Her Black Wings (The Dark Amulet Series Book 1)

by A. J. Norris

  Elliott’s stomach growled upon walking past the length of a banquet-sized feast. He stopped to pick at the cut-fruit display—flowers made from cantaloupe, surrounded by strawberries, pineapple, grapes, and melon.

  Joelle noticed his friend was no longer at his side.

  “You coming?”

  Elliott shook his head. “Naw. Tell Max I’ll meet him out here.”

  Joelle walked toward the set of French doors that led to their realm and disappeared into the mist, returning almost immediately with Max. In reality there was no telling how long Joelle had actually been gone. The doorway acted as a time machine. Anyone who entered Arcadia through the portal returned to almost the same moment in Earth time in which they had left.

  “Holy crap-balls. Joelle told me, but…man, Elliott, from the way he described, I thought you’d be missing some feathers or at the least have stumps. There’s nothing left,” Max said.

  The acute ache returned. Elliott’s heart throbbed. He didn’t bother concealing his sobs in the presence of Maxwell the Healer. The angel had dyed hair, usually a different color each week, and this week it was hot pink and he wore fake fur leopard spotted pants. No shirt. And black platform boots. Some things never changed.

  Max ran a hand over Elliott’s fleshy gashes. “Man…ah.” He face-palmed. “I dunno.”

  “Haven’t you ever seen anything like this before?” Joelle asked. He caught Elliott, who wavered on his feet, by the elbows and held him up.

  “Yeah, they did it themselves. Wanted to. As far as I know, their wings never grew back.”

  “Fallen right? And they did it themselves. Isn’t that different?” Joelle spoke for Elliott. The wingless angel continued to tremble.

  “Um, interesting. That might be something. I’ll have to check into that and get back with you.”

  “The wounds haven’t healed,” Elliott whispered.

  “What?” Max asked with concern in his expression.

  “They haven’t healed yet.”

  “Could be a good sign. I’ll keep you abreast of anything I find out.” Max cuffed the Redeemer on the shoulder. “I sense there’s more troubling you, same as before.” Elliott nodded.

  Max placed a hand on each side of Elliott’s face, cupping his lower jaw. No ceremonial eye closing or deep breathing for this guy. A yellow glow emanated through the back of Max’s hands and Elliott felt his cheeks warming. A tingling sensation traveled up to the top of his head and down to his toes. Sensual would be the only way to describe the feeling, although there wasn’t anything sexual about it. He tilted his head back and moaned. Then the sensation was gone.

  “I have removed as much of the Taint from your trip to Netherworld as I could. You’ll have to find a way to be stronger than what’s left.”

  Joelle let go and Elliott sagged to the floor on his knees, his body curled over his thighs, with his hands and arms protecting his head.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Amalya

  Amalya found herself in the woods. When she left Elliott, she concentrated on Aba. She needed to find out the name of the soul he’d selected. The Brandon situation overwhelmed her. It was too hard and much too intense to deal with.

  Looking around, she wasn’t at all surprised. Spooky forest in the middle of the night. Creepy. Just like him.

  “Aba!” Leaves rustled behind her. She spun.

  His low, rumbling, sinister laugh sounded next to her ear. She turned around again. No one was there.

  “My God, will you quit that?” Although she was disturbed by the theatrics, she didn’t want him to know. She swallowed hard.

  The beast pawed the ground, kicking dirt and twigs behind him. “There’s no shock you have come crawling back.”

  “Am I crawling? And I’m not back.”

  “Aren’t you?” He came up close so she had to look up at him. Stepping back, she noticed the lack of clothing on his part. Or parts.

  Gawd.

  She looked away quickly.

  This was a mistake.

  That stupid laugh again.

  “I called you because—”

  He raised a clawed hand to silence her. “I already know why, Amalya.”

  The three-quarter moon shone through the treetop canopy, creating an eerie cast on Aba’s skin.

  “Get on your knees!” Birds or something with the capacity for flight took off out of the nearby trees.

