Alan lost himself in the moment as he stared at the beautiful creatures of Heaven. Thick feathers on their powerful wings quivered in the soft breeze. Of course, they're black. They’re Death Angels. Did you really expect them to have white wings?
“We need your help,” Alan said, finding his voice amidst his moment of wonder. “If you won’t do it because it won’t benefit you, then do it for those who’d lost their lives in the first war. Do it for your brothers and sisters, so their sacrifice won’t be in vain.”
“What’s he talking about, Seraphim?” Jericho asked from the museum roof.
“Nothing,” she said. “Samson, Deborah, finish him. He’s a Nephilim for bleeding sake.“
Samson and Deborah advanced across the courtyard again. This time, massive wings more befitting of creatures of a mythical status unfurled from their backs and beat against the still air. Both angels’ feet lifted from the ground as they prepared to attack. Without a word, they charged Alan at once.
Chapter Fifty-Five
“Forcing everyone to work through the night. We are very near our goal. In a few hours, we should see the remaining pieces of the statue reshaped into armor and weapons as instructed.”
Ardat nodded to Dominic, who held a broad sword at arm's length for her inspection. The interior of the cave was warm. Flames from the hundreds of forges leaped at the darkness and cast shadows across every wall. The fire’s light licked and flirted against the steel Dominic offered.
Ardat gently touched the sword’s hilt. The craftsmanship was rough and mediocre at best, but what could she expect with a human Nephilim in charge of the undertaking? The time constraint also added to the lack of quality. Still, the weapons would serve their purpose. As long as they were stout and sharp enough to kill their enemies, that’s all that was required. “These will do.”
“They’re nothing near the weapons we used during the first war,” an elderly female voice said from the shadows.
Dominic jumped from his kneeling position, sword in hand. Ardat had sensed Triana’s presence as Dominic approached with the sword. How long she had been there altogether, Ardat wasn’t sure. When the battle was over, there would be time to look into Triana’s peculiar behavior. But with war looming, Ardat had enough to deal with. The last few minutes Dominic had been talking, Ardat was waiting for Triana to make her appearance. “No, Triana, they are not. Nevertheless, they will do. After we win this war, we will have an eternity to recast weapons, as well as time to question members of our kind and ensure loyalties lie where they should.”
The small woman emerged from the shadows like ink oozing from a broken pen. If she picked up on Ardat’s cryptic message, she showed no sign. “As always, Ardat, you are correct. I do, however, have a question that is not so easily answered. May we speak in private?”
Ardat nodded to Dominic who, with a bow, took his slipper-clad feet into the recesses of their hidden cave. “Triana, as always, I am at your disposal. I’m very glad you’d decided to join our first meeting and have rallied to our banner. Please, what is it that bothers you?”
Triana stepped closer to Ardat, allowing the light to reveal her sharply pointed teeth. Black eyes looked into Ardat’s with an expression of worry. “I fear we will be found despite our remote location. Perhaps saving the weapons to strike another time would be more advantageous to our cause. Others of the Fallen have expressed …concern.”
“Others.” Ardat rolled the word around like a rogue bone in her mouth.
The hesitation in Triana’s answer was enough to tell Ardat that the old woman was still playing at something. “Yes, others, like Belmore.”
“I see. Truth be told, I cannot wait to kill the man once and for all. Now that we have weapons capable of ending immortal life, I may pay him a visit before this war is over.”
Triana nodded too eagerly. “You won’t receive complaints from me, dear. I agree with your decision. You have led us this far without causing us to doubt you. Still, clarifying what you intend next may put some of the others at ease.”
Ardat weighed her words. Still far from trusting the woman, she answered, “You are right to question. This location will not remain a secret for long. If our enemies have not already discovered our whereabouts, they will soon enough.”
Triana tilted her head, straining to see through the fog of Ardat’s words. Realization struck the small woman like a hammer to the skull. “You want them to find us, don’t you?”
