Wives from Among Women

Author's note: It's been a while! If you're reading this straight from The Prince's Consort or my other works, you might be a little confused. This is the start of a biweekly project of mine, a descent from Heaven to Hell. So, it begins with this feathery light story, sweet and wholesome. Feel free to mention in the comments what cryptid creatures you'd like to see on our journey down to Hell. Enjoy!

"Miss Lisa, Miss Lisa!" I'm knee-deep in muck when Aaron, Erik Turner's boy, scrambles into sight, his youthful brown eyes wide, his appearance frantically disheveled.

"Miss Lisa!"

I spear my shovel into the mud and wipe my hands on faded blue coveralls. "Unless the barn is on fire-"

"No, ma'am." He catches his breath to tell me what has made him so excited. "It's Mrs. Hartfield's sow. She's giving birth!"

I drag myself out of the muck. "You could have started with that," I say, patting him on the back. "Come along, then. You're still going to help me in the orchard this afternoon, right?"

He keeps pace, bouncing on his heels. "Of course! Though my dad doesn't think I should be working on a Sunday." He tucks his hands in his pockets guiltily. "He thinks I'm sinning."

A laugh rises from my belly. "Yeah, well, these apples aren't going to miracle themselves to the market. Another day and they'll all be on the ground."

"I know," he says with a smile. "We'll get it done, Miss Lisa."

I scrub the short crop of his hair. "Thanks, A."

*

I'm leaning over the swollen sow. She's huffing and grunting but she's done this before. I keep letting her know how proud I am of her. Mrs. Hartfield is bringing towels and water in while I ease the little ones out and tie off their cords.

The children of the town are gathered around in anticipatory silence. Little eyes are wide. I focus on the star of the show, patting her rump. "Good girl. You're almost done. Just one more."

This gal didn't wait until Monday to have her litter. Like a good little heathen, she decided to have her kids when she damn-well pleased.

I wipe the sweat from my brow and ease the last one out.

While the others suckle on their mother's teats, I cradle the last one, drying off her little round body. She's smaller than the others but she still survived. I place her next to her siblings and lean back.

The children are wild with excitement, despite Mrs. Hartfield's hushes. Aaron looks at me, beaming, but I can't muster the same enthusiasm.

When the litter is settled, I slip out of the barn. No one notices. They're all too excited about the piglets, taking bets on whose parents are going to buy which.

The ride home is quiet.

I prefer it over the celebration I'll never truly be a part of. That celebration of life.

I've been surrounded by what I can't have for so long, I'm surprised it still hurts. I should be over it by now.

I grip the steering wheel and guide my truck down the narrow path to the farmhouse. It was once filled with the laughter of my nephews and nieces, but eventually, even my sister decided she had to move on from dad's legacy.

So, it's just me.

I've got Aaron on the weekends though. I don't know what I'd do without him.

When the engine dies, the absence is deafening.

I cleaned up the best I could with Mrs. Hartfield's hose but I'm still covered in grime. I estimate I have about an hour before Aaron comes meandering back to the farm demanding work for good pay.

I laugh with no one, knowing he'd never be so bold.

He's a good kid.

*

"Did you hear about the meteor shower?"

"I did," I say. "And I'm pretty sure I was the one who told you."

Aaron issues a guilty grin, reaching high to pluck several ripe apples. "Well, my dad said I should stay inside tonight, just in case."

"Your dad has always been a little superstitious. Don't tell him I said so." I wink at him as he tosses a few red ones into the basket. "They say it's probably going to pass right over us, anyway. And they'll burn up before they ever hit the ground. There's no need to worry.

"I, for one, am going to be watching from the roof."

"My dad said you're brave because..." The boy drifts off in abject horror.

That familiar exhaustion comes over me. People talk. It's nothing new. "What'd he say, Aaron?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Lisa. I really shouldn't speak out of turn."

"Regardless, I'd like to hear it." I lean against the tree. "You already started."

When he doesn't speak up, I wave for him to get on with it.

"It's just- ah- my dad said you're brave because... you don't have anything to lose."

Something fragile breaks inside me.

I can't tell exactly what it is but it hurts worse when I put on a smile. "Come on, help me with this tree, and we'll wrap up for the night.

"I'm sure a certain young lady is looking forward to seeing her boyfriend, this evening. I wouldn't want to keep her waiting."

