Becoming Chaos

III - Rising Moon Part 2

“Is there any way to reverse my turning?” I asked, my words sounding strange to my ears. The suddenness of everything started to sink in. An urgency to do something rang through me, but all I can think of was the stranger’s -Vladimir’s- muzzle piercing me in manic repetition. Looking over my shoulders again, I saw no proof that the bites ever happened. No scars. Nothing. I sighed as I thought that last night seemed so far away, like some weird, distant memory.

“I don’t know. Can you un-cake a cake?” answered Michael as he began to walk away from me. He scooted to the far end of the room and leaned on the wall. He brushed his hand through his hair.

He’s like a cat. Always grooming himself, I thought as I watched him with detached interest. “Michael,” I said in a stern voice.

“What, Summers?”

“I really am tired of your smart mouth,” I started. “If ever I do turn into a huge dog, I will bite your mouth off.”

“That’s a kinky way of saying that you want to kiss me. I like it.” He smiled a smile not fitting an Angel, his dimple denting the fine and smooth surface of his skin.

Will he ever run out of smart things to say? A low growling noise came from my throat, I felt a sudden panic as I thought that the turning process is already taking hold. Placing a hand to my neck, my annoyance turned into worry. “What just happened? Did I just make that sound?” Lentils of sweat rolled down my face.

His smile deepened as though my expression excited him. “I am now convinced that you actually believe me. Your first confession of belief felt forced,” he observed. He straightened himself and walked toward me. Michael was light-footed. Each step he made was soundless. “Now, you are asking based on what you think is happening to you which, if I may point out , is actually happening to you. To answer your questions, you just growled. And yes, you just made that sound. Oh, that rhymed,” he said, snickering. Passing in front of me, he went over to the closet. His head shook at the sight of the glass shards on the floor. “That mirror was good,” he said as he opened the closet door in full. “My reflection there’s perfect. You may have to replace this mirror, Summers. Do you have a mirror at your place? Is it any good?”

I stood up to glare at him. “Well, I have a mirror that I ask every morning if I am the most beautiful in town. It just frowns and says no. Is that good enough?”

He craned his neck and nodded a slow nod. “You are learning,” he said with an amused expression on his face. He turned back to the closet. “Anyway, I think any mirror will do since I look great in all of them. I’m perfect.”

“You’re conceited and so full of yourself.”

“I know. Thank you very much,” he turned around and tossed something to me. “Catch.”

I saw the folded fabric make its way through the air to me in a projectile. My eyes locked on the incoming ball of woven cotton. Around me, time slowed. Everything was still except for the shirt flying to my direction. It was as though the moment turned into slow motion. It was like watching something run through thick soup. I raised my hand and caught the white tee with my fingers. “What is this?”

He craned his head at an angle. “Haven’t you seen a shirt before? You are wearing one.”

“Of course, I know it is a shirt! Why are you giving it to me?”

“Put it on,” he said, taking something black from inside the closet drawers. “You cannot go outside like that. Well, on second thought, you can if you are confident enough. ”

“Where are we going?” I asked. By this time I should have mastered how to restrain myself from rolling my eyes at him. The fabric of the shirt felt as soft as a down. I fingered at the hem to keep my hands busy.

“I am going to see a friend,” he said as he slid on the black leather jacket that he took from the closet. It was as dark as his hair was. It brought out the pallid color of his skin and highlighted his forest eyes. “We will go to your place first, take your things and bring them here.”

What the actual hell? “What do you mean bring them here? I’m not living with you!”

“You’re quite assuming, do you know that?” he said, his voice unwavering. He bent down and tied the laces of his boots and started to walk to the door. “Your place is not safe. For all we know Vladimir might have ransacked your house looking for you. You will die if you stay there. Do you live alone?”

I refrained to retort at his remark with difficulty. “I’m an orphan. I’m single. Figure it out.”

“That explains the French-kissing in an alley with a stranger.”