Ardat’s lips twitched at the corners. “Yes, I do. When they get here, they will be tired from the trip and unfamiliar with the terrain. We’ll also be able to maneuver our troops accordingly, bringing the angels and Nephilim into a fight they cannot win.”
Triana also allowed her lips to turn up in a twisted grin. “Oh, Ardat, that is just marvelous. I knew better than to question you. Still, the others will rest easier when I tell them the details of your plan.”
Ardat nodded and turned to leave. A number of tasks still called for her attention. Triana’s voice pulled her back. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Ardat, I can imagine how busy you are, but if you would indulge a demon just a single question further.”
Ardat clenched her teeth. She wasn’t accustomed to others questioning her. Thus far, she’d done her best to keep her temper under control, reminding herself that she needed the other Fallen to follow her into battle. After the angels were defeated, she could coordinate the executions of those whose company she detested, like Belmore and maybe even Triana. That time was coming soon; however, it was not here yet. “My, my, so inquisitive. But please, Triana, do ask,” Ardat said with feigned courtesy.
“Well, this question is only for me. Why is the remainder of the celestial metal being melted into large armor and weapons? They are ten times the size of any Fallen or Nephilim we have.”
“Well, dear Triana, they are for our Nephilim giants, of course.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
He would get back up, no matter what. At least that’s what he told himself as Samson and Deborah rained down blows. The two were truly seasoned warriors; their skill surpassed even that of Angelica’s. Alan did his best to parry and counter each strike, but with two assailants, the job was nearly impossible.
He did manage to land a right cross that connected with Samson’s left eye, which began swelling shut in seconds. He also created a pause in the fight where he kidney-punched Deborah so hard, she dropped from her hovering position just above the ground and fell to her knees. But these victories were short-lived. The Death Angels pressed the fight, and for every strike Alan managed to land, two or three from his enemies slammed against his body.
Blood streamed into his eyes from a cut across his brow. His lip was split, his ribs felt bruised, maybe even broken, and his left leg was only just able to support his weight.
Alan fell multiple times during the fight. Yet, every time, he regained his feet and pressed on. This is nothing. You’ve been beaten down worse than this. You’ve spent a lifetime on your knees. Get up, Alan—get up!
Time after time, Samson and Deborah would think they’d finished Alan with either a punch or kick, and a pause would follow. Every time Alan found himself on the dirt floor of the courtyard, he’d somehow find the strength to rise.
“Just stay down,” Deborah said as she delivered a brutal strike to Alan’s right temple.
Alan’s will held firm, but his knees did not agree. With a thud, he fell into the courtyard’s mutilated grass. His lungs ached; sweat and blood covered the mass of bruises that was once his body. His vision was blurring; the fingers of unconsciousness fought to control his mind and send him reeling into the darkness of oblivion. Still, the physical pain paled to the emotional rollercoaster of depression and anger he’d endured throughout his entire life.
With a grunt, Alan stood once again, wobbling unsteady on his feet. “I won’t stay down. Not until you agree to help us.”
Alan looked across the courtyard, past Samson’s and Deborah’s shocked expressions
, over to Sera. Danielle still stood in Alexander’s grasp, silent tears streaming down her face as she looked on, helpless, and hating every moment of it. Alexander’s own expression was steady and grim. Sera, on the other hand, fumed with resolve. “Samson, Deborah—finish him.”
Samson looked Alan up and down as he nursed his own left jaw, staring at Alan as a wolf would at an injured lamb. Deborah’s face was much the same, and her fists were bloodied and bruised, dark wings folded neatly against her back. “I don’t know what kind of Nephilim you are,” Samson said, “but no one has ever endured that kind of beating and lived, much less stood and defied us again. There can be no victory for you here. Whatever you hope to accomplish, it is lost.”