  “What? No way.” She curled her wings around her as if they would shield her.

  “If you want the name of the soul, you’ll beg.”

  Her head swam.

  He stood behind her again, stroking her feathers. Then pain like a needle prick. The feather he stole was waved in front of her face. “Thisss, I will keep,” he hissed.

  Her heart pounded and her emotions didn’t feel like her own. Again. She needed to fight whatever hold he had on her mind.

  “That’s mine,” she said without conviction.

  “I gave you these wings. If not for me, you wouldn’t have them. Remember this. Always.” He plucked another one. She winced.

  “O-okay.” She slipped away from him.

  He grabbed her arm, scratching her in the process, and marched her backward into a wide-trunked oak, mashing her wings against it.

  Her hands wrapped around the tree trunk, palms flat. No…wait, she hadn’t done that, he had put them there and held them. But the action seemed like her idea. Clutter filled her mind, thick as a hoarder’s collection in the height of their neurosis.

  Fight this!

  He dipped his head low, his mouth a breath away from hers. Eyes cobalt blue. “You will be begging,” he breathed. His lips smashed against hers.

  Amalya opened her mouth, allowing the beast access, returning his kiss. He softened. She sucked at his bottom lip, lulling him into a trust, then clamped down on it with her teeth biting as hard as she could until she tasted a hint of copper.

  The beast grunted and stepped back. A claw came across to slash at her but she ducked. Scrambling away on her hands and knees, the jagged tree branches cut up her knees. If she could just get further away, she could fly…

  Unyielding hands grabbed her feathered extensions. “Ahhhh, shit!” Agony lanced through her body as her wings were yanked up by the crests, bending them the wrong way. A bone snapped. “Ow, ow, ow!” Bile rose and she gagged. Tears ran down her cheeks. She grappled for anything she could reach to help her as she was dragged toward him. Only loose twigs and dried leaves were scattered on the ground. She tried digging her fingers into the dirt. He picked her up and flipped her over. “Ouch! Ow…ow.” She couldn’t open her eyes for the pain of her cracked wing.

  “Look at me!” the beast roared. Spit pelted her face and neck. Her eyes snapped open but with her vision blurred from tears, his face appeared distorted. He was even uglier than she remembered: yellowed fangs; flared nostrils; beady ice-blue eyes; black skin, the color of a chalkboard. His breath was hot and smelled sickeningly sweet, like an alcoholic’s the morning after an all-night binge.

  He squeezed her jaw. Sharp fingernails curved into her flesh—blood welled, trickling down the side of her neck. She clutched his wrists in a failed attempt to scratch him deep enough so he would let go. Again, that ominous laugh. A low grumble turned into a cackle.

  “You will always be weaker than me.”

  “Elliott,” she squeaked.

  Cocking his head to the side, he said, “Yes. Where’s that little wuss who needed his daddy to bail him out?”

  Amalya concentrated on Elliott’s features. Those dark eyes, pale hair.

  Aba snickered with a gleam in his eyes. “Oh, and before you go, the soul’s name is Damien Stone.” He let go of her and ran off, leaving her shell-shocked and wide-eyed.

  Amalya knew this wasn’t the last she’d see of the Devil. This was too easy.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-ONE

  Amalya

  Elliott…please…

  Amalya closed her eyes in the woods and o
pened them inside the angel’s bedroom. Elliott lay on the bed. She went to his side, sobbing.

  “Amalya, are you crying?”

  Her lower lip quivered. “Y-y-yes.”

  He reached up and turned on the bedside lamp. “Jesus. What happened?”

  “My wing…I think it’s broke.”

  Elliott threw the covers back, jumped out of bed, and caught her just as her strength drained.

  He laid her limp body down on her stomach. He smoothed his hand over the feathers, feeling for a hot spot, even though the break was obvious.

  Amalya whimpered, trying to lift her head.

  “Hey…stay still. I can set this, but I need you to do something. And you’re not going to like it.”

