Page 11 of Even Angels fall
“But it’s eighteen kilometers!” I exclaim.
“Six,” my father seethes on a breath.
This, ladies and gents, is why I try to keep my mouth shut most of the time. I could have just asked if I could use the metropolitan that runs under the city. It’s old and a little wonky, but it still works. I could even have asked if I could use one of the flying taxis—not even one of his own cars—to get there, even though I doubt he would authorize that.
But no, all I saw in my mind was the distance I was sure he would make me walk.
I don’t have any money of my own, and even using the old metropolitan makes money necessary.
It used to be easy to pass thetourniquetswithout paying—or so I heard one of the human servants say—but all the doors turned automatic, and there’s no way to jump above them now.
“You can walk, or you can fly there,” Michaël answers in a cold voice.
I can’t fly.
I’ve been forbidden to show my wings since the first day I shifted. I’m pretty sure, after so long keeping them hidden, I wouldn’t even know how to use them.
And he perfectly well knows that.
I clamp my mouth shut unless I’m going to say something again, and I know for a fact it’s going to get me to ten.
I don’t know if it’s the announcement of my impending wedding, the fact I’ve been sitting on nothing but thin air for the past twenty minutes, or if I’m just on the bad part of my menstrual cycle, but I can’t recall being so bad at keeping my thoughts—and mouth—in check in ages.
I’m not usually so bold or easily outraged, and I need to just bow my head and let everything unfold under my eyes, or my back will be bloody on my wedding night.
Not that I really care about my wedding nightper se,but I don’t know how a dragon would react to being handed damaged goods.
6
Angélique
My father doesn’t wait for any more of my questions. He puts the latest knife and fork he used on top of his plate, without crossing them, then he folds his napkin and puts it on the right side of his plate.
Ariël stops eating and stands—as do I—when Michaël pushes his chair back and stands.
“I’ll see you on Saturday,” are the last words he pronounces before he leaves the room.
I wish I could say he stormed out, but it was nothing like that. He strolled out like he owned the place—and, well, he does—and also like nothing of interest was still in this room. He keeps counting my digressions, but I don’t even think he feels attacked by them. I don’t even think he still feels shame about me. I don’t think hefeelsabout me anymore.
I’m no more than a weapon.
A lovely weapon with porcelain skin, the deepest blue eyes, and lips that always look rosy.
I look like a doll—minus the hair.
They say every woman has the potential to look like a doll. Whether it’s Barbie or Annabelle, it’s up to them.
He picked for me, but I fully embraced it. I’ll be Annabelle to the world.
I sag against the table when I can’t hear my father in the building anymore.
My legs are killing me, and even though a strawberry pie was brought while Michaël’s steps still resonated in the corridor, my stomach is so twisted that I’m not sure I could swallow anything.
Ariël doesn’t seem to have that kind of trouble as he dives into the crumbly and creamy pie and looks at it like it means the world.
There is a reason Ariël is my etiquette teacher. It’s been a while since he has trained in anything other than walking.
He used to be one of Michaël’s warriors, but he took an arrow to his left wing and it never really healed the right way. After that, he hid inside the library with Gabriel’s librarians and discovered he could be useful differently.
