Tomorrow, then.
8
Considering the rapidly escalating insurgency of the 144k, I find myself taken aback by just how much bustling activity remains inside the Tel Aviv airport. People of all different nationalities fill the building. Some shuffle down the walkways with an uncertain rhythm, while others gallivant without a care in the world.
Dusk and I capture both sides of that dichotomy.
His unearthly beauty draws the ogling of nearly everyone with eyes, but he acts as if he doesn’t even notice the attention. His confidence is unwavering, his focus single-minded.
He is the sun, and humans shift to orbit around him.
Meanwhile, I act as if I have something to hide.
This nightmare of an airport is putting me on edge, and it gets worse by the minute. At nearly every corner, there’s some sort of militarized policeman, watching the crowd like a hawk. They casually tote semi-automatic rifles with zero regard for gun safety. Pointing their barrels in every direction, their fingers hovering haphazardously over the triggers… And they all look like fucking teenagers.
Fixing my eyes firmly upon the ground, I try my best to pretend they’re not there. It’s not like there’s anything I can do. “You’re doing all the talking for us, right?”
Dusk steps a bit closer to me, continuing to guide our walk to the customs and immigration area. “Absolutely. You nervous?”
I give a dry laugh. “Are you capable of stopping a bullet?”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
We take our place in line, and I tug on his sleeve. “Hey. That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, of course I can.” He glances down at me, briefly, before continuing his surveillance of the crowd. “Quit worrying somuch.”
I shift my weight uncomfortably, my senses assaulted from every direction. Bright ass lights, dozens of voices in languages I don’t understand, the reek of unwashed bodies—I fucking hate it here.
In an effort to distract myself, I decide to resurrect an unanswered question from the conversation Dusk and I had over breakfast before we landed. “You said this morning that ‘field agents’ prepared a car for us. What does that mean? Is there some sort of three-letter agency doing the angelic dirty work?”
“Basically, yeah. The Speculatores.” Even if he doesn’t look at me as he replies, a small smile forms on the corner of his lips. “So no acronym, but they’re definitely bureaucratic enough to deserve one.”
I tilt my head to the side. “So when they’re not in the ‘field,’ where do they go?”
“Elohim,” he answers flatly, as if I have the slightest clue what that is, before nodding toward the line. “We’re about to be at the counter. I’ll talk for both of us. All you have to do is give them your passport while looking like an innocent American on a poorly timed vacation. Shouldn’t be too hard for you, yeah?”
I swallow, forcing on a smile. “Sure. Totally.”
His personality changes the second we’re signaled forward. He becomes the perfect traveler, oozing with charisma and professionalism. When he greets the dark-haired woman at the counter in flawless Hebrew, she perks up, her eyes sparkling at him. They chatter for a moment like old friends, then he waves a hand toward me with a stunning smile. She laughs—at what, I have zero idea—and accepts my passport.
Moments later, we’re continuing our trek past security. His posture reverts to normal, and I give him a sidelong glance. “Do you really speak every language?”
“Yes,” he answers casually, briefly looking up at the direction signs before guiding us down another walkway. “Archangels are created with universal translation abilities. It’s about ninety-nine percent reliable.”
“What about the other one percent?”
“Words obscured by cultural differences.” We stop at the baggagearea, where Dusk scans the conveyors for my checked bag. “It’ll come down number three in a moment. Do you need to use the bathroom or anything while we wait?”
“Oh! Yes, please.”
He nods. “Don’t get lost.”
I leave my carry-on with him and hurry to the nearest bathroom. By the time I return, he’s waiting with my luggage. A smile erupts on his face as he stands to greet me.
“I’ve got the perfect acronym! Check it out: A-I-D.” His hands motion through the air to accentuate each letter. “AID, for Angels in Disguise. What do you think?”
“You’re kidding, right?” I purse my lips, trying to keep from laughing.
