Author’s Note: This excerpt is from a larger piece that I hope to turn into a book one day. As a little snippet, this piece serves as a teaser to the entire story at hand. It introduces us to the two main characters—Mercy, and the angel—as well as the premise of the book as a whole.
…
In her mind’s eye, she saw the creature.
Warm against her cupped palms, the sparrow, panting with exhaustion, buried its head into the folds of her skin, wings crumpled against its plump, feathered body. A surge of heat flooded her chest, and though she couldn’t name it, it was familiar, like an old friend. The sparrow softened, surrendering to sleep, or maybe something deeper. The eye, smooth as drips of oil, fluttered and closed, and the girl was undone. In all the world, there was only the bird and its tiny heartbeat, faint as a whisper, beating in time with the dredges of night and day.
A sharp jolt, and Mercy was awake. A line of drool edged the crease around her jaw, marked by the paper she’d fallen asleep on. With sluggish fingers, she traced the dent in her work, sighing in resignation. “Of course,” she muttered, casting the parchment to the ground with a swoop of her arm. The ache in her head was dull and throbbing, much like a heavy moth, wings greyed with dust and age, rebounding off a hot lightbulb, again and again. Mercy kneaded her temples with tired fingers.
Sharp snaps of bludgeoned branches rang through the house, before ending in a deafening crash that sent Mercy reeling from sleep like a wild mare. Springing to her feet, Mercy dove through the door and into the night, snatching the rusted porch lantern from its perch and wielding it in front of her like a sword. Carefully, she scanned the tree line, searching for the source of the sound. In the distance, a monstrous pine stood atop a dark hill, bent painfully in the shape of an L. A gust of wind tore through the woods, and the pine grunted ruefully, its trunk splintered, branches dangling on strings of tendon and will. Mercy stared at it, dumbfounded. “What the hell did that?” Caution pulled at her shoulder, to which curiosity responded with a hearty shove, propelling her forward.
Mercy sprinted through the woods and the cold swirled around her, leaving a silver mist in her wake. As she ran, she began to see the path of wreckage, lined with mutilated branches, scattered needles, and long silken feathers. “Wait, what?” Mercy stumbled to a stop. She squinted her eyes, creasing her forehead in confusion. Mercy plucked a feather from the dirt, marveling at its beauty. As she ran her fingers through it, the feather slid through her hands like water, shimmering in the moonlight and twinkling like wind chimes. In fact, she mused, it was almost as if it glowed of the moon itself. Perhaps the most incredible part, she noted with a gasp of shock, was that the feather spanned the length of her hip to the ground, curling on the end.
Mercy tore her eyes from the plume and back to the wreckage. At the base of the hill, she could see a pile of branches and feathers. Mercy froze. The pile was moving. Rising up and down, breathing like a sleeping giant. Only, Mercy noticed, it wasn’t peaceful breathing. It was a labored rasp, choppy and broken, caught in the air. Mercy’s entire body descended into survival mode, and she made to run. Something caught her back. A rush of heat flooded her chest, and everything became clear.
She crept toward the wreckage and began to unbury its captor, shifting upturned roots and heavy sticks. With a grunt, she lifted a branch to glance under it. She stumbled back with a choke of surprise. A man’s face, beautiful and pure, stared back at her with slanted eyes, sharp as a feline’s.
“Mercy,” he breathed, then passed out cold.
Photo Credits: Kseniia Zapiatki (unsplash)