Aaron rubs his neck as a blush blooms over the bridge of his nose. "Beth isn't my girlfriend."

"No?" I say, throwing the basket to him. "Could have fooled me."

Even as I walk away, Aaron gets more and more flustered, explaining all the reasons why she's not interested. When I reappraise him, noting his tousled hair and frantic eyes, he goes even redder.

I grab his shoulder. "Tell her. She's dying for you to ask her out."

There's still uncertainty in his expression. "How do you know that?"

"There are no secrets in this small town." I study his conflicted stance, his dark eyes that dart to the orchard. "Go on. Take the rest of the night off. But don't tell your dad!"

A smile brightens the boy's face and he throws his arms around me. "Thanks, Miss Lisa."

I'm stunned by the hug but by the time I unfreeze, he's already kicking up a cloud of dirt down my narrow drive.

*

I bring the wine bottle up to the roof.

The glass I leave on the kitchen counter. I don't need anything fancy, just the night sky and something to mellow out the evening. It's been a long day, between the sow and the orchard, and Aaron's innocent but biting words.

That bastard Erik ought to know better.

No matter how I try, I can't banish the dark thoughts that come with it. The grief, the blood, and all the years that followed. How he can sum up my life like that, I'll never understand.

Sure, I've got nothing to lose. He's not wrong.

But I've done so much more. My orchards and crops feed the town, and then some. Three generations, we've sustained this place. And yet there's a hollowness that won't go away. A quiet truth: it ends with me, doesn't it?

I take an irreverent swig of wine and look to the sky through bleary eyes.

"Damn them," I say aloud.

I sigh and lie back on the tiles, trying my best to forget.

The meteors will be breaking into the atmosphere any minute now, and on a clear night like this, it promises to be a satisfying show. I take another drink, relishing the bitterness on my tongue.

I think I see a flare, then another.

I strain my eyes to the heavens, watching as more break through the atmosphere, burning up before they come close. Soon, the licks of flames speckle against the velvet night. I raise the bottle and cheer them on, a lone voice above the field. That's when I see a big one. It's burning but it doesn't get any smaller. Instead, it gets bigger with each passing moment.

I'm awed as it draws a hot scar over the horizon, arching down to meet the earth. This wasn't supposed to happen. I stand and steady myself against the house, watching as the massive meteorite crashes into the field just beyond the orchard.

Dirt flies high but its final resting spot is concealed behind the apple trees.

Sparks still stream from the sky but no others join the big one.

I don't hesitate, scrambling off the roof and leaping through the window. I kick my shoes on and pound down the stairs to meet it, nearly forgoing my keys.

The truck sinks into the soft dirt but with the right handling, I get her treading the turf. My foggy lights cut through the dimness as I come upon the landing site.

I can't miss it.

It took out several rows of trees in its trajectory, steam billowing from the point of contact. I leave the engine running and the lights trained on the mound. My poor trees, I think, stumbling over upturned roots and loose soil.

I peek over the crumbling edge, and sudden confusion grips me.

It's not a meteorite. Not even close.

I finally notice that charred feathers drift about like snow, and I tilt my head. "What the hell?"

*

"No, way," I say aloud, braving a closer look. "It can't be."

I've never seen anything like it- him. It's definitely a man, by the look of him. But- there's something wrong with his back. Broken bones and skin and feathers are mashed up beneath him, the rest of him not faring much better. The quiet strain of agony is laced in his heavenly features, and his eyes are closed.

Nothing else occupies the crater, except for him.

He's easily seven feet tall, by my estimate.

I won't say what I think he is. I'd risk sounding like Erik Turner.

When the ground cools, I dare tread closer. "Excuse me," I whisper, hoping my first instinct is wrong. Not even his chest is moving. I look to the sky, wondering if it will give me some answer but the meteor shower is over. I lean in and feel his chest, searching for signs of life.

A shudder rocks him, and he goes still again.

But his eyes flutter like he's still with us.

He's too big for me to carry him but if I could get a sheet beneath him, I could drag him onto the truck once I open the tailgate. He's injured by his fall. I consider the extent of the damage as I study the strange appendages jutting from his back. Wings.

This man has wings.

*

The living room will have to do.

