Don’t Call Me Angel

The Alaskan interior was a place of white silence and bone-deep cold, a land that didn't care if a man lived or died. Kevin Miller liked it that way. For ten years, the Brooks Range had been his fortress and his cage, a jagged horizon of snow and rock that kept the world away. He stood on a ridge overlooking a frozen valley, the weight of a heavy cedar log resting across his broad shoulders. The wood was dense, the sap frozen into glass, and it pressed down on the two jagged scars that marred his shoulder blades. Beneath the skin, the itch was starting again. It wasn't a normal itch. It was a rhythmic, burning pulse that felt like hot needles trying to stitch their way out from the inside. He shifted the log, gritting his teeth as a sharp spike of pain shot down his spine. He was twenty-four now, and the power he had tried so hard to bury was becoming a physical weight he could no longer ignore.

He adjusted his grip on the log, his calloused hands tightening against the rough bark. His ice-blue eyes scanned the tree line, a habit born of a decade of looking for things that shouldn't exist. The Olympian gods had turned the lower forty-eight into a playground of blood and marble, but up here, the only law was survival. He dropped the log into the snow near the porch of the small, hand-hewn cabin. The sound echoed through the valley like a gunshot, flat and lonely. Kevin stood still for a moment, listening to the wind whistle through the spruce needles. His breath came out in thick plumes of white vapor. He felt the cold air hit the sweat on his neck, a sharp contrast to the unnatural heat simmering between his shoulders. It was getting worse every day. The wings, those terrible white things that had burst from him when he was fourteen, were pushing against their cage of muscle and bone.

The cabin door creaked open, and Karen stepped out onto the porch. She was wrapped in a thick wool sweater that had been mended so many times the original pattern was lost. Her hair was more gray than blond now, and the lines around her eyes were deep enough to hold the shadows of everything they had lost. She watched him with a look that always made Kevin want to turn away. It was a mixture of fierce, motherly love and a quiet, haunting dread. She knew what was happening under his skin. She had seen the way he winced when he reached for a high shelf or how he spent hours staring at the horizon with a hunting knife gripped in his hand. To her, he was still the boy she had raised in the shadow of a miracle, but she also knew he was a ticking time bomb that the gods would love to detonate.

“Kevin, come inside,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “The wind is picking up, and the stew is ready.”

“I’m going back out for one more load,” Kevin replied, his voice gravelly from hours of silence. He didn't look at her. He couldn't. If he looked at her, he’d have to acknowledge the fear in her eyes, and that was a weight he couldn't carry. “I saw a buck yesterday. Big one. If I can track it toward the creek, we’ll have enough meat to last through the next storm.”

“We have enough, Kevin,” Karen said, stepping down into the snow. She walked toward him, her boots crunching on the crust of ice. She reached out, her hand hovering near his shoulder before she let it drop. “You’re pushing yourself. I can see it in the way you move. The pain is back, isn't it?”

Kevin turned away, picking up his rifle from where it leaned against the porch railing. “It’s just the cold. My back gets stiff.” It was a lie, and they both knew it. The scars on his back felt like they were being sliced open with a hot razor. I’m not a savior, he thought bitterly, his fingers tracing the cold steel of the bolt-action rifle. I’m just a guy trying to keep his mother from being slaughtered like my father was. He looked at the vast, empty wilderness and felt a surge of loathing for the blood that ran through his veins. He wasn't human, but he refused to be a god. He was a mistake, a smudge on the world Zeus had claimed as his own.

He headed back into the woods, the snow crunching under his tactical boots. He followed the familiar trail toward the creek, his eyes focused on the ground, looking for the telltale signs of the wounded buck he’d seen the day before. The forest was an old friend, but today it felt different. The air was too still. Usually, there were the sounds of squirrels or the distant cry of a hawk, but now there was only a heavy, suffocating silence. He moved through a stand of frost-covered spruce, his movements fluid and practiced. He was a predator in this world, a ghost of the tundra that moved without a sound. He found the blood trail near a fallen log. It was dark, almost black against the pristine white snow. The buck was struggling, dragging a back leg. It wouldn't be far.

