Legends Of Astræa
Book 1
Cupid’s Arrow
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the Author’s imagination, used fictitiously, and are not meant to represent anyone real (even though my characters might feel so). This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
Legends of Astraea, Cupid’s Curse 2018
Copyright © 2018 Sophia Alessandrini
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the publisher’s permission is an unlawful piracy and theft of the authors intellectual property. To use material from the book other than for review purposes, obtain the publisher’s prior written permission at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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and Sophia Alessandrini.
About this book
Sometimes some things are better left alone. So many things I thought I needed to know, right. Nuh. I was wrong.
My name is Ailie and ever since the death of Mother Clarisse … Uh let me rephrase that, "ever since the murder of Mother Clarisse," every girl and every Sister at St. Mary's thinks I am evil. Crap, even I think I might be evil.
So, the truth is, evil incarnate by the name of Ash, has been stalking me. He wants me to change the world, in the sort of Mephistophelian way. Why villains were always so cliched, unimaginative and unoriginal? I have big dreams, going to college, making new friends, finding a job, going to parties and meeting cute boys. Being a normal human girl. Right?
Uh, forget that, Heaven had different plans for me and ever since that effin golden arrow struck me, everything went south. Well, actually more like east. It brought me across the Atlantic Ocean to France, where I met this gorgeous Strzyga prince. What can I say, things really-really got out hand and is all the golden arrow's fault …
Dedication
To my father who always believed in me and my dreams, to my mother the strongest woman I have ever known, and to my sister Sandy for always being my creative muse, my unwavering cheerleader, and my best friend. For my Ana and Guille who love me unconditionally. For Jack who cooked dinner many nights when I was writing and took me to France to take pictures of underground caves, and creepy graveyards for inspiration. To every author I read. To anyone who might have extended their hand in the making of this book. Also want to thank my guardian angels from Joy Editing, Cassie and Angie—you rock. And to all my beloved fan-readers out there, without you, my life would be utterly boring. xoxo
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
The untamed and raw power of thunder reverberated inside the stone-and-mortar chapel, giving a fair warning of the splitting wrath that beamed from the very heavens. The clean scent of wet earth fused with ionization and permeated the interior as a cloud tumbled out low like an upside-down eruption from the vaulted ceiling. A sudden and foreboding feeling radiated from within the cloud with an achromatic and insubstantial light that blazed so brilliant-white, it blinded.
Out of fear, the three watchers instantly prostrated in worship on the floor. They never as much as lifted their glances. To do so would have been considered a sign of disrespect, something they couldn’t afford since they were Fallen Angels.
Bereft of any audible sensation, an unearthly silence saturated every molecule of air inside. A clunk sound of metal hitting the chapel’s stone floor interrupted the ominous silence.
In front of them lay a polished golden bow and arrow. The arrow was composed of two belonging and matching pieces, each intended to strike separate targets.
The air changed, and the celestial portal above them closed, but the lingering remnants of cloud effluvium were the only evidence left from the stormy heavens. Stupefied glances exchanged between the three watchers as they carefully composed themselves.
“Cupid’s arrow,” Baraqyal’s voice was almost a whisper, and his face had a fleeting stiffening. As the gold bow and arrows glowed over the stone floor, the tension grew among the group.
“Apparently, we must hasten our decision.” Azaziel’s stare was fixed on the bow and arrow, the same golden bow and arrows that were renamed after Azaziel had been portrayed as the Greek god, Eros. The Greeks, unsure about Eros’s parentage, imagined him as from Heaven and from Earth. Well, they were close enough, one could say. After all, what was a Fallen Angel but the offspring of heaven outcast on earth.
“Why now? Why did we have to wait sixteen years to make the decision, if she is such a risk to the world?” The timing couldn’t be worse. Kabaiel questioned the heavenly ne plus ultra command, but he wasn’t going to disobey their creator’s direct order. For what got them outcasted from heaven had been their deceiving use of free will. He paced the stone floor, speculating over the girl’s fate, his spirits low. History could repeat itself. Astræa—“The Star Maiden,” Ishtar, Pandora, or Virgo, all the same—the celestial virgin could repeat her direful mistake.
Pandora’s box? Pah. Foolish mortals could not understand real evil, so they made pretty stories for children, Kabaiel reasoned. Pandora was an amalgamation of several deities—Assyrian, Greek, and Roman. The myth had been simplified over the millennia, mistranslated, read to children, and ignored as a pretty fancy. The collective power of the most twisted evil had hidden the true meaning of the legend.
It was never “Pandora’s box,” and, unlike the Christians’ brilliant story about the Garden of Eden and the fall of man, it was no forbidden fruit that had tempted Astræa.
Personally, he very much liked the Assyrian version of the legend, which came closer to the real story. In a willful act of pure hubris, filled with the righteous, cold, and contemptible certainty of a demigoddess, Ishtar—the Assyrian version of Astræa—alone had opened the gate to the land of no return. It had been a desperate fit of loss for her dead husband, Tammuz. Her powerful presumption had broken the rules of the universe to find him, u
nleashing manifest evil on the planet, cursing humanity with millennia of horrors, suffering, and pain. Just abominable.
One could call it the underworld, or the land of no return, but hell was its truest definition. A sobering thought.
