Mavobella: The Angel Of Death

Chapter 5

Dawn came sooner than expected, creeping in like an invited guest you completely forgot was coming. It wasn't the kind of dawn that eases you into the day, but the type that slaps you across the face and demands attention. One second I was swimming in a hazy twilight of unconsciousness; the next, I was wide awake, muscles unknotting themselves as if I had had the best massage. Even the zombie's brutal blow from yesterday had vanished without a trace.

I glanced down at my tattoos and there they were, clear as day, each one of them more than a thousand souls, millions in total. I wasn't just any angel of death—I was the angel of death. The first to harvest so many souls, I had my own chapter in the celestial Guinness World Records. And if I could pull off such a record there was nothing that could stop me from escaping this ridiculously supernatural prison.

A prison where I had unprecedentedly settled in someone's attic, where lines of the sun's glorious golden glow sipped in filling the shabby room with color. Birds chirped outside its gigantic circular window like a choir that will receive fifty points from Gryffindor.

The attic was a treasure trove of unwanted relics—dirty canvas stacked haphazardly like they were hoping to be discovered by an art critic that has given up on life, a deflated basketball that looked like it hadn't been used ever since the Reagan era, unused lanterns that looked like they had lost their will to shine, and an old grimy mirror like the one from the graveyard house. Not to mention a collection of knitting ropes, horror-movies-inspired dolls with unsettling glares, and other oddities you could picture from Wednesday Adams’ bedroom.

I let my feet dangle over the edge of the bed, trying to gather my wits. That's when I noticed some clothes placed on a wiped-down table a step from the bed. I could tell that it was wiped since only the area around them was clean—the rest was like everything else; dingy as fuck. Nicole was unexpectedly kind and that was surprising, since she had no idea of who I was.

I got to my feet, and instantly realized that the room's ceiling wasn’t as high as I thought it was. Either I was under the influence of something utterly potent yesterday or I was too worn out to notice. I could not recall needing to hunching to get from one corner to another. The coach would have made a perfect home, but then; that drunk. I couldn't regret any less for taking this child’s playhouse for a room for the night.

The clothes Nicole had left were a pair of baggy, faded jeans and a white top. Nicole had taste. They weren't exactly runaway  material, but given that Nicole dressed like my grandma this was breaking news. I couldn't complain.

“Mavo’bella!” Nicole’s voice echoed from downstairs, trying out what sounded like a Spanish accent. She called out like a mom summoning her teenage daughter, who was late for school, for breakfast.

“One minute,” I replied, pulling the jeans up my thighs. It was a perfect fit—either we were almost the same size or she was good at estimating measurements just with her eyes.

The door to the room was worse—in terms of height. I had to duck. Damn I felt like I was hanging out in a two year old’s tree house. But after crossing to the other side, my constitutional right of standing upright without the fear of breaking my neck was given.

I climbed down the stairs and found her taking breakfast—scrambled eggs, a bun, and a cup of milk. The breakfast was surprisingly delicate for a prison setting. I almost shook my head at the absurdity of it all. Wade was nowhere to be seen. I didn't care to ask where he was, but was soon befell with the sound of rushing water from a room I hadn't been in yet. The drunk was still around.

Nicole cleared her throat pulling me back to the immediate reality. She glanced at me just to remind me that she wasn't the cook and the server all in one to a stranger. The kitchen counter. She didn't have to put it into words. I found my share of breakfast.

Since I came here—this island—my mouth has had a bad habit of assassinating anything food. My stomach on the other hand only asked for more. I ate like a loony from the street. And I thought that I wasn't starving.

I had to admit it, Nicole was an expert at the field of cooking. I wonder how she could make a common egg omelet taste better than a KFC snack. There was a combo of ingredients each practically fitted in the right amount just to fill my mouth with stars. I always wondered how mortals got obscenely fat, the answer of that could be meals from people like Nicole. I could eat all day and relish every last bite.

Nicole lured me off the queer nibbling with a question. “Do you know how to bake?” Whether it was to fill the drifting silence, or she was genuinely interested in knowing how shitty I was in making anything edible, I didn't care to think twice of my answer.

“No,” I mumbled between bites, slurping into another sip of the freshly made milk.

“You will have to learn,” she uttered. There was no expression to be read in her body language. She was too good at hiding her unsaid words. Baking? Really? Like I was going to fight demons with large buns or cookies.

“No, I'm getting out of here,” I said firmly. I was all but interested in settling in with not just her but this island too.

“Trust me, we have all tried,” she said with a lopsided smile. The first smile I saw on her face. At least she wasn't Hitler; she had a smile for it. But this wasn't a normal smile, it was a taunting one—she knew something I didn't and that irked me. I added proving her wrong in my to-do list. That cute smile was not going to serve as an incentive for me to learn baking; wrong number darling.

“I haven't,” I blurted.

At that moment, the door on my far left creaked open. Wade walked out dressed in a tight black T-shirt and equally tight black jeans trousers. The fit clung to him perfectly—far from the disheveled mess I had seen the night before. He looked like he had just stepped out of a fashion magazine, his unruly hair styled in a way that looked effortless and undeniably attractive. His ocean-blue eyes sparkled with mischief, his lips, pink and symmetrical, seemed to mock the world. He had to be proud of his looks, considering how he fluffed his hair with exaggerated gestures. I half expected him to announce he was the highschool jock from St. Charming High.

“She is not lying, vampire girl,” he interjected, in a speech that he was never meant to contribute, in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Excuse me?” I shot him a quizzical look. Vampire girl?

“I saw your lips yesterday. You looked like you had sucked someone dry,” he said with a smirk, making a telepathic only-friends or only-lovers joke only Nicole understood. She chuckled.

Drinking and being a baby had something in common—only the person involved does not remember a thing. I guess angel’s drinks have a different way of doing things. He still remembered my less-than-stellar appearance. He was more intimidating sober than when drunk

“It's called lipstick you dumbass,” I shot back. Apart from manners, maybe they didn't have make-up too in this place. I had to educate them. Anyway, I was making my leave and educating them would no longer have to bother me.

I busted out of the wooden mahogany door and immediately sensed something—an aura that made the hairs on my arm stand and the tips of my ears twitch. Demons.

I stretched my back, and in an instant, my wings tore free, spreading wide. My pride, my red pair of malevolent sky transport, were back to slavery.

But something was amiss. Why weren't they attacking? I sharpened my senses further and detected mixed auras on my radar. Angel demon, angel demon, angel demon. Yes, there were no humans, as expected—they could barely survive for a second in such an environment, one brimming with malevolence. But that did not change the fact that the streets, a bizarre replica of ancient London rush hour, was overcrowded with paradox.

Frankly, I was bracing for anything—zombies, gunfire, explosions—but angels and demons dancing to the same tune. It had to be some sort of elaborate illusion. This was too surreal. The scent of coffee wafted from a nearby café, the dry summer breeze felt real, and my eyes saw everything in vivid detail. But still, it was too absurd to be true. Sworn enemies could never toddle in one path—not even if that was why the Imperium was built in the first place: to make peace between them.

“If you make it back, find Caketopia Bakery. I'll teach you how to bake.” Nicole whispered in my ear before disappearing into the marching crowd.

Without further ado, I stretched my wings and shot for the sky, summoning Ye as I ascended.