Her Black Wings (The Dark Amulet Series Book 1)

by A. J. Norris

  The beast chuckled low, deep within its chest. “Fortunately for Bobo, his time isn’t up. However, your time is waning.”

  “W-What are you talking about? W-who are—?”

  “Shall I just throw you back into the Void now, then?”

  Abaddon.

  “My Lord.” Damien knelt before the master. Reed wouldn’t have dreamed of bowing down to anyone, but the mind and spirit of Damien Stone worshipped Satan. The Devil had torn the soul of Damien out, leaving remnants clinging to the recesses inside the brain. When Reed’s soul was inserted, the remaining memories mixed with his, creating an altered version of what he once had been. “How may I serve you?”

  “Get up, you fool. Brandon Smith has not completed his task.”

  “But he was…he called, said he was on his way to take care of it.”

  “Well, it appears he changed his mind.”

  Damien swallowed gulps of air. “No, he said he’d do—”

  “Enough!”

  The beast grabbed him by the collar one-handed and held off the floor with his feet dangling. “Do you hear yourself? He has failed. You have until sunrise to convince him of his error, otherwise our deal is off.”

  The compromised circulation in Damien’s neck turned his face red. “I’m sure he just needs more time. I—”

  “You have until sunrise.” His Lord opened his fist.

  Damien dropped like a brick, landing in a sprawling heap. Black smoke filled the air around them. Wisps were sucked into his nose and down his throat when he inhaled. His eyes burned, lungs wheezed. Boisterous laughter rang in his ears.

  Abruptly the room became deadly quiet and the smog cleared.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  Damien/Reed

  Staying out of Netherworld and maintaining his established lucrative drug biz were Damien’s top two priorities. There were only two people he could use to “convince” Brandon to act. Later, he would find Bobo and get things aligned for expansion. After all, one needed to branch out if they planned on their enterprise sticking around for a long while.

  The kidnapping plans he’d worked out in his brain on the way to committing the crimes turned out easier than he imagined. The wife of his first victim had been asleep upstairs while the husband practiced his indoor putting with a mug standing in for the hole. A simple gun to the head made a great persuasion tool: Make a sound and the wife dies.

  Mrs. Angela Bishop also decided a bullet lodged in her skull wasn’t her preferred method of death. In fact, she’d been maybe a little too easily swayed to see his side of things. Whatever. He had the ammunition he needed. Now, with the two tied up in Brandon’s basement, he waited. And waited. Checking his phone for the time every ten minutes, until the old biddy started asking questions.

  “Oh dear, are you waiting for Brandon? I don’t think he’s coming home.”

  “How do you know?” God, he should have remembered to bring duct tape so he could’ve gagged the bitch. Stuffed a sock in her mouth and taped her yapper shut. He sat down at the top of the stairs to get away from her. It didn’t help.

  “He stopped over and said he wouldn’t be coming around anymore.” She started talking aloud to herself, because Damien had knocked Montgomery unconscious with the hilt of his Sig Sauer and the man was still out of it. “Brandon is a nice boy, he’ll save us, you’ll see.”

  “Shut it, you old bitch!”

  Headlights flashed through the sheers hanging in the front window.

  About damn time.

  Damien shut his victims in the basement and waited for Brandon by the garage door. He leaned against a wall with his legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded over his chest.

  Creak.

  Brandon’s head peeked around the door jamb. Damien had parked his car around the block so his visit would be a shocker.

  “Surprise, motherfucker,” Damien grinned.

  “Wha…shit!”

  The weasel retreated and tried slamming the door in his face. Damien’s hand snaked out, stopping the door from closing all the way. He flung the wood panel hard enough to jerk some of the hinge screws loose. Catching Brandon and twisting his arm behind his back, Damien shoved him against the car, grinding his cheek on the roof.

  “You’re going to git the fuck back in the house, now!”

  Brandon gasped. “And if I don’t—”

  “You’re gonna do it! Angela is waiting patiently for you,” Damien growled.

