A guy staggers up and runs for the door. He holds his head as though afraid it will fall off. As if that was their cue, three more get up and stumble out the door without looking back. The rest lie panting on the ground.

I hear a weak laugh and realize it’s the angel.

“You looked ridiculous with those wings,” he says. His lip is bleeding and so is a cut above his eye. But he looks relaxed as his smile lights up his face.

I dig out the bike lock key from my pocket with trembling hands and toss it to him. He catches it even though he’s still chained.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say. It sounds less shaky than I feel. The post-fight adrenaline has me literally trembling. The angel unlocks himself, stretches and cracks his wrists. Then he rips a denim jacket off one of the groaning guys on the floor and tosses it to me. I gratefully put it on even though it’s about ten sizes too big.

He goes back into the corner office while I quickly roll his wings in the blanket. I run to the filing cabinet to grab the sword, then meet him in the lobby as he comes back out with my pack. I strap the blanket onto the pack, trying not to cinch it too hard under his gaze, then load up. I wish I had a pack for him but he wouldn’t be able to carry it on his wounded back anyway.

When he sees the sword, his face breaks into a glorious smile as if it’s a long-lost friend rather than a pretty piece of metal. His look of sheer joy stops my breath for a moment. It’s a look I thought I’d never see again on anyone’s face. I feel lighter just being close to it.

“You had my sword the whole time?”

“It’s my sword now.” My voice comes out harsher than the situation calls for. His happiness is so human that I forgot for a moment what he really is. I dig my nails into my palm to remind myself never to let my thoughts slip again.

“Your sword? You wish,” he says. What I wish is that he stop sounding so damned human. “Do you have any idea how loyal she’s been to me over the years?”

“She? You’re not one of those people who name their cars and coffee mugs, are you? It’s an inanimate object. Get over it.”

He reaches for the sword. I step back, not wanting to hand it over.

“What are you going to do, fight me for her?” he asks. He sounds like he’s close to laughing.

“What are you going to do with it?”

He sighs, seeming tired. “Use it as a crutch, what do you think?”

There is a moment when a decision hangs in the air. The truth is that he doesn’t need the sword to beat me now that he’s free and on his feet. He could just take it, and we both know it.