Chapter 5

FIVE

Gabriel

I have tired of the constant noise in New York City. The car horns never stop. I attempted to ride the subway—a man selling pretzels from a cart on the street corner assured me this was the ultimate New York experience. But all I find is the stench of too many bodies pressed together with little room to breathe, let alone move.

A hand grabs my ass, and I turn to find a male with a hungry grin and raw lust in his hazel eyes. "Get off at the next stop," he says, "and I'll show you a good time, handsome."

I look into his mind. He wants to get on his knees and suck my cock? The visual is not unpleasant. Though I had no idea such things between strangers were…encouraged in this realm.

I almost agree. After all, I am here to experience all of humanity. But then the man pictures three others lying in wait to rob me. I stare down at him, infusing my voice with all of my angelic power. "If you ever proposition someone with the intention of taking their valuables again, human , you may very well find yourself trapped on the wrong side of Hell's gates. Do you understand me?"

The stench of urine cuts through the air between us. It stains his light brown pants, and he shrinks back, apologies tumbling from his lips until the train stops, and he flees into the crowd on the platform.

Interesting.

Maddox warned me that humans were often terrible to one another. I have watched over wars, even genocides, but to experience it one-on-one is new.

I move to the end of the platform and wait for the crowds to clear before I hop down onto the tracks and stride deeper into the subway tunnels.

Once I have enough privacy that no one will notice me disappear, I pull out my phone. Killian taught me how to use the internet, and I bring up the browser to search.

Typical small town in the United States

Scrolling through the list, I'm drawn to the beauty of Big Sky, Montana. There are only a little over two thousand people in the entire city. This is a place I should see.

I picture it in my mind, and let my angelic power carry me there.

The motel's scratchy sheets offend my skin. Sinclair was not pleased that I charged my stay at a "five-star hotel" in New York City to his credit card, so I chose a place with only one star in Big Sky. This…may have been a mistake.

My body still aches. I abandon the idea of sleep not long after 6:00 a.m. In the center of the small room, I unfurl my wings. Unchecked agony pulls a scream from my lips, but I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle the sound.

It has been four days since I flew into the fires of Hell, and the pain will not fade. Dying, blackened feathers litter the gaudy motel carpet. The mirror over the bed reveals the extent of the devastation. Even the skin on my back has not fully healed, though the blisters are gone.

I stare at my reflection and touch two fingers to my cheek. It is…rough. Dark. Covered in short hair halfway down my neck. What am I supposed to do about this? Is this normal?

Phone in hand, I hide my wings with a groan and stumble for the bathroom. Maddox and Killian would only call me naive again if I ask them for advice. The warlock tried to hide his laughter when I asked him if it was safe to purchase the pretzel from that "food cart" in New York City. So I dial the only other person in this realm who might be willing to talk to me.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing calling this early?" Sinclair growls.

His voice sounds strange. Rough. Then again, his consciousness did dive headfirst into the burning River Phlegethon only days ago. Perhaps there have been lasting effects I had not considered.

"Early?" I cannot stop staring at my reflection. "The sun is up. Is that not when most in this realm wake?"

Sinclair lowers his voice, and his tone changes completely. Gentle. An undercurrent of worry and concern. "Go back to sleep, my love. Gabriel needs a lesson on time zones. And common courtesy."

My huff tugs at the muscles in my back. "I do not know what these time zones are, but I seem to have grown hair. On my face. A fair amount of it."

The demon's laughter carries over the small device. He mocks me? This is serious, and I do not know if I like it.

"Gabriel, have you never shaved before?"

"Why the fuck would I need to? This does not happen in the celestial realm. Surely you remember…"

"Watch yourself. I was banished, then consigned to Hell's endless torment for centuries. And you had a hand in it all. No one—not even the Almighty herself—would blame me for hanging up on you."

He is not wrong.

"Sinclair, I do not deserve your forgiveness. So I will not ask for it. But I am sorry for my part in what happened to you—and to Zoe." I sink down onto the edge of the tub and run a hand through my hair. "I will not call you again."

"Wait. Zoe needs sleep, and if I am to teach you how to shave, I require coffee. I will call you back in ten minutes. Do not pick up a razor before then lest you sever your carotid artery. Even with your angelic strength, that type of injury could still be fatal."

Willow

It took me two days to work up the courage to try a second Other medical clinic. At least this one didn't threaten to wipe my memory. They just laughed at me and gave me a referral to a therapist.

The kindly older woman—Dr. Nolan—balances her tablet on her knee so she can take notes. I'm pretty sure she's a witch of some sort, because she doesn't type a thing. Just waves her hand at the device as I explain everything that's happened in the past three weeks.