I can't lug the poor bastard any further, straining with all my might just to get him on the carpet. His wings drag uselessly beneath him but they create enough slip to get him the last few feet. I land on my ass and his head hits the floor with a thud.

"Shoot," I hiss, rushing to gather up bedding.

I don't know what I'm doing, running on steam like this. I ignore his strange attributes, treating him like I would anyone who'd been hurt on my property. Though, when I glance at the landline, I hesitate to call the sheriff.

I tuck two pillows under his head and cover him up with an Afghan before falling languished into the couch to watch him with tired fascination.

An angel, I think, finally coming to terms with it. I have an angel in my living room.

*

I wake suddenly, the events last night flooding in.

I'm on the couch and my shoulder aches something fierce from the absence of a pillow. But my eyes fall on my new 'guest'.

He hasn't moved much at all. His head is turned towards me but his eyes are still closed. And his wings- "Oh, sugar," I say, rising to study him in the morning light. "You are real."

I brought an angel into my house last night.

I have no idea what to do with him, now that he's here. I throw a hand through my dark hair. This is not what I was expecting to be dealing with on a Monday morning.

So, I do what I know.

I make coffee.

The roast soothes my wracked nerves, filling the house with the heavy aroma. Liquid calm races through me when I take a sip. I savor the moment, putting all my concerns on pause until I polish off the cup.

Then, I go back to staring at him.

His limbs don't look broken but his wings are. I study their shape, their natural curve that's been shattered by the landing. He's quite the specimen, in more ways than one. This angel is tall and broad-chested, with beautiful auburn hair concealing his serene expression. His skin is honeyed, burnished almost red, though the feathers that survived are radiant platinum.

I don't know what to do for him.

If he were one of Mrs. Hartfield's chickens, I'd bandage those wings in a heartbeat.

As it is, I'm beyond hesitant.

I fuss over the figure in my living room, trying to make him more comfortable, not sure if it's working. There are little signs that he's not dead, though I can't feel a heartbeat. He's not like anything I've ever dealt with, so I don't know where to begin.

Sometimes, his wings twitch, or a finger, or his lids flutter, though they don't open.

Mid-afternoon, I'm lying on the floor next to him, studying his features in confusion. That's when it happens. One eye cracks open to a slit, then the other. Dark lashes flicker before revealing hazy gray eyes. They meet mine, locking me into overwhelming serenity.

I suck in a breath.

The draw of him is powerful, though he hasn't moved an inch. His eyes say more than his lips, which remain closed. There's gratitude, there, before they roll into his head, freeing me from the paralysis of his attention.

I'm breathing hard, my heart is galloping. "Holy hell."

*

I've hardly eaten, more fascinated with him than anything in my cupboards. I'm curled up on the couch when he shifts, and it makes me start.

His eyes open, then settle peaceably on me.

"Um," I say, clutching my mug tighter. "Hi."

His perfect lips turn up in a wane gesture, the intensity of his eyes dampened from this distance. I bite my lip as he struggles to rise, levering up onto one elbow before sinking to the carpet again.

I'm up, torn between helping and waiting. "Maybe you shouldn't get up just yet-"

He ignores me and tries again, managing to draw the broken wings out from underneath him before settling against the pillows. His lips part as he exhales, his wings twitching behind him. I watch them as he tries to command the broken things but they struggle to rise.

Tears sting my eyes at his effort.

He doesn't seem bothered, his gaze unfocusing as if he's at peace.

"Do you... need anything?"

He looks at me again.

I laugh nervously, standing to refill my coffee. "Do you do coffee? Or tea? I can get you some tea if you like. I don't know what- um, what you drink." I'm rambling now, completely in awe of his presence. "Are you- hungry?"

He makes no effort to respond, simply watching me.

I duck out of the room in embarrassment, my focus never leaving his general vicinity. When the cup is almost full, I hear a distinct splintering of wood and rush back in.

Mr. Angel tried to rise again, and it seems his broken wing jutted out and smashed into the coffee table. It never stood a chance.

I rush to his side and try to keep him from rising. What the hell am I doing?

"Careful! You're going to hurt yourself." I grab him by the shoulder but upon contact, electricity zings. I collapse to my knees with the overwhelming energy coursing through me. He withdraws, studying me as I recover. A shudder overtakes me as I shake the energy off. "What was that?"