  “You wouldn’t.” Brandon lifted his head. Blood trickled from a cut on his cheek below one of his eyes.

  “Oh, but I will.” Damien pushed him toward the entrance to the house.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  Brandon

  Brandon needed a few things before he skipped town. The things which seemed important five minutes ago didn’t matter now. Who cared if he hadn’t packed his toothbrush or all his clothes? Except those items had been his excuse. What he really came back for was a shoebox. A silly-ass Adidas box full of stupid mementoes that in light of his current problem meant absolutely nothing in comparison.

  Ahead of Damien, who held a gun, Brandon led them down to the basement. The musty smell made him sneeze twice before reaching the bottom of the steps.

  Brandon only expected to see Angela tied up. She sat mutely with her hands and ankles tied to a metal folding chair. The man he didn’t kill earlier lifted his head and once he recognized Brandon, opened his eyes wide. An incomprehensible sound came out of his mouth, a cross between fear, pain, and disbelief.

  “What are we doing here?” Brandon asked.

  Damien chuckled. “Glad ya asked. See, you was supposed to kill Mr. Montgomery.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Oh, so ya have the fifty thou now? Why didn’t you say so?”

  Brandon looked up at the low ceiling. Pipes ran along the floor joists. Cobwebs stuck in the corners between the upstairs sub-floor and the beams. Bare wiring provided electricity to the fluorescent fixtures.

  “That’s what I thought.” Damien walked over and put his hands on Montgomery’s shoulders. The man flinched. “Ya see, I never want to be accused of being stingy, so I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do. One of these two dies tonight, and you get to choose which one.”

  Why is this so important?

  He wondered what Damien would possible gain from this. The men didn’t even know each other.

  The look on Montgomery’s face was pure dread. Brandon didn’t blame the guy. Given the choice between murdering a sweet little old lady without a mean bone in her body, or a criminal defense attorney, Brandon was sure even Montgomery could imagine which most people would choose. Angela just looked around, which seemed an odd reaction, even for her.

  Brandon’s heart thumped so hard, he thought it might actually be hitting the back of his sternum. He had to breathe through his mouth in order to get enough oxygen into his lungs. Damien glared at him, as if the look alone would be enough to convince him to change his mind again.

  “So who’s it gonna be, Brandon? Bishop, or Charles here?” Damien knocked the side of the man’s head then ran a finger across Angela’s neck.

  Amalya appeared behind Damien. She stood close enough that Brandon didn’t call attention to her presence by taking his eyes off Damien to look at her. The dark angel seemed slightly disoriented but managed to get her mind wrapped around the situation. Looking Damien right in the eye, he said with a renewed sense of false confidence, “I’m not killing anyone.” Amalya’s face lit with approval. She silently golf clapped.

  “Oh, sweetie pie. You don’t need to be a hero. Plenty of those in the world,” Angela said. Montgomery shook his head.

  “I’m not trying to be,” Brandon said.

  “It’s all right,” Angela said. “I’ve lived a long enough life, you can kill me.”

  Amalya mimicked Brandon’s furrowed brow. Damien spun around when she exhaled.

  “I thought I chased you away?”


  “I’m not afraid of you. I killed you once, remember? I can do it again,” Amalya said.

  “Right. What’re ya gonna do, run me over? Sorry, bitch, there aren’t any cars around.”

  Amalya sneered at Damien with the equivalent of giving him the finger.

  “Brandon!” Angela said to get his attention. “Charles here has a wife. I’ll gladly sacrifice my life for—”

  “I’m not killing anyone. I’m done.”

  Damien lunged for Amalya and yanked with one hand on something Brandon couldn’t see at first. The gun was in the other hand.

  She screeched, “Ow. Ow. Ow!” Her wings appeared.

  Damien pinned her down, pressing his knees into her back, only it was her wings that had been trapped. A bone cracked. “Ow!” she howled. The barrel of the piston was aimed at the back of her skull.

  “Kill one of them or you know what happens next!” he yelled at Brandon.

  With what? Brandon looked around the basement for a weapon. What am I doing?

