Angelos.

When Poison hangs up with Jaylin, I'm exhausted and unprepared for a fight. Sweat slicks strands of black hair to my face, my muscles bunched-up and heavy in my skin bag with fatigue. Biting back a groan,  I feel, if I have to use a metaphor here, like goop. Like a glob of beat-up goop being dragged around by an oversized once-hero and a grumpy supposed brother struggling to keep from tearing me to flesh-flavored sugar cubes.

I suck in a sharp, bitter breath and stick my heels into the gravel to give myself some friction. Doesn't help, but I have to put up some sort of fight and show I'm not just a resistance-less sack of flour who will do as he's told without throwing a fuss. No matter what they think, I'm not just a pawn Ceres and Poison can push around on their game board. If all my struggling accomplishes is making life a little harder for them, then at least it did that.

"Jeez, kid," Ceres says. He loops his arms tighter around my middle and pushes me up to the mini-mall. "Calm down."

And yeah, okay, maybe I have to. I don't know what will happen if my aura comes out, but if it does, Poison and Ceres probably have obsidian on them. Since that would turn me into pudding strength-wise, it would be wiser to limp-en and play along, just for a little while.

And maybe I should do nothing and scout my surroundings. Maybe I should wait for an opening. A boxer doesn't swing wildly and pray he hits; he searches for the right moment to strike, and I just, well, I don't know. Gats is the one who Wikied this stuff, not me.

Thinking of him, my throat tightens and my eyes sting, but I shove back how I feel for the moment. I definitely don't know what to do, and it's almost funny. It's funny because the main thing on my mind beside Gats and Heaven and escape, is that I've probably been fired from my job and boy, that's going to leave a big hole in my needed volunteer hours. Maybe I can volunteer with the local animal shelter. I like puppies.

Poison kicks the door open, and voices sound around me. Ceres carries me in, and I can't gauge much, though I'm getting better acquainted with the one eye. I jerk my head this way and that, the cool slap of AC bring on shivers. This was once a mall, and it shows. The food-court smells of rot and chemicals. Yellow and green fungi live in the tile crevices, the ceiling boards smashed and broken in at places. Oily squares of plywood are the only slats that keep the ceiling from caving in on itself. Tee-shaped green air fresheners spin above my head, hung from crooked nails in the plywood. They don't help much, I decide, crinkling my nose. The whole place smells of urine and vomit. And all the perfumes the patrons wear, sweet as the scents may be, can't mask the reek.

People fill every inch of free space; they're everywhere, unlike what the deserted parking lot would have you believe. They sit at tables and talk to each other over harsh coffee, big gaudy booths set up with shiny red veils and flashy discount signs. People shout at each other to buy their wares. It's like a twisted underworld I've never seen before, and it's kind of amazing.

But as for people aiding me when I'm handcuffed with my wings tied and a cloth jammed over the lower half of my face, not a cinch. Instead, waves of patrons come up and warmly greet Ceres and Poison. They don't mistake the white-winged guy for me here. Instead, they slap him on the back and talk about the greatness of him and his father. "Attaboy," they say, all a buzz. I'm still trying to work the gag free when people start to ask about me. Poison lifts his head and smiles. Ceres smiles back, too, and I remember his 'this-is-for-the-best' speech. No, person who beat me to a pulp, I want to scream. It's not.

"He's special," Poison says simply, and it's bullspit. There are millions of kids out there just like me. Millions of kids who just want to eat popcorn and finish AP homework curled up in front of The Force Awakens. I'm no more special than really, really, unlucky. Finally, with another jerk of the head, I yank the gag down clean.

A short breath escapes me, and for a second, I'm too stunned to find words worth speaking. Poison holds up one of my wing, the veins pulsing in his fingers. If I focus, I can hear the sounds they make, soft like bubbles surfacing from a pipe in a fish tank. Even I know the wings are awfully pretty, and weird, mostly weird. By the cooing of the people around me, they must think the same. Their eyes glow, the grins on their faces sheepish and tentative, like though I might seem friendly now, I might grow fangs and snap them up later. I decide that isn't a bad judgment on their part.

I clear my throat and keep my voice low and steady. "This is dumb," I say, trying to keep from trembling or screaming with panic. It's harder than one would think, but I'm getting better at it. "I'm pretty worthless when you come to think of it. At least, I am if you don't feed me, you know? I could go for a cheeseburger, right now." I smile weakly. This is my attempt at being good-natured. There's a reason I don't host a variety show.

I'm sweating buckets. Ceres steps back, dropping his grip to hand me off to Poison. And now my smile becomes coy, because if I were a boxer, I would've just found my opening for the knock out punch.

Poison wheels to catch my wrist, but I run, run, Rudolph down the scruffy mall tile, straight through the crowds. Some of Poison's fans follow, but they're slowed by the folks who manage to block them simply by happenstance. And here's the good thing: I'm huge. My shoulders, broad as they are, help me plow through bystanders, poor fellows. Seeing me as something of a human bowling ball, many simply skedaddle out of the way. My lungs surge, my whole body throbbing where it's covered in welts and bruises, my skin hot and more blue than it is brown now. But that's okay. Pain I can deal with. Bruises I can deal with. Captivity I can't, not when Gats and Hev are in jeopardy. I guess I'm just kind of weird that way.

I skid a on the soles of my torn-up socks. They, like me, are not equipped for run-to-save-your-life's. Good eye tipped back to gauge distance between my pursuers all, I nearly topple into a girl with a pink bow done up in her hair, which would be bad for me since I wouldn't be able to get up, and it would be bad for her because, well, I would crush her.

