An Angel Dies

The City is Burning

AN: I cannot thank all of you people enough. Seriously. Just seeing the reads go up makes me smile. Sorry this update is a little late, but I've been going in for job interviews (Yeah, I am fourteen--I've found places that will hire) and it's kind of intimidating and scary, but I'm getting used to it. Enjoy!

IMPORTANT! I don't like cursing or using the Lord's name in vain, so if you see ---- or any sequence of those, it's replacing a curse word. 

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Keith Warren had been a very bad man.

I chewed my pencil’s pink eraser, looking at my journal—my special black one that fit in my pocket—filled with my tight cramped handwriting.

He was forty-four, with a shaven head and squinty eyes. His chin was angular, oddly contrasting with his thick neck and stocky, huge body. Overall, he resembled an overgrown rat. He’d been found guilty of theft and various robberies, also known to hold membership in a gang.

A bit of hacking into police files (honestly, I was a tad out of practice and it took me three hours to bypass their firewalls) revealed a few addresses and some notes, including a decrepit warehouse that bordered Manhattan that was suspected to be one of his hideouts. I jotted down the address and entered it into Google Maps, copying the directions.

This was my first target. I labeled it with a number one and moved on, finding another address, this time an old house, and repeating the same process, until I’d written down seven locations. I tucked the little black notepad into my back pocket and slipped off the desk chair, moving stiffly. My head still ached dully, even though the surface portion of the wound had closed up a while ago. 

A fist knocked softly on my door. “You okay, Nix?”

“Yeah, Ms. W—Jenna,” I yelled back. “I’m gonna take a nap now, if that’s okay?”

“All right.” I listened to her footsteps moving away and sighed. I’d called out sick from school today, and slept from four in the morning to ten o’clock a.m., but I was still tired and sore. The shower I’d taken had cleansed away the blood, and I’d washed my clothes about three times, hoping to remove the blood spatters and dirt. Now the stains were only light, barely noticeable pink. I’d still have to get new clothes anyway, though.

My thoughts kept running back to Ashley. Was she okay right now? Had she been hurt? Was she unconscious?

Was she dead?

I forcefully pushed away the horrible thought, instead crossing my room to the windowsill, grabbing my book bag as I passed it. I opened the window and shimmied down the side of the building, moving swiftly, like an oversized spider, moving from foothold to foothold. My feet hit the cement a moment later. I rubbed the sting out of my palms and looked around. A few people had noticed my strange exit and cast me weirded-out looks, but moved on, not saying anything. This was New York City, after all. They’d probably seen crazier things.

It was harder finding a secluded spot to takeoff in during the middle of the day, but I found a parking garage with a couple floors. It was just high enough that somebody would have to crane their neck to see me, and I’d discovered long ago that people have the funniest habit of never looking up. I climbed the firescape to the immense, rectangular roof.

It was a windy day, and streams of air whipped my hair around my face, making it hard for me to pin up in my usual bun, but I managed with some irritation. I stood on the edge of the building, swaying as the wind buffeted me. My ratty converse sneakers stretched halfway off the edge of the concrete. I sort of tensed my shoulder muscles, pulling them, tugging my wings to the surface… my skin tingled, slightly painful, as I felt them emerge, brushing through the wide slits in my shirt. I shook them out, sighing in relief. Unfurling my wings was like taking off tight clothing and changing into comfortable pajamas. I picked up my book bag and awkwardly fitted it over my wings, so that the straps lay in the middle of my back, sandwiched between my wings. The pouch nestled against my chest.