Alan spat out a pool of blood that had slowly formed in his mouth. Strength, speed, durability; they were all present and accounted for. Now, if only Alan could will his own wings to join in the fight. He knew he was capable of harnessing his powers, and if he could master the others, then he could also call on his wings. Michael had told him before that no Nephilim was capable of flight; Danielle had confirmed this idea with awe when his wings had first emerged. Maybe they could help him now. They had to help him now. Alan was quickly running out of options. In a moment of desperation, Alan rolled the dice. “If I defeat you, will you come?”
Samson furrowed his brow and exchanged a confused look with Deborah. “You can barely stand, kid. I’d say you have a one in a million shot. And no, I wouldn’t help you even if you—”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Alan said, taking in deep breaths and trying to ignore the pain that coursed through his body while struggling to straighten his stance. He looked past both Samson and Deborah, and locked eyes with Sera. “I was talking to you.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Michael’s white wings beat against the dry, hot air. The vast Sahara desert spread out below him in every direction. Even with his bird’s-eye view, the rust-colored sand was all he could see. Clever girl, Michael thought, about the woman he still loved. Clever place to lure us into a fight: into hundreds of miles of uninhabited land. No one will witness the battle that will determine the rest of history.
Sand dunes rose up from the desert floor at odd intervals, providing the perfect cover for surprise attacks. The terrain was built for hidden foxholes and trenches capable of hiding numerous enemies.
This is where it’s all going to end. This is where history hits a fork in the road. Either we will live to tell our story, or they will.
Michael glanced behind him. An army of angels with wings beating against the dry air followed. The sun was flirting with the tops of the sand dunes, marking the close of another day. The night would be cold, but Michael refused to let even more time pass, allowing Ardat precious hours to create weaponry and prepare for battle.
Flight, especially during the day, was a calculated risk. But their need to confront the enemy as soon as possible outweighed the need for secrecy. If they did not succeed, there would be no secrets left to keep. Nephilim ground troops had confirmed that the area was clear of any inhabitants. No curious eyes would see the group of angelic beings as they sped toward their destiny. Just in case, Michael had ordered the army to fly at a distance from the ground. This would ensure that if anyone did see them, they’d be much too small to identify.
As war plans ran and reran themselves through Michael's thoughts, Esther and Caleb joined him at the front of the caravan—Esther on his right, Caleb on his left. “The Nephilim units are following as fast as they can on the ground, but by the time we arrive, they’ll still be hours behind,” Caleb said past the familiar sound of rushing wind.
Michael nodded to the tall warrior whose pale skin nearly matched the wings that carried him. “Good. As soon as they arrive, we’ll attack. It’ll give us enough time to scout the area.”
“It should be daybreak when they get here,” Esther added. “Fighting with the sun at our back and the light in our enemies’ eyes will be helpful.”
Michael nodded again. “We’ll need every advantage we can get, no matter how small.”
Then he heard Caleb chuckle despite the hour. “Care to share what’s so funny?” Michael asked.
“Oh, sorry. It’s nothing, really. I just realized we’ll be attacking at dawn. I’ve always wondered why in books they always attack at dawn. Ironic, right?”
Michael and Esther exchanged eye-rolls. Still, they couldn’t help acknowledging Caleb’s point.
“On a more serious note,” Caleb said, “the Nephilim are also bringing our gear.”
Michael turned, confused.
“Oh, I know you said it was pointless to bring any armor or weapons,” Caleb said, raising both hands, palms out. “Our plan is still the same: wrestle theirs from their dying hands and use their own weapons against them. I just thought we could still use a uniform for our army. I mean, we can’t have you giving one of your epic speeches in that.”
