MY ANGEL BOYFRIEND

CHAPTER 2

The path rose steadily. Roots crossed it like old veins. The light filtered green through the branches. My boots sank a little in the soft earth. After twenty minutes the trail bent around a shoulder of rock, and I saw the cave.

It opened low in the cliff face, half-hidden by scrub and shadow. I almost kept walking. Then the sound reached me—faint, metallic, the slow drag of chain against stone. I stopped. The wind moved through the pines. The sound came again, clearer this time.

I took out my phone and turned on the torch. The beam cut a pale tunnel into the dark. The floor was uneven, scattered with loose stones that shifted under my feet. The air inside was colder, damp, carrying the smell of wet rock and something older. I moved carefully, one hand brushing the wall. The chain sound grew louder with every step.

At the end of the passage a wall of piled stones blocked the way, stacked from the floor almost to the ceiling. Gaps showed between them, but none large enough for a person. The sound of metal came clearly from the other side.

I set the phone down so the light still reached, pulled on the gloves, and began with the smaller rocks. One by one. Then the larger ones. Dust rose and settled on my clothes, my hair, my tongue. My shoulders burned. Time stretched. I counted nothing. I only worked. When the last heavy stone finally shifted and the wall gave way with a low, grinding sound, the light from my phone told me nearly two hours had passed.

I stepped through on the tips of my boots.

He hung against the far wall.

Long silver hair fell over his face and shoulders, dull with dust and dried blood. Massive white wings—torn in places, stained dark—were half-folded behind him, the feathers matted. Thick iron chains wrapped his wrists, his ankles, his waist, and his throat, the links bolted deep into the stone. The rags he wore clung to a body marked with old scars and open wounds. He looked down at his own feet, unmoving.

I stood still. The torch beam trembled across him.

Slowly, he lifted his head.

Gray-blue eyes met mine. They were clear and ancient, as if he had not seen another living person in a very long time. His voice, when it came, was rough and low.

“How did you come here?”

Then his eyes rolled back. His body went slack. The chains kept him upright, arms stretched, head dropped forward. He hung there, unconscious, blood still seeping slowly from the cuts on his wings and wrists.

I stared for three full seconds before my body moved. I tried the chains with my bare hands first. Useless. The metal was too thick, the locks too solid. I turned and ran—back through the collapsed wall, through the dark passage, out into the daylight—and kept running until I reached the car. I grabbed the bolt cutters, the crowbar, everything I could carry, and raced back.

Breaking the chains took longer than I wanted. The metal was old but strong. Sparks flew under the cutters. My arms shook. When the last link finally snapped, his full weight dropped against me. He was heavier than he looked. I slid my shoulder under his arm, wrapped my other arm around his waist, and half-dragged, half-carried him out of the cave. His wings trailed behind us, leaving a dark path on the stone. Every few steps I had to stop and adjust my grip. The walk back to the car felt endless.

I lowered the back seats, spread the blanket, and eased him in as carefully as I could. His head rested against the side window. Silver hair stuck to the dried blood on his cheek. The wings took up most of the space. I closed the door, climbed into the driver’s seat, and started the engine.

He did not wake.

Not when the car bumped down the narrow track. Not when the gravel turned to pavement. Not when the village roofs finally appeared below us in the late afternoon light. He stayed silent and still in the back seat, breathing so shallowly I kept checking the rearview mirror to make sure the rise and fall of his chest had not stopped.

I drove straight to the cottage, hands tight on the wheel, and tried not to think about the fact that I had just brought something that should not exist into the quiet life I had chosen so carefully.