I’d been messing with Drake since the moment I’d been held captive: tormenting, punishing, and humiliating. Because he’d lied about my sister. Because he was Rebel’s gaoler. And because my mum had given him to me as my guard.
Yet we’d both joined in the game with each other. Except, along the way it’d become something more.
Damn, girl, that pretty boy psycho raised some serious hell.
Forget shaking your pussy at the Ice Commander, are you truly letting a cuckoo into the nest?
Barakiel got medieval on their arses. But his arse is now passed out.
So? You unleashed it, you gank it.
He’s used up his juice; you don’t have to fear the storm.
I’m not a killer.
Feathery-blade, that’s what you’ve always been.
‘I’ve never been innocent.’ Steeling myself, I raised Flight, stalking towards Drake. He backed away, gripping Barakiel to his chest. ‘I’m the Bitch of Utopia.’
I raised the tip of Flight’s blade to Barakiel’s neck, just as Nathanael’s shank had earlier nicked Drake’s throat. I half-expected Barakiel’s ghostly eyes to open, followed by a flash of lightning, but he didn’t move.
I pressed harder; blood beaded.
Tears matted Drake’s eyelashes. ‘I have thought many things of you,’ he whispered, his voice catching, ‘but never that you were dishonourable.’ Shame: it burst through me, blossoming. ‘Please…’
Am I being played? If I don’t gank Barakiel, am I freeing the Big Bad?
You only have Drake’s word why the bitch’s ass was locked away.
But he went boom to save us.
To save cherub.
How about this realness: has our cherub’s game from the start been to protect and free his Angel of Lightning?
When I lowered Flight, Drake staggered.
Ash darted to Drake, catching Barakiel. To my surprise, he cradled him, before shooting me a glare.
‘Go,’ Drake crossed his arms over his chest to hide their shaking. ‘You propose to escape whilst the fighting is at its height, do you not?’
‘We, bro.’
Drake shook his head. ‘I’m still Commander of the army and my trainees.’ I remembered his kid army: the weakness the Matriarch held over him. He sighed. ‘And my father is still, despite all, my father.’
My hands curled into fists. ‘And my mum will gank you.’
‘Unlikely. The Matriarch has trained me for too long to break me. She rejoices too much in the punishing. I propose you burn me, however, so at least the illusion is created I was forced to help. Promise first you’ll protect Barakiel, as I cannot.’
Reluctantly, I sheathed Flight, before tracing down his cool cheek with the tips of my fingers. ‘I promise. Although that Storm God should be my bodyguard.’
It ached: the thought of abandoning Drake.
Inside, the ancient powers rumbled in a hurricane, as if they could break out and catch him in their twisting winds, dragging him back with them.
With me.
Instead, I murmured, as my fingers wound around his throat, ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
His eyes glistened. ‘Lie.’
I swallowed a sob, as the powers flickered; flames sparked around Drake’s neck. He hissed but held motionless.
I traced my fiery fingers over his Mark, blistering the initials MD. For a thrilling moment, I erased my mum’s brand.
Then I repeated, ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
I kissed Drake, even as I burned him: gently, tenderly, and chastely.
He panted through the pain, opening his lips and pressing back. At last, he shuddered and slumped against the bars.
When I glanced at Ash, he was studying me speculatively, Barakiel in his arms.
I laid Drake’s still body on the chilly floor.
‘Let’s not miss the blood party,’ I swaggered over Nathanael’s lightning-singed corpse.
My blood thrummed. My cells exploded with electrical bursts. My pulse pounded.
Thud — thud — thud.
Drake had forced power through the kiss: a parting gift.
My skin had knit, and the gash between my shoulder blades no longer throbbed.
Yet Drake was lost, Barakiel was dead to the world, and before we could escape, we had to fight an army of vampires.
Rebel battled back-to-back with his brother in the midst of a feathered sea of grey, a dervish of red-and-black. Eclipse flamed arcs through the dark. Lost in the buzz, Rebel grinned like he’d finally awoken to the most epic game.
I dashed down the steps, skidding on the encrusted filth. The earthy stink of Broken Hollow blasted across my cheeks.
