grasp.
"You refuse me and now you scold me too? I offered myself to you!"
"You know I abide by the archaic manners." He struggled to maintain a soft tone. As much as it gritted him, he offered her a lie. "I prefe r to save this for the day when I am linked."
It was a sentiment that Wind usually attacked for its stupidity. But in this case, aimed in her general direction, the sentiment was more like a good long stroke down the slick and winding back of her ego. She smiled, turning soft in his arms.
"I will tell my father you'll be coming by to speak intentions with him," she said. At least she wasn't spitting on his shoes again.
Diem didn't contradict her. It was a relief that she was appeased, for now .
CHAPTER FOUR
Present Day
Steven Burtman shifted on the chair to peer down at his angel again. The creak reminded him of how many times he'd done it already, not in the last hour, but in the last five minutes. In his old life, this kind of obsession would be comparable to hoping for a work bonus and doing little else than sitting at his desk and hammering the refresh button on his email throughout his entire work day. But in this life, he hit the refresh by leaning off his chair to gaze through the window of the third Profanyl Chamber in the first row, making sure there were still no bugs burrowing into the lovely arrangement of his angel's amaretto hair or scaling across her peaceful, sedated face. He spent his time wondering what color her eyes were, beneath the lids. He hoped for blue. Maybe green, if they were the right shade. He scanned over her twice more, searching for any rustling within, or maybe a bulge scuttling up through the neckline of her clothing, or worst of all, the flicking tip of a jointed antennae.
When he saw nothing moving inside the chamber, he sagged back from the container's edge, but the moment his spine settled against the chair, he was gripped again with the fear that there was indeed a bug —hiding in her tresses or secreted away beneath her arm—that he hadn't spotted. He craned forward once again. The chair creaked. There was no bug.
The Profanyl Chambers sat in their silent, soldier formation, rows of them stretching the length of the mammoth underground warehouse. Neither hot nor cold to the touch, the meat lockers had nothing comforting about them, even, and maybe especially, when they hummed. He'd learned that the deep hum, like a ventilation system kicking on, meant the chamber was compromised and that the person inside would soon suffocate, and despite his best efforts, die.
He'd tried everything to save the people inside—unlatching the chambers, insulating the bodies with blankets, messing with the wires connected to the humans inside. What happened was always ghastly. The only painless deaths were the ones that came when Steven did nothing more than watch it happen, through the tiny window on the chamber lid.
Steven didn't have a clue as to what he was doing wrong or how he could go about fixing the chambers. He didn't know how to wake the people inside. He couldn't even recall how he'd woken up himself or why he hadn't died before he'd popped the top of his own chamber. He'd been so centered on not shitting himself and getting out of the tight little box as he thunked on the lid. All he really remembered perfectly was the relief of the chamber door opening and how he'd surged up with an inhale, as if he'd been trapped underwater too long.
But it didn't do him any good. He didn't remember the special combination that led him to life instead of death. So, for the others, he could only stand by, screaming and sobbing and kicking dents in the sides of the freezer tombs each time he lost another. He wasn't one of the goddamn Archive doctors that was supposed to be on hand. He was just goddamned.
Miserably, the score remained: losses: 10; sav es: 1. He was the only survivor so far. When
"You refuse me and now you scold me too? I offered myself to you!"
"You know I abide by the archaic manners." He struggled to maintain a soft tone. As much as it gritted him, he offered her a lie. "I prefe r to save this for the day when I am linked."
It was a sentiment that Wind usually attacked for its stupidity. But in this case, aimed in her general direction, the sentiment was more like a good long stroke down the slick and winding back of her ego. She smiled, turning soft in his arms.
"I will tell my father you'll be coming by to speak intentions with him," she said. At least she wasn't spitting on his shoes again.
Diem didn't contradict her. It was a relief that she was appeased, for now .
CHAPTER FOUR
Present Day
Steven Burtman shifted on the chair to peer down at his angel again. The creak reminded him of how many times he'd done it already, not in the last hour, but in the last five minutes. In his old life, this kind of obsession would be comparable to hoping for a work bonus and doing little else than sitting at his desk and hammering the refresh button on his email throughout his entire work day. But in this life, he hit the refresh by leaning off his chair to gaze through the window of the third Profanyl Chamber in the first row, making sure there were still no bugs burrowing into the lovely arrangement of his angel's amaretto hair or scaling across her peaceful, sedated face. He spent his time wondering what color her eyes were, beneath the lids. He hoped for blue. Maybe green, if they were the right shade. He scanned over her twice more, searching for any rustling within, or maybe a bulge scuttling up through the neckline of her clothing, or worst of all, the flicking tip of a jointed antennae.
When he saw nothing moving inside the chamber, he sagged back from the container's edge, but the moment his spine settled against the chair, he was gripped again with the fear that there was indeed a bug —hiding in her tresses or secreted away beneath her arm—that he hadn't spotted. He craned forward once again. The chair creaked. There was no bug.
The Profanyl Chambers sat in their silent, soldier formation, rows of them stretching the length of the mammoth underground warehouse. Neither hot nor cold to the touch, the meat lockers had nothing comforting about them, even, and maybe especially, when they hummed. He'd learned that the deep hum, like a ventilation system kicking on, meant the chamber was compromised and that the person inside would soon suffocate, and despite his best efforts, die.
He'd tried everything to save the people inside—unlatching the chambers, insulating the bodies with blankets, messing with the wires connected to the humans inside. What happened was always ghastly. The only painless deaths were the ones that came when Steven did nothing more than watch it happen, through the tiny window on the chamber lid.
Steven didn't have a clue as to what he was doing wrong or how he could go about fixing the chambers. He didn't know how to wake the people inside. He couldn't even recall how he'd woken up himself or why he hadn't died before he'd popped the top of his own chamber. He'd been so centered on not shitting himself and getting out of the tight little box as he thunked on the lid. All he really remembered perfectly was the relief of the chamber door opening and how he'd surged up with an inhale, as if he'd been trapped underwater too long.
But it didn't do him any good. He didn't remember the special combination that led him to life instead of death. So, for the others, he could only stand by, screaming and sobbing and kicking dents in the sides of the freezer tombs each time he lost another. He wasn't one of the goddamn Archive doctors that was supposed to be on hand. He was just goddamned.
Miserably, the score remained: losses: 10; sav es: 1. He was the only survivor so far. When
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