The Language of Angels 2 (Closed for Vail_Indigo)

[Vixandra]

If the best thing in your life could be summed up in a single other being, does that make your life a good one or a magnificent one? If love could be wrapped in satin bands of perfection and dance through foes life a firefly betwixt a rain, shouldn’t you do everything you can to keep it?

If an angel is prone to prose because no other words can define her feelings, what does that make the angel? Prose or not, I’m still, to use her words, a badass bitch with an anti-tank canon, so I doubt anyone will mock me for waxing poetic.

“What kind of angel talks like a San Franciscan gutter snipe,” my supposed mentor snapped at me after I slid ungracefully across the rain slicked training arena. On my butt.

I glared at him and my voice was shockingly deep, even after three months. “If you’re so damn offended by the word ‘fuck’ maybe it’s time to update your own vocabulary.”

I speak over a dozen languages, cuss in a few more beyond that and the best my new male side could do was cuss in unimaginative English as I rolled to my feet. I was still having difficulty with this new form, with having four wings, with walking with junk between my legs and with having said junk occasionally try pull all the blood from my brain. Especially when my bonded mate walked into the arena, hips swaying, body wrapped in skin-tight leather and a wry smirk on her face. She’d seen me fall, I knew it.

My distraction earned me a stave blow onto my right shoulder. The sharp pain got me back into the fight with my mentor and I surged toward the smaller angel. My double set of wings flared to help keep my balance on the slick tile as I lunged with the broadsword that was the chosen weapon of my Heavenly form. I knew the sword would miss but I was right in my calculations that the roundhouse kick to the jaw that followed would land with a solid crunch. I followed through with the sword, stopping the point as it dimpled my mentor’s alabaster throat.

“You really need to get more sun, Raphael,” I quipped as I pulled back and offered my hand to help the other angel up off the ground. He took the offered hand and rose, rubbing his jaw.

“The light of Heaven is all I need,” he said, voice ringing with the double-resonance of one born to the Heavenly host. On his feet, the pale arch angel stood around 6’4”.

From my “new” height of 6’6” it meant I no longer had to look up to talk to him. I looked over at my mate and saw a different light in her eyes. “Heavenly light has its place but there are others that shine just as dearly.”

The wry smile curved into one Aella had just for me, something sweet, a bit jaded, and a tad possessive. “Israfil, so nice to see you again. Sophia, guess who I just got off the phone with?”

I took a deep breath and did the mental gymnastics that shifted me from my Heavenly form to the one I had been born to, that of an Earth angel. A female Earth angel to be precise. No one knew why my “upgraded” form was male, or if they did they weren’t saying anything. Bastards.

“The new pope?”

“You are ever sacrilegious in your jests,” Raphael chided me, rolling his eyes.

Aella ignored the arch angel, something she’d been doing a lot lately since he as less than her greatest fan. “I have a job, the PTB want an artifact from a dig near Jerusalem.”

A cold shiver ran down my spine along with a sense of something changing but I couldn’t tell what.

[Vail_Indigo]

It isn't exactly bad being perfect.

I get to travel the world, facing weird artifacts and weirder people, and have adventures the likes of which could fill an entire series of novels and not come close to scratching the surface. Maybe I'll write those when I retire. Not that retiring is likely. Not that any of us have ever lived to retire. We do dangerous things. Sometimes all you have to do to get killed is get out of bed in the morning.

Ask Tempest.

God I miss her.

But, overall, I liked my life.

I mean, I didn't sign up for this life, and the Council is, on a good day, like an over-bearing military officer, not giving one rat's ass about my skin or all the goop and organs contained within.

But, of course, since she came into my life, it has gotten significantly worse. I've become a pariah, something they'd get rid of if only they could. But they can't.

I'm perfect.

But.

But, not only do I have no idea what goes on outside of my little niche in whatever this organization is, at the very least I have to assume that the breeding program that made me is continuing. Making better versions of us.

Thats problematic for me.

Its problematic for my ego.

Its problematic for my future.

A year ago, I wouldn't have cared.

But now, if the Council is willing to use me in ways likely to get me killed for no good reason, well, there's a fucking issue.