We were at the bottom of the mountain: Lowest Level.
I ran my hand over the packed russet dirt of the cavern’s walls. My palm came back sticky and stained rusty.
It could’ve been blood.
Talk about omens kicking me in the arse to get on with it.
I glanced over the clanking chaos to catch a glimpse of Gwyn’s white hair beneath a row of shafts at the back of the cavern. The shafts broke through the russet dirt roof high above; the sparkle of stars shone through.
What a hell of a cruelty to the angels who already had their wings stolen: you feed them but also show them the sky every day.
A sky they couldn’t fly in. An escape route they could never take.
But they had a Blood Princess in their yard: I’d make them fly.
Dillon lunged, pulling a Broken kid behind him and away from a vampire’s fangs. The Broken kids huddled on scarlet blankets on the mucky floor behind Gwyn.
Hell, was this where they slept?
Was this how all the Broken lived?
Ash tucked Barakiel into a gap in the mud wall, snatching up a scratchy blanket to hide him under. He pulled out his gun, nudging my shoulder, before leaping onto the back of a vampire in retro denim jacket.
Bang — Ash twisted his gun, shooting the vampire through the temple, spraying the blood away from him against the wall.
He leapt off the fallen body. ‘Blood’s a nightmare to wash out.’
I giggled: hysteria’s a bitch.
The wave of grey surged towards us at the gunshot.
Ash shrugged his shoulder. ‘Sorry. Wasn’t that 007 stealthy?’
‘Enough with the bang, bang. I’m getting why these bitches go Old School with medieval weapons.’
Harahel hollered from the corner to distract the grey wave.
Behind him battled a ragtag gang of Imperfect: amputees or angels with only a single wing.
But they kicked ass.
I threw myself into the rush of snarling vampires, booting and clouting, until I drew Flight.
In the gloom, Flight glowed, feathering out in one crackling sweep to a pair of wings that beat through the vampires, leaving them in howling confusion.
The Broken, who’d huddled behind sheets that hung in rags from the crumbling walls, or wailed as they crouched in quivering knots, rose up. Grasping nothing more than bowls, platters, or leather straps, they advanced on the vampire army.
For the first time in their lives, they were fighting back.
I laughed, as the vampires glanced at each other in confusion. They’d trapped the wingless Broken here expecting a massacre and were now caught up in a slave rebellion.
Thwack — when the first Broken tentatively walloped a vampire (a graceful bloke with blond side-parting and spectacular wings) around the head with a tray, Gwyn whooped.
I shot a winged bolt at the same vampire, until he broke into howls.
Then the Broken swept over the vampires in a sea of red.
If I bastard died, this was the something bigger that mattered. The risk worth taking. The battle to ensure the Broken and Imperfect had a right to their wings and freedom.
This was the type of princess I’d be: a warrior amongst warriors.
And now it was time to share my blood.
I cut a route through the anarchy of bodies
to Rebel. I caught his arm, as he spun round from a kick. ‘Where’s my royal blood?’
Rebel jerked his chin towards a high niche with a ledge. ‘Didn’t want to spill it, Lady Muck.’
I touched my forehead to his. ‘If I’d designed this in a game, it’d work. But this is real life. Am I a…?’
‘Dope?’ Rebel’s smile was gentle. ‘Not a chance. You saved me because you saw me. You’re the reason we’ll soar together into the heavens.’
I shivered. Through the bond, Rebel’s love shadow-kissed down my neck.
I took a deep breath, before turning and diving towards the niche.
The mud crumbled between my fingers, as I struggled to pull myself up; my feet slipped on the damp outcrops. Dizzy, I lost my footing, holding on by my fingertips. I swung, leaping onto the ledge in front of the niche.
The bowl rested like the centre piece to an Aztec ritual; my blood had congealed.
Sun God style, I lifted out the bowl and held it above my head — I needed a feather headdress to pull off the look — and hollered above the din, ‘Broken, I’m your Blood Princess. Not the Matriarch’s and not Angel World’s. Press one drop of my blood onto each other’s shoulder blades to free yourself.’