  “I’m already dead, Brandon, you hear me? I’m dead, don’t listen to—”

  “Shut up, you bitch!” Damien clocked her on the back of the head with the gun. She lay on the floor motionless.

  Creak.

  Crack.

  Ka-boom!

  A bomb went off…no, an explosion. Warm liquid hit Brandon in the face and coated his shirt. His vision blurred from the watery substance.

  “What the fuck!” A coopery taste filled his mouth along with bits of… he spat whatever it was out.

  Leaning over at the waist, he spat again. Blinking profusely, his eyes began to clear. Amalya still lay on the floor.

  “Holy shit!” The monster Brandon had tried to forget for the last twenty years stood hunched under the low ceiling. He swallowed, only to choke. He coughed. His face turned red then purple.

  Pitched over on his side, Montgomery lay on the cement floor, still attached to his chair, covered in slimy red—oh God, what was that?

  Brandon’s stomach bottomed out. His gag reflex forced his tongue forward. Cold sweat poured off him. Angela was gone.

  “You disappoint me!” the beast bellowed, grabbing the gun out of Damien’s hand. He swiped at him, hurling him into a wall. Damien lay in a heap, bloody claw marks across his face.

  The beast charged Amalya. Picked her up and balanced her by the waist, face up, using one hand. Her head, arms and legs dangled, her wings lax and pointing toward the floor. Jagged bone peeked through the feathers of one of her wings.

  The beast’s crystal blue eyes narrowed on him. Paralyzed with fear, Brandon couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. An object clattered near him then spun several times, stopping at the side of his foot. The gun.

  “Pick it up,” the beast grumbled.

  He stared at the black monster with an open mouth. His breath came out in shallow pants.

  “You will do as I say, boy!”

  Although Brandon didn’t want to comply, he was compelled to anyway. Squatting, he felt for the weapon blindly as he couldn’t take his eyes off the beast.

  Amalya started to squirm. The beast paid no attention. “Kill Montgomery!”

  Brandon’s pupils went wide. He marched over to Montgomery and put the muzzle to the man’s exposed temple.

  Amalya regained consciousness and shouted, “No, Brandon!”

  He looked at her, hesitated, and then glanced at his intended victim.

  “Do it or she’s ash!” the beast bellowed. Amalya cringed and squeezed her eyes shut as strings of spit flew from the creature’s mouth.

  “I’m dead either way, Brandon. Fight thi—” With the beast’s hand to her forehead, her body went limp again.

  Brandon’s hand trembled as his finger curled around the trigger.

  She’s already dead…

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTY-SIX

  Amalya

  Amalya’s head hurt. Her surroundings fuzzed in and out. She fought her way back from the land of unconsciousness.

  Brandon’s hand shook, and if he wasn’t careful his finger would slip.

  “Brandon, fight this,” she whispered, hoping he would hear her. Montgomery groaned, twisting and bucking against his ropes. The barrel slid off his head.

  “Oomph.” Amalya got acquainted with the floor, tossed aside by Aba’s beast. A familiar sharp, shooting pain stemming from one wing weakened her. She lay sprawled, her heart racing.

  Aba raised his hands above his head. A blue flamed sword, the one he’d conjured up in Netherworld, materialized. He twirled the large blade over his head and ended the drama with both hands on the hilt.

  She lost sight of Aba as he went around and came up behind her, yanking her torso off the cold cement by her hair.

  “Ow!” With her neck unprotected, she knew what to expect. She closed her eyes and prayed. Elliott…

  Someone screamed. Her eyes snapped opened. She couldn’t tell who. On his knees, Brandon rested his ass on the heels of his shoes, face in his palms. The gun was on the floor.

  Montgomery looked too still, but the gun hadn’t gone off. The man’s lips moved and he let go a wail. Despite the blood stains, his face paled. A bright beam like someone switched on a flashlight lit the man’s face and glinted off his eyes. She couldn’t turn her head to see the light’s source.

