Damsel[ed]: Some Rescue Required (#2 of the Damsel[ed] series)

Chapter Forty-Four: Together Again

Heaven.

"Hey!" Warm fingers close around my neck. I spin and arc the sickle down. The blade's blunt edge slaps my thigh, ribbons of goopy blood splatter my jeans, and before my brain registers what I did, I watch the man wheeze and drop to the grimy floor. His mask snaps in half.  I force down the bile rising in my throat and rest my back against the metal table. I've never cut someone before. But he'll heal. Jaylin needs time to save Angel and I have to buy it.

The shop is so tight that the villains have to squeeze together to fit inside. It's small enough too that the girl and I had to slash and punch our way into the center. Metal shelves climb the walls like ladder rungs, full of plastic bottles, syringes, and wilted plants. Baggies of powder, even, most of which I make a mental note to destroy.

"Okay!" The girl claps and swings up on the table, kicking up her legs like a cheerleader. She's a fun kid. Still getting a hang of the superhero thing and I'm not helping, slashing people across the face and all. "Stand back, you guys. If anyone comes at us, my friend here will slash you right through!" She flicks her ponytail and makes a fake swinging motion with her free hand.

 Her name is Natalie and she says she likes comic books and ballet. She makes an okay right-hand man when you need one. Takes orders. Cracks jokes. Even if she is a little taller than me and even if she rests her elbow on my shoulder to flaunt it, I can deal.

People crowd into the store in twos and threes. I thought it counter-intuitive to crash a shop on the second floor, but Jaylin ran here and I trust her. When someone gives you your powers back, you can't help but feel a little indebted. A little trusting.

"Who are you?" asks a girl with orange hair and a torn sweater. I caught her when she came up the stairs with her tall, greasy friend. I give her wrist a light squeeze, which is pale and thin like it's all bone and no skin. I'm tempted to say 'your worst nightmare,' just to be dramatic, but Jaylin's the dramatic one, not me. So I shrug. 

"I want to get my friend back. I won't hurt you if you don't get in the way."

"Hmph!" She spins on the heels of her boots and slams a kick into my stomach. I hiss out a sharp breath, the bliss of whatever drug Jaylin stabbed into me shattered. She races down the stairs and I whirl off the table, landing on bent knees with a 'crunch!'

The man's mask crumbles into broken pieces like butterfly wings under my feet. I hold back a grimace and hand the sickle over my shoulder. "Stay safe." Natalie takes it. Her fingertips rest delicately on the handle as if the weapon will spring to life and chew her to pieces if she isn't careful.

I can't fault her. She shoots me a brave nod and waves it above her head like a pom-pom. "We're neutral guys," she says. She picked up the terminology from Jay and I, and she learns fast. "Make a move and your leader will scrap 'ya!"

Her chirpy voice dogs me as I pound down the stairs. "Fallout, Fallout!" calls the bloody girl with the droopy sweater. "We're under attack—"

"I've noticed." The villain's voice is low and soft, and though I've heard my fill of head honchos, he gives me chills. I take the creaking steps in threes. Stars glitter through a low window. I feel like I'm rushing into the bowels of a dungeon tower to save a princess. Or a prince.

I zoom down the stairs. One snaps under my weight, but I don't dare take flight. Not yet. Not until I'm sure my powers are back completely. For all I know there's a time limit on it, and when the clock strikes twelve I'll be wheezing away with a hole in my ribs. Seconds pass for my eyes to get used to the dark. When I slam down the last step, I gasp. I'm tired from running circles around that woman.

But now, I barely notice my lack of energy. Barely care. Angelos dangles in his father's grasp, staring wide-eyed at Jaylin. His face is splotched with a myriad of bruises and so are his arms. They must be fresh—I was with him a couple days ago—but they're already fading, dappled yellow and green. He's wearing a collared shirt dirtied with blood and dust. His wings are dry and frumpy, dragging at the tips with loops of rope. And he's chained. Cuffed at the ankles. Cuffed at the wrists. A chain hangs from his neck and falls to his bound up hands.