol was mostly sorry for herself and her clothes.

"It's defensive."

"It's gross. And hardcore." Solomon attempted to wring her hair out, and regretted it as soon as her hands went squelch. "Does it hurt?"

"Not that I notice. Wash it off."