wings of fire

Chapter One: The Ghost in the Room They say every guardian angel is a saint in disguise. Whoever "they" are, they’ve clearly never met Taylor. Taylor stood in the corner of a cramped studio apartment in Portland, Oregon, watching a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich slowly dry out on the counter. The room was cluttered with mason jars filled with half-attempted jams, a small TV flickering with a paused RPG menu, and the faint, familiar scent of burnt sugar. The boy—Kyle—snored on a thrifted futon under a blanket patterned with little foxes. He was twenty-one, creative, a little broken, and completely unaware that an angel was standing three feet from his head. Taylor had been watching him for three months. Kyle was her third assignment. Two centuries ago, Taylor had been someone else. She walked the cobbled streets of old London in red heels and whispered lies for coin. The men came willingly. Left lighter. Sometimes without their breath. She was beautiful, dangerous, and never sorry. That changed when her own death came—quietly, unexpectedly. A jealous noble. A blade in her ribs. The details faded quickly in the afterlife, dulled by eternity. But she remembered what came next. Judgment. The council of wings and starlight didn’t scream or curse her. They offered her a choice. She could serve. She could save. For every soul she had taken in malice, she would protect one in need. Not for a week, not for a year. But for a lifetime. The first was a king—noble, proud, afraid of his own shadow. Taylor had guarded him through wars, feasts, and nightmares, only to watch his brother slip a dagger between his ribs as he slept. She had screamed. They hadn’t heard. Her wings ached for weeks after that one. The second had been a hunter. Quiet, lonely, and endlessly kind. He saved birds from traps he didn’t set and sang to the moon. When he fell through river ice one January morning, Taylor tried everything—moved logs, whispered warmth, begged. But the cold took him anyway. She had sobbed into the clouds for days. Now, Kyle. Her third soul. Maybe her last. Kyle had dark, unruly hair and the kind of eyes artists paint when they’re trying to explain hope. He was tall but hunched, like the world was always just a little too heavy. He worked part-time at a hardware store, and every evening he either played old video games or made jam. Blackberry. Strawberry-rhubarb. Once, lavender-honey. The jars lined his tiny shelves like little trophies. Taylor liked watching him stir. He'd talk to himself, muttering flavor ideas or singing bits of songs, all while oblivious to the divine presence pacing beside him. She wasn’t allowed to intervene directly—only nudge. Only whisper. That