Page 29 of Eternally Yours


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Tate’s sneakers were several sizes too small, so Kamiel shrank her feet to accommodate them (something she had been unwilling, or perhaps unable, to do with her many eyes when Tate had asked if she was able to conceal them). To cover the eyes in her forehead, a soft red beanie was drawn down over her brow. As for the eyes in her palms, Tate instructed the seraph to keep them tightly shut, or slip her hands into her pockets if anyone seemed to assess her too carefully. Having her wear gloves would’ve been far too conspicuous, given the fact that it wasn’t nearly cold enough to warrant them.

When Kamiel was comfortably dressed, the two of themleft for the gas station, the angel walking with a furtive—almost predatory—alertness, constantly scanning the streets ahead for signs of war seraphs. Twice she reached out to Tate at the sight of what she initially took for danger, gripping her shoulder to keep her from walking. Tate, despite herself, liked the way Kamiel’s hand felt around her arm. She liked being held by her, beingcloseto her. And the second time that the seraph reached for her arm, Tate grabbed her hand instead, and they walked the rest of the way to the gas station with their fingers laced.

Reed was there when they entered, half-slumped over the countertop watching football on the small security monitor on the counter. At the sight of Kamiel, his mouth gaped.

Tate couldn’t entirely blame him. Though the seraph was rail thin, she stood eye level with him, at just over six feet tall. Her features were striking, and Tate could easily imagine her gracing the cover of one of those high-fashion magazines she sometimes thumbed through on her lunch breaks.

“This is my... friend. Her name is Kamiel and she’s going to stay with me through my shift today. And maybe tomorrow too. She can help us with stock in the back room.”

Tate could tell Reed wasn’t entirely enthusiastic about the idea—perhaps as troubled by Tate’s presence as he was Kamiel’s, given the fact that he’d fired her the night before. But if that was the case, he didn’t voice his misgivings. “If she’s not underfoot she can stay. The floors need mopping—she can start with that. As for you...” He cast Tate a sharp look. “Follow me.”

They went to the back room to talk. Reed let the door groan shut behind them, walked to the security TV monitor, and watched Kamiel wander the aisles—eyes wide with curiosity as she examined gnarly strips of jerky and rifled through brightly colored bags of chips. Tate thought she looked rather hungry and made a mental note to stock up on provisions before they made their journey into the forest that night.

“Who is she?” Reed asked, his eyes still fixed on the security monitor.

“A friend.”

“You don’t have friends.”

“Well, I do now. And she’s in a tough spot, so I don’t want you giving me a hard time about her. I’m just trying to do my part. Help her out a bit. She doesn’t have anyone.”

“And why is that?”

Tate searched for an answer that would sound convincing. “She’s a long way from home and she needs a helping hand.”

“And you plan to give that to her?”

The phone rang. Both of them ignored it. “Why not?”

Reed scoffed. “Tate, you can’t even give that to yourself. And now you want to play savior for someone else?”

The phone rang again and Tate—eager for an excuse to end the conversation—left the back room to answer it. “Hello?”

“Tate, it’s... your landlord. Craig.”

Tate frowned. Strange that he would call her. Their interactions were typically limited to vague small talk—discussions about the weather or Craig complaining about the rise in the water bills ever since the new mayor took office. She didn’t even know that he knew where she worked. “How can I help you?”

Across the gas station, Kamiel edged closer, an unspoken question in the two eyes that Tate could see. She started to say something, but Tate held up a hand to quiet her. “Hello? Mr.Clark?”

Silence on the other line. And then... “Surrender the seraph for the sake of your soul.”

“Mr.Clark—”

A softclick. Then the sound of static.

Kamiel lunged forward, ripped the receiver from her hand, and slammed it down in its cradle. “That was no human man.”

Just then, the door of the gas station swung open. Two businessmen entered, but their gait was strange... wrong, almost as though they were limping, though they both moved in the same way, in perfect tandem that seemed almost rehearsed.

Kamiel wheeled to face them. Overhead the fluorescents began to flicker, and several imploded with a sharpcrackand shower of sparks and glass shards. Outside, gas nozzles snapped free of their cradles, spraying nearby cars and patrons with torrents of fuel, their hoses writhing and lashing like living things.

Oblivious to the seraphs, Reed burst out of the back room and sprinted outside, doing what little he could to direct patrons away from the spraying gas to safety on the street. In the empty gas station, Tate and Kamiel stood at a silent impasse before the suited seraphs.

One of them, the largest of the two, stepped forward. In the center of his forehead, a large eye was lined with lashes and squeezed tightly shut. He was empty-handed apart from the small red spark that danced above his palm. He nodded outside, to the filling station flooded with gasoline, to Reed slick with fuel trying in vain to wrestle an errant gas nozzle back into its cradle. “Comply or burn.”

The second seraph took a half step forward, edging toward Tate, and as he did all of the lights in the gas station died. It was a darkness so complete, no fire could pierce it. It spilled down the aisle like liquid ink, wended its way through the bags of chips and the jerky strips, curled around the cash register and seeped into the fluorescent bulbs, which exploded with a spray of sparks, then went dark when the shadows filled them.

The fire died in the seraph’s hand.