What exactly would happen to him, for breaking the rules of his people? Had he said something about being an outcast? God, I really was a selfish bitch, wasn’t I? A selfish bitch who was about to sob until she puked.
Stop it. Stop it, stop it.
My phone was ringing. Probably Riverview. Or the police. ‘ Or both. I ignored it, rolled over, and pushed myself into a sitting position, careful to keep my sheet under my chin. “Hey, robot girl. You up for a good fight?”
Houri blinked at me. Her android-ish expression said, Does not compute. Then she went back to looking bored.
I got up, pulled on a pair of jeans and my own T-shirt - this one black - and pushed past Houri into my sparse living room. I had gym mats on most of the floor instead of carpet, and I crossed to the centre of the padded blue vinyl. When I turned back to face Terminator Girl, I settled into a classic Sayokan stance, arms up, legs wide, and beckoned to her.
The edges of Houri’s mouth curled into a smile. She stopped looking bored.
Then she kicked my ass all over the apartment.
Five or six times. Maybe seven.
I lost count somewhere between the separated shoulder and needing stitches in my chin because I wouldn’t let her heal me.
She wasn’t touching me.
Nobody was touching me again.
Except Shant.
If I ever saw him again.
And assuming I didn’t kill him instantly for making me believe in love at first sight, then disappearing like a sweet dream before I woke.
Seven
My life became a blur of sparring with Houri (and trying to keep all my teeth) - my version of pining away for my lost love. The more bones I risked or broke, the better I felt. For about five minutes.
Then there were all the statements I had to give to the police, the FBI, the CIA, Homeland Security and a bunch of other alphabet acronyms I didn’t know about the “terrorist bombing attack” on Riverview. Oh, and trying to convince the administration that the patient who had been present when the admissions office blew up had just run away, unharmed.
Yeah.
And not to my bed.
It took a month for the admissions office to get repaired and functional again, but when it was, I was stupid enough to go back to work even though my Shaddai protector assured me they could keep me in enough gold to rent a penthouse if I wanted one. Houri got passed off as a private bodyguard hired by my (non-existent) family following the terrorist attack.
To Terminator Girl’s credit, she taught me about my angel abilities: enhanced fighting skills, the ability to briefly repel fire if I willed it, speed, empathy, insight and attracting demons. Woo-hoo. Not a great lot of powers to inherit from Mom, but I figured I should be grateful for whatever advantage I might have, should one of the Raah show up again.
“What are you thinking about?” Houri asked me as I drank my 3 a.m. Starbucks Verona one Wednesday night, about four months after my encounter with the Raah - and with Shant. She was ensconced in her usual seat just outside my office door, wearing her hospital-issued nametag, her jeans and a red T-shirt which almost matched her hair. The secretary had retired and not been replaced yet, and the night nurse and patient aide had been called upstairs for an emergency, so we were alone.
“What am I thinking about?” I tasted the delicious chocolate coffee and made myself look her in the eye. “I’m thinking about an asshole.”
“A man,” she said, sounding definite, a little more human, like she had learned to be in her weeks with me.
I glared at her and didn’t answer.
“Was this man a boyfriend?” Houri looked almost amused, like we might be playing a game. “Did he tell you he loved you?”
My glare deepened, and I sank further into my creaky office chair. “No.”
Houri shrugged. “Well, did he tell you that you were a good lover?”
I wanted to slap her, but that would just start a sparring match and get a lot of furniture broken. “No.”
“What did he tell you then, to make you call him an asshole?”