  Noises came from the bathroom as Elliott rummaged through the cabinets under the sink. He came back shortly and put something next to her on the bed. Kneeling down on the floor so he was eye level with her, he stroked her arm.

  “Remember I said I need you to do something for me.” He paused until she grunted her understanding. “I need you to open your wings. But I’ll help you. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  “Okay,” she whispered. As soon as she flared her wings, she cried out.

  “Oh, sweetheart. I know it hurts.” The angel supported the weight of the fractured bone, making it a tiny bit easier. “Just a little further…there that’s it.”

  Amalya cried for another reason too. This angel who’d lost his wings…no, had them torn from his body, was still able to help her. He had not hesitated in putting his own feelings aside. He didn’t resent her, like she would have him.

  “All right, I need you to take a deep breath. One. Two. Three!” He yanked on the end of her wing.

  “Oh, God!” On second thought, maybe he was angry. Sweat seeped from her pores and her tears soaked the sheets. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the pillow.

  “Breathe, the worst part is over.” He placed what felt like a board under the wing. While not heavy, it was rigid. Then her wing was bound to the plank.

  “Unfortunately, you’ll have to stay like this until it heals. Fortunately, if you’re anything like angels, it should heal by morning.”

  I’m not an angel.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-TWO

  Hazel

  “Tell me again why we’re doing this?” Hazel asked her mother, Genevieve Stevens.

  “Because Grandma asked me to help get her house ready to be put on the market, that’s why,” her mother replied.

  “You don’t have to be so testy about it.”

  Hazel was helping her mother box up her grandma’s personal belongings. The movers had come and gone, taking the heavy stuff to a storage facility. If Storage Wars ever did a show in Michigan, that unit with all her grandma’s stuff would go for thousands. What was left was mostly photo albums and the silverware, which Genevieve was taking. Hazel hoped her mom didn’t think she would want the flatware for when she got married.

  Hazel couldn’t pretend to be upset about the move. Her grandma had always nitpicked at Genevieve, and Hazel didn’t like it. She hadn’t noticed the constant criticism when she was younger, but now that she was in her twenties, she saw how her grandma treated her mother.

  “Come on, Hazel, these boxes won’t pack themselves.”

  She exhaled slowly. “Relax, Mom.”

  Genevieve continued to shove items into the boxes laid out on the kitchen counter without looking at them. Her mother wanted to be through with this chore as much as Hazel did. She wrapped a collection of glass and porcelain roses in newspaper and listened to the sounds of her mother placing photo albums into the crates. Loose pictures and photo files were tossed on the top. Abruptly, the noise stopped.

  “Oh!” her mom gasped.

  When Hazel turned, her mother had her hand over her heart. She stared at a piece of paper in her other hand.

  “What is it?” Hazel asked as she approached, not expecting her mom to have tears in her eyes. “Mom? What’s wrong?”

  Leaning forward, Hazel caught a glimpse of what her mother held. A photograph. From her angle, she couldn’t make out who the subject was. “What are you looking at?”

  Her mother inhaled through her nose. “Oh, nothing, just a picture of my sister. I thought Grandma threw all these out. Amalya, your aunt…s-she um…”

  “Yeah, you told me, I know. She died.” Hazel wasn’t sure how to comfort her mother. The woman never got emotional.

  “She…” Genevieve took a deep breath. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “What is it, Mom?”

  “She was murdered. I never told you that.” Genevieve sniffled.

  “How long ago was that again?”

  “About twenty years ago, right before spring. I dunno…” She put a hand up to her temple and rubbed it with the tips of her fingers.

  “What happened?” Hazel couldn’t believe her mother was finally telling her how her aunt had died. Not even her grandma talked about it.

  “Well, I don’t know exactly. There was a survivor…he was a little kid. He wasn’t much help. He talked about demons and…God. It was nuts really, but it looked like she was hitchhiking.” She sighed. “I don’t know if she was involved with this man, or what happened. They both were dead at the scene. He’d been run over and she’d been shot. I don’t know exactly, but I guess that she saved that little boy. I like to think that.”