If they want to send me to Israel, home of the worst thing to ever exist, well, there's a fucking issue.

The issue?

Her.

The big-ass angel with a sword practicing with the other big-ass angel with a sword. Yeah, sometimes she is a he.

But she's an issue.

Because she's given me reason to live besides the job.

I love the job.

I really do.

And she's hardly a stay-at-home kinda girl herself.

But when you have nothing to live for except the next challenge, the next fight, things are easy.

I am more for being with her.

I am happier for being with her.

I am more perfect.

I'd die for her without a thought. Thats just devotion.

But I would so much rather live for her, live with her.

That's love.

Also, I'd like to smack Raphael in the nose.

And I could do it, too.

His moves are unimpressive. He telegraphs everything with his shoulders and knees and wings. And I don't like how he talks to her.

But even if I did do it, well, he's still a trans-real entity and it wouldn't actually hurt him. Plus, we don't need to try to alienate anyone. Neither side has been thrilled about us.

Anyhow, I'm gonna teach Sophia how to kick his ass.

I drew her into me, felt a circuit complete for both of us.

The definition of right.

"Come on. We've got a plane waiting for us. Its a long flight."

A long flight to the land where the horror lives.

The blind god.

The demiurge.

The Gnostics knew things they shouldn't have.

I hate Israel.

On the plus side, its also the home to Krav Maga, the dirtiest form of martial arts ever invented. And if you don't think I absolutely love it, you are insane.

"Have you ever heard the story of Samael?"

[Vixandra]

I don’t like flying in air planes.

I know, silly, right? It didn’t feel silly as my body tensed up as we walked down the concourse to the plane, a huge 787 with a posh first class. I’m not claustrophobic… okay, yes I am. I held onto Aella’s hand as fine waves of tension rippled through me.

Everyone has something they fear, and for some reason planes is it for me. Which is completely ridiculous because if something happened, we’d be the safest ones here, my whirlwind and I. She’d punch a hole in the side of the plane or open a door or something. We’d grab each other, hold on tight and I’d glide us down to safety.

Because I totally wouldn’t try to be a hero and fix the problem and possibly squish myself trying to save people… oh look, the flight attendant is talking. I paid half-assed attention to the same speal they all gave and caught Aella’s grin out of the corner of my eye. At least someone was enjoying this. At least we weren’t flying Air China. Their idea of “engine maintenance” included seat belting unworking motors so the rotors didn’t flutter in flight.

A half hour later we were in the air and when offered a mimosa by the flight attendant, I happily accepted, one hand still tight around Aella’s while I sipped.

"Have you ever heard the story of Samael?" she asked me. Whether she knew I needed the distraction or had vital information to impart or both, I didn’t know but I’d take it either way.

“Other than the one involving a mini skirt, an Irish pub and four pickles, no,” I answered, still somewhat chagrined by that memory. It had been a night of gallons instead of pints. “What’s your Samael tale?”

I don’t trust anyone’s flying but my own and my grandmother’s and that’s just with my life. Aella, far more precious to me than my own existence. It was going to be a long flight.


When the wheels touched down in Tel Aviv, I took a deep breath at last. I released Aella’s hand and shook mine out, the tattoo-like mark of our Mate Link glittering in the sunlight pouring into the cabin. We were allowed to disembark quickly and found ourselves in a very airy, open airport terminal. A duty-free shopping area beckoned international travelers with offers of supposedly cheap booze and cashmere wraps but we bypassed it quickly. Aella led the way, the heels she wore clicking with expedient authority as she went. Crowds parted before her like the Red Sea.

She guided me through a special customs line reserved for VIP’s and flashed a local passport. My own passport, blue leather covered American, was given barely a glance after the processor saw Aella’s. I let her lead the way to a row of cars and up to a man in a tux bearing a placard with her cover name in elegant script. She greeted him in rapid fire Hebrew and I could follow enough of their exchange to get that she knew him, was happy he was on time and that we were going to the “usual” hotel.

I let her lead the way, content to follow her on this mission, curiosity piqued by her story and what little information she'd been given. I was also exceedingly grateful to be OFF the plane and on solid ground again. If my wings were out, they would still be mantled in irritation.