He issues a look of curiosity.

I grip my knees and stare. "That didn't happen last night."

He reaches for me, then hesitates, tilting his hand up as if requesting something. I reach in turn, and when he doesn't pull away, I trace the lines of his palm. The electricity is still there. A frisson passes over me but it's less intense, tingling, and warm.

It fills me with a gentle heat.

I don't realize how close we are until he levers up, dwarfing me by his size, alone. His wings drag behind him but he's smiling, his gray eyes softening as he looks me over.

When he withdraws, I mourn the lost connection and nearly do everything I can not to throw myself at him. Two fingers, he traces over my cheek, rekindling the heat. My gaze strays to his lips and I know I'll find that fire burning in them.

It takes all my willpower to break free of his overwhelming pull.

I swallow down desperation and rise. "If- you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

I sense he doesn't want me to leave but I have to if I'm going to keep my sanity. The night air is cold, sweeping away the fever in my cheeks.

That was too close, man or otherwise.

*

When I return, he's seated on the floor with eyes closed.

His wings take up much of the living room, looking less bedraggled than this morning, and he's naked as the day he was born. Or made? Whatever the case, I'm regretting not paying attention in Sunday school, if creatures like him exist.

I think it's best not to disturb him, so I slip into the kitchen and wash my mug.

There's no one to call for this sort of thing, and I have no friends to confide in. At least, not ones close enough that they won't blab to someone. My sister's an option, though. She's out of town with her big-city problems and though she's never been very reliable, I need to hear someone's voice.

I dial her number. I expect it to go to voicemail when she picks up on the last ring. "Hello?"

"Abby! It's me, Lisa."

There's a brief silence on the other line. "What's wrong?"

"Um, well- nothing's wrong, exactly."

Her sigh of relief is audible. "You never call this late. I thought someone died."

"It's- sort of an emergency. But everyone's okay, I just- didn't know who to talk to."

"Don't say you need more hands on the field. I told you-"

"It's not that!" I settle my breathing. "I have a, um, a man here that's injured."

"Call the sheriff, then."

"I can't do that, Abby. He's not-" Human. "-exactly legal. I don't know what to do."

"Really, sis? You're hiring immigrants to harvest now?"

"Abby, listen!" I take a breath. "I have a- an angel on the living room floor. He's injured, and his wings are broken and I don't have anyone else to talk to about this. The townsfolk are going to think I'm nuts and do something stupid if they find out-"

Her laugh is one of disbelief. "An angel? Do you even hear yourself right now?"

"Yeah, no, I know. But listen-"

"You need to stop overworking yourself, sis." Abby's no longer listening. "Sell the farm like I begged you to do when dad died and get out of there! It's too much responsibility for one person."

I purse my lips. "Right. I'll think about it."

"I hope so. And whatever trouble you've gotten yourself into, figure it out, pronto. I don't want to see your face on the news. You know I love-"

I slam the receiver down before she can finish. I don't know why I fool myself into thinking she cares about anyone but herself. I grip the counter, letting my rage out on a hot breath, trying to cool down. I have to think about this with a clear head.

There's still the angel to deal with.

*

I sit across from him--a safe distance away--and simply stare.

When his eyes open, they find me.

"Hi, um." I look at his broken wings. "I want to help you but I don't know how. Can you- tell me what you need from me?"

He leans forward and touches the center of my forehead.

I rub the spot, surprised when comfort spreads through my limbs, and something akin to joy settles inside me, warm and full of love.

When I look at him again, he's beaming.

I inch closer, feeling that heat as it radiates off him. I want to curl up in it and never leave. It is all the things I could ever want, all the things I could never have, made real. My face is wet with joy when I reach for him, confusion taking a backseat to the glory of his presence.

He allows our fingers to touch, and the connection rekindles.

"This is amazing," I say, drawing over his vast palm. He feels authentic but when I focus, everything takes on a dreamlike quality. "Are you real?"

Humor burns in his eyes as he nods.

I scoot as close as I dare, fighting the gravity of his presence. "Are you really an angel?"

There is no question when our gazes meet. I simply know. He traces my fingers with his as if I'm the delicate one. And maybe I am. His very touch pulls me in, so I'm forgetting myself more with every passing minute. I pull away in a flash of clarity.