  Amalya’s upper body slammed back down. Her chin banged onto the floor, causing her teeth to grit. Using her forearms, she dragged herself out from underneath Aba. She screamed as he pinned her legs. Fierce kicking and jerking freed her. He hadn’t trapped her, he’d fallen on her.

  “Run, Amalya! Get out of here!”

  Elliott! What do you know, praying worked.

  She wasn’t leaving. Her angel was no match for the Devil by himself. She struggled to her knees and managed to turn herself around, and out of the way, still close enough to jump in if needed.

  Aba reared up and roared. A red flame burned a hole just left of the center of his chest. Elliott, with an expression of determination, withdrew his sword and shoved Aba to the floor with a boot to the ass. The beast grunted. He wasn’t dead, of course, but defeated. Had they won? Was she free now? She wasn’t sure if she dare believe—

  Her mouth opened wide and she projectile vomited, clear gooey liquid followed by charcoal tasting and smelling black mist. With her diaphragm and esophagus still in Taint-ridding convulsions, Amalya could only watch what happened next.

  Clink. Metal scrapped the bare cement floor. Whoosh! The blue flamed sword re-ignited.

  “Noooo! I won’t go back to Hell!”

  Elliott gasped. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. Damien stood behind her angel with Aba’s sword in his hands, blood dripping from the blade. The flame no longer burned. Elliott fell to his knees, clutching his chest.

  “No! What’ve you done? No…” Not caring about her broken wing or that Damien still held the sword, Amalya lunged for Elliott. When she reached him, she rolled him over. Hovering over his face she kissed his cheeks, his lips. “D-Don’t…l-leave me…I-I need you.” Her bottom lip quivered making it difficult to speak. “Oh God…please…”

  “Oh, God, please. My ass,” Aba mocked as he stood up, the hole in his chest now a smoldering wound. “Gimme that.” He swiped the sword out of Damien’s hands. “Oh, and Amalya, tell Deus, he can take my dollar and shove it up his—”

  “Go to H-Hell!” she yelled.

  “Gladly. Well, Reed, I think the Void is too good for you now.”

  “No. No. N—” The rest of the protest was cut off. The Devil and his soul disappeared in a puff of smoke.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Amalya

  Amalya placed her hand over one of Elliott’s. Blood puddled beneath him from his stab wound. There was no way to stop the massive blood loss.

  Montgomery and Brandon remained in the same spots as before, watching the angel die.

  Elliott coughed, turning his body to the side before blood co
uld spurt out of his mouth and into her face. His body racked as he hacked. After exhausting himself, he rolled onto his back again.

  “Amalya,” he wheezed, “I…”

  “Don’t try to talk. It’s okay.” Her eyes searched his face—those hauntingly beautiful eyes still shiny despite the agony.

  There were footsteps on the stairs. Amalya curled her body around her angel.

  Max stepped off the last riser. Without a word, he squatted beside her and Elliott, knees touching the floor. Her angel stuck his hand out and Max grasped the offering. “Right here, Redeemer.” He smoothed Elliott’s hair off his face.

  “Are you just going to sit there or are you going to do something?” Amalya pleaded.

  “What is it that you want me to do?” Max asked.

  “Aren’t you a Healer? Heal him.”

  He shook his head. His lopsided smile pissed her off.

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t heal a wound from a blue flamed sword.”

  “What if I told you it wasn’t from—”

  “It is. I know these wounds.”

  Elliott let out a whimper and swallowed hard. “S-S-Sorry…wanted…to t-tell you…”

  “Tell me what?” She couldn’t breathe. Someone had taken all the air out of the room. A new sheen of sweat moistened her brow.

  “Y-you’re not s-stupid.” Elliott’s eyes closed for the last time. He could no longer exist in this realm. She knew in her heart he’d be stricken.

  I love you too. “You’re not stupid either,” she gushed, hoping he could still hear.

  Elliott took a last breath.

  No!

  White light shot out from every available opening—ears, mouth, stab wound—encompassing his entire body in seconds. He became light. Then the illumination faded into nothing.