Luckily, my feet hit the stalled escalator. I jab my on the rail to keep myself righted. "Hey!" calls Poison, and I can't help my grin. Because you know what? They can't freaking hold on to me. You'd think it would be easy. I'm so tall I have to duck certain doorways, and about as unique-looking as, well, a winged-shirtless guy can be. It's kind of glorious, come to think of it. I even hum "Pumped up Kicks" under my breath.

"Oh, heck yeah!" I hiss. I guess I have a thing for awkwardly singing musical numbers when I'm stuck in stressful situations. But hey, everyone's a little weird under pressure. Cut me some slack, hypothetical audience.

Bulbs caked gray with dust flicker like sparks above my head. I hop up from the unmoving metal steps and onto the third level. People shout and clamor, oblivious to me and my escapade. The hall is white and thin, stores packed and lights as dim as they are harsh. I feel like I've been thrown into a medieval town square, complete with the shouting and the, "Get fish, fifty-percent off! Get this quasi-genuine Gucci bag, because really, who gives a crap about the material. Everyone knows retail is for suckers."

I'm kind of laughing now, too. Because people look at me, stare at me even. And they don't try to steal me away or throw me in a cell or anything, they just shrug and go on their merry, illegal way. I glance to the side. A shifty-eyed man with greased back black hair smiles outside a store,  looking predatory, like he'll pounce on whoever comes too close.

Seeing him, I wonder if I'll look like him when I grow up, there's something about him that just says, "once-supervillain." He sees me look, and he looks dead at me as he shakes a pill bottle. The store he stands in front of reminds me of the GMC shops Storm buys his therapeutic candles at, the cardboard cut-outs of super ripped people, pouts on their Hawaiian tanned faces. "Get your Super-enhanced supplements here, straight from Old Newport!"

"Luce!" Poison shrieks, and I start to laugh. Half the time I hear him he's rocking this breathy, kind of whisper, kind of "You wanna know Victoria's Secret..." type thing. To hear him scream like that, I nearly double over with laughter. Well, I would if I weren't in strange, unfamiliar place, running for my life, so a chuckle suffices. The illegal pills guy is still looking at me, so I tip my head to him and smile really, really wide. Charming-like. The way Gats smiles at girls to get what he wants.

"Excuse me, sir." I weave through the crowd and drop my voice as low and as deep as I can make it without sounding like an otherworldly creature come to devour his soul. The creases on his face slacken and he eyes me with the look of a man about to make a pretty slanted bargain. He probably will. "I'm kind of in a bind here." I flick a tied wing at him and purr out the 'ha ha ha's in a slick, fake laughter I'm not used to using. I think I sound like a  villain in a movie about the faults of corporate CEOS. "If you could help—"

The man snaps his fingers at me. "What are you willing to pay?"

"Pay?" I fake gasp. He narrows his eyes, and I quickly decide Poison is too close for me to play it up, so I cut the act and try to turn on the rich kid charm that seems to come so naturally to Gats and the other Academy kids. You know what I'm talking about, the "I'm rich! I'm rich! I'm rich!" that radiates off some people no matter where they're at, they type of pull that flows out into space around them and yanks people into their orbit.

"Okay, well, sir, I'm flat broke at the moment, penny-less without even the shirt on my back, but..." I pause and give him an easy smirk. I would wait longer to sink in the moment, but people are stampeding now, footsteps rattling the place, nd I know Poison will have my ribs on a platter if he catches me.

The man raises an eyebrow, digging his nails into the black pill bottle. I can't help but stare at the golden label. Super-enhanced drugs. Starlight outlaws them, but they're what supposedly saved Heaven. Even with my life on the line, I can't help but wonder about them. Can they really be so bad if they brought a sixteen-year-old back from the brink of death? "Uh..." My smoozy charm is gone. I clear my throat and speak really, really, really fast because I can hear shouting. And cussing, lots of cussing. The man straightens with his arms crossed over his chest, guarding his store like a knight. "Juniper and Storm Fibbs are my guardians—"

"Lucy!" Poison growls. My hands tremble, feathers fluffed. The man humphs at me, at least somewhat intrigued by the glow in his black eyes.

"—andthey'resuperrichsopleasepleasehelpmethey'llpayyoucrazyalotIswear." I gasp when it all rolls out. The man stares blankly back at me, the wrinkles in his white dress shirt and clean jeans jostling when he leans his weight on his hip. Puppy eyes, I remind myself, and give him wide eyes and a quivering lip. I even clasp my hands together, not that he can see them, and a few tears, not that these will make me look charming. The man blinks, flicking his greased, shiny hair so strands fall over his forehead in slick curls, and after another second, he shrugs and opens the door of his store by a chrome handle.

I bolt inside, taking in everything quickly. The stripped gray walls, the tiny space about the size of a two Ping-Pong tables pushed together,  the sharp smell of wilted herbs and chemical burns. Pill bottles sit on black shelves and on a dirty gray table of sheet metal in the center of the room.

I don't know where I am or what to do next, so I say what's been irking me for more than it should be. "You wouldn't have a spare shirt by any chance?" I ask the man. He nods, giving me a look that says, 'You're the weirdest kid I've ever met.'

I close my eyes for a second and let myself relax. Pain from the early beating begins to set into my adrenaline-wired conscience and tired body, and I let myself stand there and feel it. I'm alive and I'm almost free. It's a small victory, but it's something. Something I can work with. If all good things come to an end, then so should all bad things, too.