Caleb scrutinized Michael up and down as the trio zipped through the hot air. Michael examined his attire. With no time to spare, he’d refused to pause and change into any kind of traveling or battle outfit. After losing his black suit jacket and tie, Michael still wore his black slacks, dress shoes, and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. “Point taken. What did you have in mind?”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Everyone in the museum courtyard stood shocked as Alan’s words sunk into the moment as smoothly as sandpaper over granite. Of all people, Jericho was the first to break the silence. The stout man whooped and hollered. Other members of the Death Angels laughed aloud, and even clapped their hands at the sudden turn of events. Samson and Deborah raised their eyebrows and looked to Sera for direction. Hands clenched to either side, their leader was not amused. “The nerve you have is beyond me, Nephilim. You can barely stand, let alone fight. No. Your answer is no. Samson, Debor—”
“I know you aren’t scared, Sera,” Alan said, heat rising from his chest as he channeled and willed his wings to form. “You couldn’t be the leader of the Death Angels if you were fearful. So, what is it? Come on. Fight me. If you win, you get what you want: I die. If I win, you join us and fight against the very people you once called your enemies.”
Sera’s jaw muscle quivered. She was smart enough to know what Alan was doing. He was forcing her into a corner where she’d have to fight, especially now as the other Death Angels in attendance found their voice and picked up chants and jeers. Luckily for Alan, the group had been in near-isolation for such a long period, so it didn’t take much to get them excited about something. Alan almost thought he heard a few shouts of encouragement for him.
“Come on, Seraphim, you still got it … don’t you?”
“Finish the Nephilim.”
“Don’t give up, boy!”
“Well, he’s going to be dead soon, but I’m starting to like this kid.”
The shouts continued to pick up in tempo and volume. Alan was content to give Sera as much time as possible to decide. His wings still weren’t forming. He could feel his internal heat growing, he just wasn’t quite there yet. I hope you know what you’re doing, he thought. This was your best shot. Your only shot. You’re too weak to fight two of them, but maybe, just maybe, you have enough left in the tank to surprise one. You have to finish this, quick.
“Enough!” Sera roared, her fiery red hair bouncing, giving the dome of her head the affect that she was actually aflame. She turned, looking each one of her warriors in the eye before stopping to stare at Alan. She was beyond intimidating. In that moment, Alan would rather have faced a charging lion. The silence only made things worse. No one spoke; not even the wind dared to interrupt the stressful moment. “I accept,” Sera said.
A shout rose up from of all the Death Angels as they prepared to see their leader in action. Samson and Deborah stepped to the side, giving Sera and Alan ample space.
Alan already knew she’d come at him quickly. She’d attack without warning, as seemed customary to th
eir warrior race. Even though his body was broken, she’d underestimate the strength he still possessed. If only his wings would cooperate. Alan squinted against the harsh rays of sun that blazed against the ruined courtyard grounds, feeling the heat rise from some hidden cavern deep inside. I hope you’re ready, wings, he thought quietly to the wings that could not provide a response. I need you now. Don’t let me down, or we’re both dead.
Sera charged without warning, just as Alan had expected. Roars from her men- and women-at-arms shattered the sky. Alan stood, feet firmly planted, knees only slightly bent. His hands were clenched so tightly into fists, he could feel his fingernails digging into his palms.
She charged him head-on. With every step she took, her own raven-black wings began to sprout and take form behind her. With only twenty yards until impact, Sera took flight. Gliding a few feet off the ground, her wings beat the air violently behind her, propelling her forward at a dangerous speed.
Come, on, come on, any time now.…
The intensity in her eyes was enough to make any warrior shudder. Both arms pointed forward, she was going to tackle Alan with enough force to snap his spine in two. Waiting in the middle of a street, facing down a hurtling Mack truck would have been easier. Only ten yards and a brief second separated the angelic spear from her Nephilim target.
Oh my gosh, I’m going to die, Alan thought as his wings failed to appear. I hope Danielle’s ready to do some serious healing.
At the last possible moment, in one large show of magnificent soft, blue light, wings shot from Alan’s back. He could feel energy surge from somewhere near his shoulder blades and extend out to his wings.
Unlike the Death Angels’ dark, feathery wings that very closely resembled a bird’s, Alan’s wings seemed to be made of glowing light. His aerial extensions hummed with power, and instead of feathers, blue lines made up his wings, running parallel from the origin points on his back, down to the tips of each wing.
The Complete Archangel Wars Series: A Shared Universe Series (The Archangel Wars) Page 16
