Mavobella: The Angel Of Death

Chapter 10

Outside, the streets of Anubistopia lay eerily silent, as if the very air had been holding its breath. The aftermath of the battle still hummed faintly, a ghostly echo clinging to the buildings. The angelic dust shimmered like dying embers around Caketopia, but I could feel the fractures in its once-immaculate glow. That barrier was fraying, a fragile shield. The thought gnawed at me like a splinter beneath my skin.

I glanced at the broken body of the angel zombie sprawled across the cobblestones. Its wings were a twisted mockery of what they once were, limp and shredded, clinging to its rotting back. The creature’s face—what was left of it—was mashed into the ground, a heap of unrecognizable flesh. But I knew better than to be relieved. They always reassembled. The dead never stayed dead, just as the living never stayed sane.

Time dragged on, and the streets remained clear, save for a few brave souls cautiously venturing near the edges of the angelic dust. They’d pop in and out like nervous rodents, testing the limits of safety before scurrying back. The Dead O’clock was looming—Nicole’s usual cue to close up. Most people wouldn’t dare leave Caketopia’s sugary embrace. Not necessarily because of their well-made cakes or heavenly drinks that were offered, but because of their fright of what had happened. It had happened once and there was no reason for it not to happen again.

Melissa, offered to keep the bakery afloat. Quite literally.

“We’ll keep it flying,” she had said. Not exactly a reassuring statement, but it was Melissa. She could float a bakery while juggling pies if she had to.

We left the bubble of Caketopia behind, soaring over Anubistopia’s rooftops, the once-vibrant city now draped in eerie stillness. Nicole’s house came into view at the edge of town, standing like an overly confident aristocrat at a funeral. The roof was a faint shade of pink—because of course it was—and its solid pine walls seemed to give the house an air of stubborn resilience, with an almost-green tint hugging the base like moss creeping upward.

As the sun sank, casting long shadows across the town, we landed. The house felt out of place in the growing darkness, a pastel beacon in a world of shadows.

Nicole opened the door, and the familiar wisp of alcohol hit my nose, strong enough to make my eyes water. Wade, the charmer, was already sprawled on the couch, boots on, brown coat half-off, and mumbling incoherently in his sleep. His snoring could’ve powered a small generator.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mr. ‘I’m never drinking again’... drinking again,” Nicole quipped, her voice laced with dry amusement.

Wade was too far gone to register the burn. He let out a particularly loud snore, in response.

“I’ll make dinner. You, go clean your room,” Nicole said, already heading for the kitchen.

“My room?” I raised an eyebrow. “What are we, twelve?”

“Just do it, Mav. And skip the dramatics. We’ve got enough real drama as it is.”

I was fizzled out from all the skirting around the truth. The unspoken tension was grating on my nerves. “How do they bring us here?” I demanded, my voice cutting through the air sharper than I intended.

Nicole sighed, her patience visibly thinning. “We’ve all tried to figure it out. No one knows.”

“Well, I haven’t tried yet. So how about you humor me?” My tone was harsher than expected, but the questions had been burning inside me for too long.

She shot me a withering look. “Telepathic magic. It’s like a roulette—no one knows where or how the next one gets pulled in.”

“And the air—” I shook my head, devoid of the right words to put on the table, before she interjected.