I lost it. Tossing the shirt to the bed, I jumped at him as soon as his back was unto me. The muscles at the back of my legs tore as I lunged forward in full speed. My fingers splayed like claws, reaching out for his neck. I wrapped my legs around his waist as I collided with him. We fell to the floor. My left hand found his nape, my right raised in the air, ready to strike if he dared move wrong. I pinned him down with my weight. I was sitting on his back and he was under me, his face to the floor. “I’d be careful, if I were you,” I said as a growl vibrated in my throat. It felt unnatural and familiar at the same time.

“Or what?” he asked as he turned over almost without effort. He unlatched my legs from around his waist and lifted my hand from his neck. “While you are becoming a werewolf, you are still not strong enough to take a Soul Dealer on.” He did not push me, but in a split second, we were standing up. His right hand was on my left wrist, and his other was on my waist. “Do you dance, Miss Summers?”

“Let me go!” I huffed and yanked his veined hands off of me. My blood rushed to my face with his nearness. Taking a step backward, I realized that my heart was racing and I fought to catch my breath.

“You are supposed to answer ‘Not if I can help it,’ not let me go.”

“Jane Austen. I know, but I don’t feel like dancing. Not with you, anyway!”

“My poor Angel heart is bleeding,” he said with a graceful flourish of his hands. Turning around, he started to walk again to the door, clearing his throat as he did. “Are you coming or not?”

“I did not remember agreeing with you,” I hissed. I looked down at myself, thankful that my chest wasn’t exposed as I remembered my new bra was missing. A sensation of warmth began to boil under my skin. “Where are my clothes anyway? Were you the one who changed my clothes, and where is my purse?”

“I sold them in a vampire auction while you were passed out. Got to make that money,” he said as he took his keys hanging on the wall. “I burned them,” he added. “Surely you are not interested anymore in a tattered and bloodied dress? Your purse is on top of the bed's headboard. And no. I did not change your clothes. A girl friend changed your clothes for you. I’m not a perv.”

He has a girlfriend already? I wondered for a fleeting moment. No one can blame him though. He was so good looking it was ridiculous. “She could have lent me a bra, at least!”

He stared at my chest, not in a ‘check-it-out’ way, but in way that I felt like he was looking at something under a microscope. “It wouldn’t fit.”

Thanks for reminding me that I have a flat chest. I took a lungful of air to calm my singing nerves. “Jeans,” I said.

“What?”

“Jeans,” I repeated. “I need jeans. I cannot go outside in this,” I said, pointing to a boxer short I can only assume was his. Disgusting.

“Oh, of course,” he replied. “Bottom drawer, far end. My old jeans are there. Help yourself.”

I turned around and took the shirt from the bed. “Go out. Wait for me by the door,” I said, but no one answered. The door swiveled open and shut closed. I looked back and saw he was already gone. Shrugging, I took my purse on top of the headboard and walked to the closet. I avoided the shards on the floor as I rummaged for jeans at the back of his bottom drawer. A pair of faded denim that looked like it has seen better years plopped out of the pile of old clothes. Pulling the ripped shirt over me, I changed into the white tee. I contemplated whether I should step out of the boxer, but decided against it. A memory of the one time I went commando while wearing denim flashes inside my head. My groins hated me back then. Never again. I stepped into his old trousers and walked to the door. My eyes caught sight of my high heels on the shoe rack. I took the pair and put them on. Such a questionable choice of wardrobe, I thought as I turned the knob and stepped out.

Michael's head perked up as I stepped out of the room. “Why do women take so long dressing up?” He was standing next to the door frame, his back leaning against the white wall. His hands were in his pockets and his legs were crossed. He looked like a model. I wanted to slap him.

“I wouldn’t call this dressing up,” I said pointing to the loose-fitting shirt and tattered jeans that didn’t match my footwear. “I wouldn’t be seen alive wearing this, but hey, I have no choice.”

“You look fine, though,” he said, eyeing me from head to toe. He straightened up. “Shall we?” he asked as he tossed the keys to the air. He caught it with his other hand.

Did he just compliment me? I nodded and stepped aside so he could lock the entrance to his apartment. There was a sign on the wooden door that read ‘#3R.’ I looked around and saw that there were no other doors along the corridor. “What apartment is this? Where are we?”