A sudden hush.
My arms shook, as I held aloft the blood.
A wild scramble as the Broken rushed towards the wall beneath the ledge.
Except, the vampires had listened just as intently and the bastards already had wings.
Hell, hell, hell…
I cowered back, clutching the bowl of blood to my chest like a baby before the onslaught of vampires.
28
Red — like the ochre staining my palms from the walls of the echoing Hollow, the scarlet of the Broken’s trousers who scrambled below me, and the blood in the bowl clasped to my chest — it caught and lifted me.
Nothing but blood-red wool, whilst pressed to the chest of one vampire, I tumbled off the ledge and through the grey-winged tornado of an army of vampires.
Black claws sliced my hip; heavy wings beat against my back.
When blood slopped down the front of my dress, I hissed. I’d already been shanked once; I might be the saviour but I wasn’t a saint. And bleeding out the good stuff was a onetime only deal.
Ash’s arms tightened around me, as he ducked and swooped. He dodged the vampires through the gloomy cavern, below the shafts.
When I craned my neck, I could see the stars.
‘Stealthy?’ Ash snorted. ‘There are stealthier cave trolls. What was the Lion King moment back there?’
‘Just land this bitch.’ Another congealed slosh of blood sticky down my dress. ‘This Blood Princess has an epic “Circle of Life” moment to kill.’
He swung us to the side, as we were slammed by two vampires in motorbike leathers. He gritted his teeth, before he stilled, pulling his wings up: a ballet-like pose.
The Motorbike Brothers slashed Ash’s back, and his mouth tightened. Then we were falling straight-down between the converging swarm of grey, caught only by the smallest beats of Ash’s wings.
Ash had skills.
He landed us circus entertainer-like in the centre of the mass of Broken.
I smiled. ‘They were some crazy stunts. Your flying is beautiful, bro.’
He caught the bowl from my hands. ‘When you fly for the first time? That’s beautiful.’
He soared over the Broken, holding out the bowl to their outstretched hands.
Mesmerised, the vampires hesitated above our heads, as the Broken pressed their bloody fingers to each other’s shoulder blades with excited, ecstatic whispers.
A drum of feet on the dirt floor followed by a wail of joy.
The Broken parted, backing away with respectful steps.
Gwyn stood with his back to me; the stumps on his shoulders had sprouted blood-red feathers that exploded even as I watched into a pair of magnificent wings.
The wings flamed, streaked darker ruby on their edges and tips, larger than other angel wings. The feathers ruffled, as Gwyn felt them, before he glanced over his shoulder at me, his cheeks stained with tears.
I realised just how long he’d gone without feeling wings on his back.
That something stolen was being returned.
Then in a flurry of flaming scarlet, wings burst out on the backs of the Broken across the Hollow, like flowers awakening in a blaze of spring.
I stumbled back, only for Rebel’s arm to wind around my waist. His chin rested on my shoulder.
Wonder, tinged with a shamed sadness, brushed against me through the bond.
I curled my fingers over Rebel’s at my waist; even though I could grow new wings, I couldn’t fix his broken one.
Life was a cruel bitch.
When like a storm darkening above, the vampires tornado-twisted lower, I thrilled with sparks on my finger-tips to firebolt the bastards from the sky in defence of…
The new species I’d birthed.
But the vampires only pulled back in chaos to dive out of the Hollow.
Rebel breathed, ‘Holy Mary, am I after being as mad as a box of frogs for real?’
Red — like drying blood — the Brokens’ eyes blazed flare stars.
I shuddered. ‘When a bitch gods-out, she makes one freaky arsed angel.’
Gwyn and Dillon, the true Pied Pipers, led the kids past Harahel, who waved across at me, whilst he dodged from one Imperfect to another, and down the centre of the Broken. They crouched in front of each kid, daubing my blood onto their stumps.
…Two twins with black mops of hair, who’d hugged each other desperately as they’d been led to their Initiation…
Two brothers who I’d failed to save. But now Gwyn anointed their backs.
As the twins hugged each other once more, where their sweet wings had been chopped off by the guillotine, new wings bloomed.