  Genevieve closed her eyes for a second. She stuck the photo back into a gold envelope, wiped her eyes, and finally looked up at her daughter with a fake smile.

  Hazel returned her mother’s smile. At that moment, she realized her mother was still a young woman. Genevieve was only in her mid-forties. Her hair hadn’t grayed and she was still in good shape. No wonder people always mistook Hazel for her mother. She thought of the girl she’d met at the club.

  “I think she saved that kid too.”

  “What?”

  “I just think it’s a good idea to think of your sister in a positive light. Remember the good, not the bad. Even if you don’t know if it’s true or not.”

  Her mother nodded. “Me too. I did love her…I never told her I loved her.” Her voice cracked.

  There were lots of things Hazel could say right now, although nothing sounded like the right thing.

  Genevieve put the gold packet into a box then started taping the lids closed.

  “Oh, this might cheer you up. I ran into one of your former students at Eternity.”

  “And I’m supposed to know what Eternity is?”

  “Just some club. It doesn’t matter, that’s not the point,” Hazel waved dismissively and received a raised eyebrow in return. “Anyway, she said to tell you she was okay. Her name, if you can believe it, was Amalya.”

  Her mother’s eyes widened. “I never had a student with that name. I would have remembered that.”

  “Well, now that I think about it, I may have assumed she was a student of yours. Hmm. Don’t you know anyone by that name?”

  “It’s not a very common name, Hazel.”

  “Yeah, I can relate.”

  “Are you sure she said her name was Amalya, not Amanda? I knew an Amanda. She was a good student.”

  “Does she have black hair? Or wear stripper heels?”

  “Blonde…”

  “Huh? Well maybe she dyed it.”

  “Doubtful, and she wasn’t the type to wear heels and people don’t change.”

  “People can change.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Hasn’t been my experience, though.”

  Hazel took the other tape gun, pulled the end of the tape out in a long strip, and placed it over the center of one of the box flaps. She did this three more times until she met her mother at the one that remained unsealed. The gold packet lay on the top of several photo albums. She wondered why her mother thought her grandma would throw out pictures of her own daughter.

  “Mom, how come Grandma doesn’t talk about Amalya…like, ever?”

 
Her mother sighed. “It’s a long story. My sister was younger than me by about three years. She was a bratty child. Treated our parents like crap. Nothing was ever good enough for her. Never satisfied. One night they got into a huge fight and Amalya walked out. I wasn’t there, so I don’t know what the argument was about.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Pretty much. She contacted me the day she was killed.” Her mother’s eyes misted over again. “I told her about you. She was your age when she…” Genevieve didn’t finish her sentence. Instead she picked up the pouch with her sister’s picture and handed it to Hazel.

  Hazel opened the flap. There were four pictures and a letter addressed to Amalya in her grandma’s handwriting. She looked at one of the pictures and gasped. “Oh my God!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Trembling, Hazel covered her mouth with a hand. The girl staring back at her out of a school picture was a younger version of the girl she’d met at Eternity. She knew it was her without a doubt in her mind. “H-how old was she when this was taken?”

  “Sixteen. Junior year. What is it, Hazel?”

  “This is her. I know it. This is her!” Hazel said, practically jumping up and down.

  Her mother gestured for her daughter to relax by tamping down the air with her hands. “Calm down, her who?”

  “The girl I saw at Eternity. She ran up to me, she thought I was you.” Hazel flipped over another picture, gaping.

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Mom, I swear.” Hazel’s eyes were big as saucers.

  Shaking her head, Genevieve said, “She’s been dead for over twenty years. If she were still alive, which she’s not, she’d be forty-two years old.” Genevieve looked at the ceiling and exhaled loudly.

  “I know what I saw.” Hazel packed up the pictures and the letter. When her mom wasn’t looking she slipped one of the photographs into her back pocket. She knew some techy people who could help her out.