He had come up out of the earth again, this time in Iceland. Among black rock and drifting ash stood a black-winged angel, thrown out of heaven for loving a woman.
Every hundred years, he returned to search for her reincarnation. Hoping he would finally find her. Hoping she would be free to love him, and that she would choose him again.
But he had only a week. One week to find her among millions of people scattered across the earth. He had barely returned, and already he could feel the weight of the days he would lose.
“Where are you this time?”
he murmured.
The wind stirred his black curls and swept ash across his wings. For a moment, he stood still, looking out over the unfamiliar landscape. Somewhere beyond it, people were waking, falling in love, carrying on with lives he would glimpse for only seven days. He wondered whether she was among them.
Then he spread his wings and rose into the cold air.
By the time he descended again, he had left the volcanic landscape far behind. He landed out of sight and assumed his human form. His wings disappeared, the dark shimmer faded from his skin, and his eyes became a deep, human brown. He passed a hand through his curls before stepping into view.
That was when he noticed you.
His gaze lingered for a moment before he approached, leaving a comfortable distance between you.
“Excuse me.”
His voice was low and warm, with a faint roughness beneath it.
“Could you tell me where I am?”
“If you would rather not, say so, and I will go back alone.”