I didn’t notice Haman’s head resting on my chest and his own tears wetting my dress, until Rebel petted his head.
I’d forgotten I wasn’t the only one to feel bastard guilty.
Silence.
The Broken swung towards me, dropping to their knees.
My pulse pounded, as they waited.
Yet inside, violet and black surged to rush forward and claim this new-born power.
A slave army in need of a leader.
I stumbled away from Rebel and Haman, wrapping my arms around myself in the battle not to speak as I rested my hand on Gwyn’s bowed head.
These baby — Blood Angels — are for the gods. Who knew you were all maternal?
Or that you’d turn Spartacus to Emperor?
They’re not slaves. I freed them from the ancient bitches inside me as well.
Maybe I’ve been blinded by the scarlet bling, but if they’re free, why are they kneeling?
Because they don’t get what I’ve done yet. But they will.
Without a private army, how will you fight your rebellion? With your kickass tits?
They are kickass.
But I’m not the Mage, and I’m not my mum.
Oh girl, you’ve no idea what you are.
I crouched in front of Gwyn, taking his hands in mine, before I lifted him to his feet.
At only a nod from me, Dillon was rising at his side, watching us both guardedly.
‘You don’t bastard kneel for anyone because you’re Blood Angels,’ I squeezed Gwyn’s hands. ‘A princess’ angels, so show respect for yourselves.’
Gwyn’s smile was radiant, before he hollered, ‘Stand up. You heard the princess.’
A flutter, shifting of feet, and the Broken were standing.
Bastard better.
Still holding onto Gwyn, I turned to face the circle of Broken. Their expressions were nervous, but they didn’t lower their gazes.
‘Here’s the deal: The Legion don’t own your arses. You’re in charge of yourselves, and it’ll be difficult. You’ll be hunted.’ A murmuring. The kids sniffled, curling around each other. ‘But life’s no
t fair. Suck it up and deal with it. Your choices were stolen, like your wings and your families.’ When I swung Gwyn’s arm up, his fingers entwined with mine, he glanced at me, startled. ‘First choice? Gwyn as father of your people.’
He wrenched away his hand. ‘We’re not people, see, and I can’t be a son, let alone a father.’
I gripped him by his shoulders. ‘To hell with that. You’re real angels. Does Gwyn get the vote?’
The stamping of feet and beating of new wings.
I grinned, ‘Congratulations, you’re a father.’
Gwyn stroked his fingers through Dillon’s ruby feathers; Dillon shuddered, tipping back his head. ‘Tidy.’ He stepped further into the ring of Broken, his face scrunched in thought. ‘Second choice? We’re not Broken anymore, but born again as Blood Angels, birthed by the princess.’
A storm of stomping and flapping. It echoed through the Hollow.
Congratulations, I was a mother.
Gwyn nodded, before his shoulders straightened. The flares deep in his eyes raged higher. ‘I’ll lead us to save our Broken brothers.’
A rebellion?
I’d only thought about Angel HQ. Rebel had told me he hadn’t grown up here, however, and I knew angels and vampires lived around the world.
How many more Broken were enslaved? And how could I fight to save a world, whilst a people suffered?
The bowl, empty now apart from a scarlet gilding, was held up beneath me.
I glanced down at Ash and Rebel, who’d knelt in front of me, each grasping one side of the bowl.
‘I said no bastard kneeling,’ I muttered, pulling my hand through my hair.
‘Do we look like Blood Angels?’ Ash smirked.
‘I told you I’d never kneel by order,’ Rebel’s voice shook; his collar was dark against the pale of his neck. ‘This is me, willingly at your feet.’
My eyes widened. When I gently kissed Rebel, sparks jumped between us.
…Hurt me, kiss me, burn me…
Rebel didn’t pull away, even as his lips blistered.
It was me who leapt back, pressing my fingertips against the flames.
Rebel’s look was soft, sad, and understanding. ‘Take it easy, Feathers, you can’t help who you are. Not in this poisoned place.’
Vampire Princess (Rebel Angels Book 2) Page 23