"So…I can't be human. Right? If my whisper looked like someone else, then sure. I could believe she was just a ghost who decided to haunt me. Not that she has a reason." I swipe at my damp eyes with a tissue and glare over Dr. Nolan's shoulder. My whisper glares right back at me. "But she's me . Right down to what I'm wearing every day."

"Why do you call her your ‘whisper'?" the doctor asks.

"Because when I was at the church—when this all started—I heard a voice. It called me the ‘whisper keeper.'"

"Willow, I'm writing you a prescription for a mild sleeping pill. Chronic insomnia can result in hallucinations, anxiety, and depression—among many other things. Clearly you experienced something at the cathedral. Something other . But a carbon copy of yourself no one else can see? That the most advanced Other technology can't detect? I'm afraid that's simply not possible.

"I suspect after a few nights of solid sleep, this ‘whisper' will be nothing but a memory."

"But—"

"Here you go, dear. I'm afraid our time is up for the day. Make an appointment for next week and we can see how you're sleeping then." She passes me the white slip of paper with the neatest handwriting I've ever seen, then snaps her fingers. Her office door opens, and I want to cry.

Why won't anyone believe me?

Hours later, I huddle on the couch wrapped in my weighted blanket. The rains are back, and the water cascading down my windows mirrors my mood.

The bottle of pills sits on the coffee table, mocking me.

"Mild, my ass," I mutter. The pharmacist was shocked at the dosage and advised me to cut the pills in half to start.

My fingers curl around the mug of tea, the warmth reassuring. I haven't seen my whisper since I left Nolan's office and ended up at a bus stop less than half a mile from St. Mary's Cathedral.

She appeared at my elbow. Her gauzy fingers brushed my skin. I sensed—rather than felt—her tug on my arm. But I refused to budge, and she took off at a run toward the old church.

Seeing through her eyes left me so nauseous, I was about to vomit all over my shoes. I couldn't move. Walking—hell, even standing—when you can't see a damn thing around you is a recipe for disaster. The pull to follow her was almost overwhelming.

Seconds after she turned the corner and the cathedral came into view, my vision shrank down to nothing for a heartbeat, and she was gone.

A single tear tumbles down my cheek. I open the prescription bottle and stare at the little white pills inside. What choice do I have? People go mad from lack of sleep.

My whisper is real. I'd bet my life on it. But if she continues to keep me up night after night, it won't be long before Nolan has me committed. Or I commit myself.

Before I can fish out one of the tablets, someone knocks on my apartment door. Struggling out from under the weighted blanket, I swipe my phone from the cushion next to me, then check the peephole.

A man and a woman in matching black suits stand stiffly. I can feel their tension through the door. Slowly, I reach for the pepper spray hanging from a hook on the wall, check the chain, and flip the lock. "Can I help you?"

"Willow Saunders?" the woman asks. "I'm Dr. Hannah Smith and this is Special Agent Isaac Barton." She holds up a badge in a small billfold. "We're with the Agency for Uncovering Rare Anomalies, a branch of the National Security Agency."

The NSA?

"Um, I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but I've never heard of the Agency for Uncovering Rare Anomalies." I adjust my grip on the pepper spray. "And no one from the NSA should know my name."

Special Agent Barton arches a brow. "You've been all over the dark web for weeks while logged into your UCSF staff account. Finding your name wasn't difficult."

Oh, shit.

"I specialize in mythology and the occult. All those queries were for a research paper."

Can they hear the desperation in my tone? Or see the small tube of caustic spray in my hand? I should never have opened the door. Or put down my phone. Government agents carry guns, don't they? And Barton looks like he'd have no problems using one. On me.

"Dr. Saunders—Willow—you don't need to lie to us," Dr. Smith says with a gentle smile. "We're on your side. Perhaps we should talk inside?"

"It's late. I think you should…come in?"

I have my hand on the chain when the words register.

"Wait. No. I'd like you to leave. I'm sorry. I'm really tired, and I can't deal with this now. Good night, Dr. Smith. Mr. Barton."

"Call me Hannah. Please." Her brown eyes radiate compassion. "We believe you, Willow. You're not delusional. Your whisper is very real and very, very special."

I look from her to her partner. Barton doesn't smile, but I'm not sure why I ever thought he was threatening. More like an older brother who isn't sure what his sister has gotten herself into.

He clears his throat. "We understand you have concerns. It's only natural. The NSA operates in the shadows. But we have a public phone number anyone can call. Tomorrow, verify our identities with them. Once you've done so," he pulls a business card from his jacket pocket and passes it through the crack in the door, "call us. Our mobile numbers are on the back."

My shoulders start to unglue themselves from my ears. Logic. I can handle logic. "What happens if I decide to call?"

Hannah's brown eyes sparkle, and her smile widens even more. "We can teach you how to control your whisper. How to work with her. You could be the most powerful witch the world has ever known, Willow. Together, we could save many, many lives."