[ 8 ] - Spiraling out of Control


THE musician announces that he's going to play "Blues Beach" by, yes, Steely Dan, and I decide that want to dig my head deep in the sand.

"This is a sign from God..." Riel mutters.

I glare at him. "No, it's Climate fucking Change. We need to move!" I stare up, jaw agape. Sand's whipping around. The ocean is rising in front of us, and I step back, slowly, as the ocean churns and rises into a spiral, meeting the gray line in the sky. Once they meet, the air thins. It thickens, swells—strengthens. And continues to spin slowly closer to the shore.

Something comes over me—a ghost, maybe. I'm possessed, stuck staring, watching, as the funnel rushes closer. It's too tall, reaching beyond the clouds.

My heartbeat's in my shoulder blades. My wings want to come out, but I focus on moving, running. I point at the restaurant and take off running, feet sinking in the sand.

The waterspout's slipping onto land, creeping closer to the shore. Sand rises in sheets. I yelp, shielding my eyes, but the ground is meeting the sky, and everything's sideways. I keep trudging forward, losing my foothold—the fucking sand! Just a little closer—

A shell smacks against my temple and I slam against the ground. Sand's in my teeth, vision—I wince, trying to push myself upright. Shrapnel's digging into my back; glass, stones, trash, wood—I wheeze, struggling to breathe, air whipping into the funnel, up, up. I twist my head, try to open my eyes, push myself to my feet, but the wind makes my knees buckle and I drop, blood in my vision, people screaming, music all sharp and wrong as the guitar's flung into the air.

Steely Fucking Dan is gone. The singer, dragged back into the sea.

Closer, closer—

I try to grab onto anything, but I only find fistfuls of sand. I'm starting to rise into the air. I can't think, the sound rumbling like a train headed right toward me, and oh Satan, I'm flying, and I try to pull my wings out, stop, stop, but they're stuck—the fucking human skin gets snagged on my back when I try to pull them out, and I'm so tired, and fuck I'm definitely off the ground now, and I try to lean forward and command my magic and do anything but I'm too tired and—

Riel's arm wraps around my ribs. He hooks me under an arm and runs, runs, through the glass door, glowing, magic stinging, sparking, against my body. I can't see; there are only vague shapes, people gasping, asking, whispering, screaming.

The waiter locks the door and runs further into the restaurant. "It's here. Grab onto something!"

Riel runs into the dining room and drops onto the ground beneath a table, covering me with his body, his head dropping beside mine. I hear his rugged breaths, feel his heartbeat against my spine.

"Get off." I say between coughs, trying to spit out the salty sand. My eyes are tearing up; I just hope I didn't scrape my damn corneas...

"You nearly flew into Heaven. I'm not letting you go there—or die on the way up." His voice is firm, lips brushing against my hair. I open my mouth in protest, but Riel continues. "No. You are scratched up and bloody and blind. Once I recover some energy, I will heal you."

The storm is on top of us. I dig my head against the wooden floor and tense, holding onto the table's single, heavy middle support, scooting closer to it. It's heavy, an anchor, and if the building flies off, hopefully this weight will keep me grounded. Riel ushers himself forward, and the tickle of hot, uncomfortable magic slides over us. His wings unsheathe. They fold over us; they're soft, too soft, and I want to push them away because they're too comforting in this deeply uncomfortable moment. I squeeze my eyes, trying to push out the sand, trying to focus on anything except the storm, the noise, the rattling ground, the roof shingles flung away, the pressure dropping, ears popping, head pounding, shaking, shaking—

"Focus on my voice." Riel whispers. He's a light in the dark, quiet in this chaos. He drops his head a little, and I feel his lips and nose on the back of my head. It tickles. His wings tighten. Hold. Protect. For a moment, I'm calm.

And then the roof rips off the building.

I scream. Debris rains around us. The building's windows shatter. People fly and are flung around, across, and there's rain and sand and saltwater everywhere and I hold onto the trunk of the table. The metal is screwed into the floor; hold on, hold on—

The building warps. The floorboards twist. Riel flattens himself further—and forgets that I'm beneath him. Everything disassembles, and the windows shatter, and the storm rushes above, wind howling, howling, howling; storms rattle and rumble and screech and I focus, focus on the softness of Riel's wings, the pressure of his body against mine.

This is the closest thing I've had to a hug in years.

I scowl at the thought, because dammit, I'm not going to be self-deprecating in the last moments of my semi-pathetic existence.

Fuck! There my head goes again. I shush my inner monologue.

He's rising. Reaching around, squeezing my shoulders, shoving me down with a huff, soft palms digging into my arms, knees against my knees, hips against back. His heavenly glow transcends vision; it tingles and invades all my senses, warms them, offends them. I want to rip away from him, but then I want to stay, stay—

"Dammit!" I hear Riel snap, voice lost immediately to the storm. He's losing his grip. The wind is rushing up from beneath his wings. He's floating, starting to move, lift; I am too. I dig my fingernails into the table's metal leg as it creaks, rises from the floor, and I try, try—

But we're losing. He yelps, wings snapping open like an umbrella gone inverse from a strong gale. I'm exposed to the elements, to the sand and salt and fish and glass and debris and detritus and I scream, scream, the table creaking, top split from bottom, and the moment I open my eyes I see something large slip right toward my vision and—

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