He pulled the keys from the keyhole. “18th street, Gramercy Park,” he answered. “There is no one else in this apartment, though there are three floors, one unit on each level. We’re on the third. The Ministry pays for the entire building. We don’t like sharing our space with regulars. They ask too much questions.”

“Do I ask too much questions?” I inquired as I caught his eye. It was brighter in the hall than it was inside the apartment as more sunlight poured in through the large glass windows. It made his eyes look like shiny leaves gleaming under the harsh rays of the sun. I looked down as I felt that I might have stared at him for a second too long. The floor was made from wood parquet tiles that resembled the color of rich mahogany. I heard footsteps retreating from me. Looking up, I saw that Michael had started down the corridor. “Wait for me!” I shouted.

He did not answer nor did he wait. His strides were long and hurried as though he was late to some important meeting. I was a bit surprised that I caught up to him with ease. He started down the black spiral stairs. A chandelier with a flickering lamp lighted the metal staircase. My heels sent loud clangs as I walked on the steel steps. The second and ground level of the apartment building were empty as he mentioned. The doors were closed and padlocks were visible along the frames.

In no time, we stepped out into the street. Despite the blazing afternoon sun, the air was cold. I looked back and saw that the building we came out of had bricked walls lining the front facade. Cars were parked idle on each side of the road and young trees lined the walkway. Across the apartment was another that was considerably bigger. In fact, all around was full of apartments, though it was almost deserted. Gramercy Park is quiet for New York City. I inhaled the crisp air and the quietness as I looked at the Soul Dealer in front of me.

“Come on, tiger,” he said. “Follow me to the public parking.”

I did. I was glad no one was around to see me in my horrendous outfit. If people saw me, they would think that I jumped up and down inside a closet and came out dressed in random stuff. Michael disappeared as he turned to a corner.

“Wait here.”

Nodding, I contemplated on running away, but something held me in place. I wanted to run to my freedom, but I was sure he’d just catch me before I could even get far. A low, rumbling noise broke my thoughts. I turned my head to see Michael on a black big-bike. “You have a motorcycle?” I asked in disbelief.

“Of course I have a motorcycle. How else would I sweep girls off their feet?”

With your good looks, maybe? I wanted to say, but didn’t. “I just thought --”

“That I flew around the city with wings and all?” he finished for me. His hands were now clad in black leather gloves that matched his jacket. His muscled legs were spread and they sandwiched the gas tank of the motorcycle. “Hop on,” he said as he ran his gloved fingers through his black hair. “Take the helmets from inside the compartment box.”

I followed as he ordered, figuring that it would be a bad idea if I didn’t. Girl run-over by a biker Angel would not make for a good news headline. I opened the unlocked compartment and took out one full-face helmet and another one which looked more like a bicycle helmet. I was surprised that they fit in such a small box. I slid behind him. The space between his body and the compartment was cramped that I felt his weight press against my frame. A cool wind blew and carried his scent to my nose. He smelled like rain. Handing him the bigger helmet, I strapped the smaller one on. “So, why is your girlfriend not living with you? Is she a Soul Dealer too?”

“Do you mean the girl who helped change your clothes?” he asked as he put the helmet on.

I did not answer, but I nodded. He was awfully close to me that I could feel the strength of his legs as he pressed them against the road to keep the motorcycle upright.

“She’s just a friend who happened to be a girl. Not girlfriend. There's a difference,” he said. He slid the eye shield close. “No, she’s not a Soul Dealer. She’s a water nymph. In fact, she is the friend I told you that I needed to meet today.”

“A mermaid?” I inquired to which he nodded his answer. He asked if I was ready. Before I could answer, he twisted the throttle. The motorcycle sped so fast and so sudden that I was forced to cling to him in an embrace. I grabbed at him, catching hold of his hard, washboard abs. His muscled abdomen moved under my fingers and I figured that he was laughing. A smile curled the tips of my lips for a reason I could not fathom. Michael Riverwoods, the gorgeous Angel boy, has no girlfriend.