Wings To The World

5.

'She doesn't remember.'

Feraphale stops us at the beginning of a street. The sun has begun its descent, and the crisp air of winter is setting in. The light blue from the day is dragging itself towards the edges of the sky and cold nips at our noses.

We make our way towards a house. The house is bright, but not to humans. It's bright with a colour they can't see. Feraphale takes us toward the door, and I keep my eyes on the ground. My gut twists with an 'I shouldn't be here'.
When Feraphale knocks, I look up. The noise is startling compared to the quiet that has surrounded us.

It's got a car around the front. It's painted white on the outside, and cobwebs sit around the doorway. Through the one-sided glass, I can make out a blurry hallway. The smell of cigars and drinking hits you like a bat to the face.

A single eye peaks through the quarter-open door, and it's an eye with a diamond pupil. There is no iris- or, if there is, it's big enough to colour the rest of the eye. When it lands on me, I shiver, and the door swings open.

The walls are brown with dirt and rubble, but the room we're lead to is even worse. It's dank, dark, it smells of cigarettes and alcohol. At the same time, it also smells of vomit and some unfamiliar stench that reminds me of decomposition.

Behind a desk sits someone I don't want to remember.

"Welcome," Feraphale smiles when we're all in the room. I hate it. I hate this room. I hate her. I know it's her, she's got the same golden streak I remember braiding into her hair. She's got the same jumper, hanging off one shoulder to reveal her sports bra, and the same hair hanging behind her.

The only thing different is the two bent horns sticking out from her head. They twist and turn as if they once connected together, and she had broken them.

She smiles, and it's still that lovely smile I remember her having, but it makes me shiver.

The angel smiles a wicked smile and settles her hands, nails tapping, on the desk before us. "So," She breathes out, the smoke following suit. "What'll it be?"

There is nothing to say but: "What do you mean?"

And the angel smiles again, turning the sign in front of us around. "Jahcynael," She says with it. I hate that name.
"Angel of ecstasy and divine humanity. I can make you human in the blink of an eye- all I need is your wings."

She pauses, laying her head in one hand. The hair on the side of her face swings out, wave-y curls twisting to straightness. "I do human lives for angels, human drugs, angelic 'drugs', and so. Much. More."

Fernaphale raises her head and watches her. "We need to know if an angel by the name of Tanael came through you."

Jahcynael blinks. "Tanael?" She pulls out a folder and thumbs through it, eyes watching us the whole time. "No, we haven't dealt."

"Are there- other ways?" I ask, as Jahcynael eyes me up and down. She seems to be scanning me as if she's watching my soul. Her eyes never meet mine.

She nods in decision. "Yes, there are other ways. I can tell them to you- for a price."

"Name it," I reply. I want to know what she's after.

"You have something I want," She tangles her hands around each other. Her fingers intertwine like vines. "You have feathers. Beautiful, white feathers. I want them. Give me your wings, and I'll give you your information."

"My-" I pause, and Saraiel meets my eye from the corner of my gaze. "My wings?"

"Oh yes, your wings," she hums. "Beautiful, they are. Pretty as anything. I want them. Care to give me them?"