As he rounded a thicket of willow, he saw a flash of gold. It wasn't the natural tan of a deer or the dull yellow of dead grass. It was a bright, metallic shimmer that looked entirely out of place in the rugged Alaskan interior. Kevin froze, his thumb automatically sliding the safety off his rifle. He crouched low, his heart hammering against his ribs. The pain in his back flared, a white-hot warning that made his vision blur for a second. He blinked it away and focused on a frozen branch twenty yards ahead. Perched there was an owl. It was beautiful and terrifying, its body made of interlocking plates of bronze and gold. Its eyes were two glowing amber lenses that whirred as they zoomed in on him. It wasn't a bird; it was a drone of Athena, a mechanical scout from the world he had spent ten years trying to forget.

Terror, cold and sharp, gripped his chest. The isolation was gone. The sanctuary was breached. The drone tilted its head, the amber eyes flickering as it recorded his face, his height, the way he held his rifle. It was sending a signal back to whatever temple or fortress the goddess of wisdom currently occupied. Kevin didn't think. He didn't have time to be afraid. He dropped his rifle and reached for a heavy, jagged rock half-buried in the snow. With a grunt of effort, he hurled it. The rock struck the mechanical owl with a sickening crunch of metal. The drone was knocked from the branch, sparks of blue electricity dancing across its broken wings as it hit the snow. Kevin scrambled forward, his boots skidding on the ice, and began to smash the machine with his heel. He stomped on it until the bronze plates were flattened and the amber eyes were nothing but shattered glass.

“No,” he whispered, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “No, not now.”

He looked at the wreckage of the drone, and his mind raced. The signal had already been sent. In a world ruled by gods who could move faster than the wind, he didn't have hours; he barely had minutes. He turned and ran. He didn't care about the buck or the wood or the silence. He tore through the brush, the branches clawing at his face and arms. The pain in his back exploded, a searing agony that felt like his skin was being peeled away. He could feel the pressure of the wings, the massive, feathered limbs wanting to burst out and carry him away from the danger. Not yet, he snarled internally. Stay down. Stay hidden.

He burst into the clearing where the cabin sat. The air had changed. The crisp, clean scent of the mountains was gone, replaced by a heavy, metallic tang that smelled like an approaching thunderstorm. Ozone bit at his nostrils, and a low, guttural growl echoed from the shadows of the tree line. It was the scent of wet fur and ancient, rotting meat. Something was coming, something that didn't belong in this century. He scrambled up the porch steps and slammed his shoulder into the door. Karen was already in the center of the room, her face pale as a sheet. She had a tattered rucksack on the table, and she was shoving a handful of dried meat and a first-aid kit into it with trembling hands. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a realization that broke his heart.

“They found us, didn't they?” she asked, her voice a fragile thread.

“Athena’s scout,” Kevin said, his voice tight with panic. He grabbed his mother by the shoulders, his grip a little too hard. “We have to go. Now. The snowmobile is gassed up. We head north, past the ridge, and maybe we can lose them in the canyons.”

“Kevin, look at me,” Karen said, grabbing his wrists. Her hands were cold, but her gaze was like steel. “You know we can’t outrun them forever. Your father knew this day would come. He told me that when the light finally broke through, the world would come for you.”

“I don’t care about the light!” Kevin shouted, the sound echoing off the log walls. A sudden, violent tremor shook the cabin. Dust fell from the ceiling, and the windows rattled in their frames. Outside, the sky had turned a bruised, sickly purple, and the wind was howling with a fury that felt personal. “I care about keeping you alive. I’m not losing another parent to these bastards.”

He began to grab whatever he could find—extra ammunition, a heavy coat, a map of the interior. But his movements were jerky, hampered by the agony between his shoulder blades. He doubled over, a groan escaping his lips as his spine arched. He felt the jagged scars on his back stretch to the breaking point. A faint, golden light began to leak through the fabric of his flannel shirt, illuminating the dim room with a ghostly glow. The power was coming, and it didn't care if he was ready or not. It was a fierce, rebellious force that wanted to meet the darkness head-on.

A massive weight slammed into the side of the cabin. The logs groaned and splintered, the entire structure tilting to the left. Something huge was circling the house, its heavy claws digging into the frozen earth. Kevin reached for his rifle, but the pain in his back became a blinding white flash. He fell to his knees, his forehead pressing against the cold floorboards. Don't let them in, he prayed to a god he didn't believe in. Just give me enough time to get her out. The scent of ozone intensified, and the hair on his arms stood on end. The wilderness was no longer empty. The gods had sent their hounds, and the ghost of the tundra was finally being forced into the light.