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

Chapter Twelve: Missing Pieces

Angelos.

Neighbors pour into our apartment, muttering at the bullet hole in the wall. "What happened?" they ask, over and over, the doorbell ringing incessantly. They heard gunfire. They want to know why. I rest my chin in my hands.

Juniper can't keep them out, no matter how hard she tries. I sit on the arm of the couch, folding my wings against my back and praying no one notices. My hands trembling and my feathers bristling, I must look as shaken as I feel, but no one bothers to look at me. They just chat and whisper like they were invited into my home, which they weren't. Heaven's curled up on the couch, her face in her hands.

The guard grumbles on about how his gun misfired. "It's nothing. Nothing happened. It just went off. I would never shoot at anyone. I swear."

I sigh softly and count to ten. I can't get too mad at anything anymore. I'm responsible for my stupid aura now and I can't let it out no matter what happens. I put my hand on Heaven's shoulder. Her shirt's shredded, and her cold seeps into my skin. "You okay?"

Toby left to talk to "guests" and Storm's making coffee in the kitchen. We're all sleepy, but none of us are calling it quits until we get answers. Something. Anything at all. Heaven makes a sound between a whimper and a sob. My heart aches in my chest, like someone ripped it out and shook it. "You'll be okay," I say, so quietly I don't know if she can hear me. I clear my throat and force my weak little voice to sound smooth and deep, like Heaven's does when she's Galaxy. "Whatever happened, Gats will be fine. We'll make sure of that. Okay?"

Heaven grabs my wrist. My shoulders jolt. I expect her to dig her nails in and yank me down, but she doesn't. She just touches me, so lightly and with her skin so cold, it's like the brush of snow. "Angelos." My name is a rasp, like she has to fight to get it out. I swallow, and when I imagine her bleeding on the inside, my stomach clenches up and I want to do anything to take away her pain. "Th-they took him," she says.

My wings twitch. What? She tosses over and shoots me a miserable look. They took him.  I've never seen so much pain in her eyes. Not when her arm was all twisted up, not when she was bleeding to death, not when Poison hit her so hard she broke. My breath catches in my throat. "Heaven..."

For a minute, every thought leaves me. People are muttering now, cramming the apartment with noise. A few of them look long at me, absorbing my scars and eyepatch. I try not to squirm, dread growing in me like ice. 'They' took Gats. Someone always takes him. "Who?"

"I-I could've saved him!" She kicks the couch's arm, but it's weak, especially for her. People are really looking now, and she tightens her grip on my wrist. I feel her cold pulse. I pin my wings as tighty as I can against my back. We can't talk here, not with all the eyes.

"He'll be fine," I say, "I-I'm going to take you into my room to talk. Is that okay? Are you hurt too bad?"

She shakes her head, her mouth parted but the words silent. My muscles tense up. She's hurt, and Gatsby. Someone took Gatsby.  I exhale, knowing shouldn't move an injured Heaven. "I'm okay," she assures after a second. "I'm okay." I wrap my arms around her and scoop her up, the sheets twisting around her and dragging on the floor. My wings shudder, exposed. I press them even tighter against my back and bolt. Hopefully, the neighbors will only see a flash of movement or a flutter of black feathers and think they imagined it.

I slip into my room. Heaven hates it, always has. She says it's the place colors go to die, that the walls and the curtains and the furniture and the sheets are too white. I don't disagree. Juniper and Storm once said I should paint the walls and put up posters to "express me," but my room's job isn't to "express me." Its job is to be clean. Besides, it's the only part of the house Juniper hasn't decorated, and I like how empty and sharp it is compared to the rest of our apartment.