I grumble an acceptance and trudge forward, leading him towards my house while my curiosity eats me alive.
I can’t imagine what kind of place he intends to take me to that would make his instinctual consolation, ‘Be not afraid, silly human. You’ll get to keep your mortal life.’ That’s not much of a fucking comfort! Staying alive is the bare minimum requirement for me to do anything, and that’s setting the bar as low as it can possibly go.
I shoot a glance at him, hopefully unnoticed, and then bring my eyes back onto the sidewalk.
“What else can you do?” I ask suddenly.
“Excuse me?”
“Your angel magic.”
“Miracles, you mean?”
“Angel miracles, whatever, sure. What are they?”
“Whataren’tthey?” He laughs, as if I’d seriously be joking in a time like this.
“That’s not an answer.”
“…It would take me quite a while to go through all of them.”
A huff of annoyance escapes my lips, and I give him a side-eye. “If you have so many talents, then surely you’re capable of summarizing.”
“You’re a snappy little thing.” Maintaining his arrogant grin of amusement, he shakes his head. “But fine. Besides primarily being a Messenger, my specialty is lightning. Electricity, technically. Though, I also do the same things that most angels can do?—”
“How many angels do you think I’ve met before you to know what that is? Jesus Christ, spit it out already!”
“In human terms?” He muses thoughtfully, stoking my frustration even further. “Well, I’d have to say the big ones are flying, strength, invincibility, immortality, telekinesis, universal language translation… I’m sure I’m missing a couple dozen.”
“Can you hear my thoughts?”
“No.” After a pause, he adds, “Nobody can do that. Not fully, at least.”
“Thank God—” I cut myself off by biting my lip, realizing that I should mean that more literally. However, believing angels exist is enough of an earth-shattering concept for the week. Finding faith in a supreme being will need to wait for another time.
I stop at the house next to my own, just to make sure we’re not loitering in front of my dad’s office window. “Okay, I’m going to go through the front door. My dad is home, so you’ll need to sneak around through the gate and meet me at the back door, where I’ll let you in.”
“I feel like a true American teenager.”
“Again, I’m not a teenager,” I mutter back, but pause to take a closer look at his features in the broad daylight. His cheekbones are high and bold, his jawline rigid and delightfully angled. There’s nothing to indicate youth, but nothing to indicate age, either. No baby fat. No wrinkles or sagging skin. It’s as if he were crafted in a way that could be held in time indefinitely, boldly defying the beauty conventions of every generation. “How old are you?”
“How old do I look?”
“I don’t know. Mid twenties, maybe?”
“I’m flattered. Let’s go with that.”
“Let’s not.”
Malak rolls his eyes, looking toward the sky. “You’re sure you want to know?”
“No, but tell me anyway.”
“I stopped counting after a thousand.”
“Fucking Hell.”
“You know, I have quite a few fun stories about that topic, actually.”