“This is insane. She is about to be sixteen, and the stars are about to grant her power beyond her understanding. It is too risky,” Baraqyal said, interrupting Kabaiel’s thoughts. He, too, felt the weight of what they were about to do.
“The Gavril cannot protect her any longer from The Destroyer.” What Azaziel said was true. Ashmedai or Asmodeus, referred to as The Destroyer in the Apocalypse, was the second darkest Fallen in the world, and he commanded the largest of demonic legions on earth. Unlike the watchers, he was pure evil. He was a supernal being, meaning he was invincible, untouchable, and a true immortal. Solely a higher power could fight and annihilate their kind, like God himself or one of those high-hat archangels, but those wouldn’t come to earth unless it was the end of world.
“We will break the cardinal rules of destiny,” Baraqyal argued. It seemed like the end of the world, which was exactly what The Destroyer wanted.
“Her soul wouldn’t stand a chance against Asmodeus if she stepped one foot outside consecrated grounds without the help of the arrow.” Kabaiel made his point. He couldn’t emphasize enough how short of time they were.
Baraqyal grunted. “But—” His difficulty accepting the moral dilemma made Kabaiel interrupt him without having to roll his kohl-inked-black eyes.
“She will not know the difference,” Kabaiel said, crossing his fingers that it would be true, that she wouldn’t know she had been targeted to love another, other than her true love. However, the only way to guarantee the fate of the world was her complete and absolute union with the counterpart of the arrow. It was the price she had to pay. Indeed, it seemed wrong to fix one wrong with another to make it right.
The group faded within the shadow world and reached their first target. Azaziel raised the golden bow and aimed Cupid’s arrow at the prince, feeling like one of those ridiculous blindfolded and chubby cherubs portrayed by the classical Roman tradition.
“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind
And therefore is winged Cupid, painted blind.
Nor hath love’s mind of any judgment taste;
Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.
And therefore is love said to be a child
Because in choice he is so oft beguiled,” Kabaiel said, teasing his brother.
“I always loved dear old Shakespeare.” Baraqyal arched his eyebrow mischievously, exchanging glances with a grinning Kabaiel. Azaziel shrugged his shoulders, ignoring their mock. It had been always his job to be the archer of the three.
“Right on… target,” Azaziel added, still aiming.
Kabaiel and Baraqyal gasped as the swishing sound of the golden arrow struck the prince’s backside, hitting its mark. A dense golden light vanished within moments of striking, leaving almost no evidence—except for a luminance of pure love in his heart, capable of shielding from evil. The first one of two arrows had been a success.
There was no going back now. A person, or even a deity, who was shot by Cupid’s arrow would be filled with uncontrollable desire of dual nature, as heavenly and earthly love.
“Now they are meant to fall in love,” Azaziel announced grimly.
“Only God knows what He is doing.” Although Baraqyal’s tone of voice implied the cure was worse than the sickness, he was holding onto some hope.
Now, the second arrow needed to be fired off for the imprint to be completed. Like magnets, both targets would seek and find each other.
Like two pieces of the same oneness.
Chapter 1
The gray morning loomed sad and empty, tainted with melancholy—mine. Perhaps it was that the despair that filled me made it impossible to see anything in the world other than grief and loneliness.
The wind rose dispiritedly, lifting the ends of the black ribbon Sister Magdalene had tied to the sleeve of my second-hand cardigan earlier that morning. Her pursed lips and contemptuous expression were filled with more disgust than usual. She grunted between her teeth how much she disapproved of me. I fixed my eyes onto the silver cross hanging long over the black folds of her nun habit, just to avoid her pigmented birthmark on her face. She didn’t like anyone staring at it.
Particularly me.
But I didn’t care about her birthmark. I never did—really. However, that didn’t matter. Not at that moment, when there were no words for the sorrow and anger I felt in my heart, as I numbly watched everyone dressed in black. I managed to keep my eyes averted to hide the desperate tears that threatened to spill.
Black couldn’t begin to describe this day.
The only person that had been important in my life being abruptly and violently ripped from me left me feeling an unassailable grief. It was so profound, I didn’t know how I would overcome it—a void so poignant and so wretched, it extinguished all light and all happiness.
Father Peter’s voice droned on. I could barely hear his words, even when I was the only one standing next to him. His calm demeanor was as unnerving as it was condescending. Just like everyone else in this world, he had thrown a stone at me.
I felt everyone’s eyes on me. Mr. Tarbelli’s gaze was more intense than the other teachers who sat next to him across the grave. Mr. Tarbelli was the new, tall, young teacher—too young, in my opinion, to be a teacher—whose good looks made just about the entire academy swoon whenever he walked into a room. Everyone adored him. Everyone except me. Something about him did not check out completely.
I didn’t know if Sister Magdalene had put me up front out of consideration because of my special relationship with Mother Clarisse or intentionally singled me out so everyone would shun me.
However, at the sight of the coffin in front of me, my entire being dazed with disbelief that something that utterly bad had happened. Deep despair lashed out. I could barely breathe, so I glanced over the graveyard, hoping for any distraction to take me away from my dreaded sorrow. Funny how I had always in the past wandered the graveyard alone, hiding from everyone when I wanted a moment of solitude. I sought the company of the large angel statue just a few steps from what is now Mother Clarisse’s grave. A large black crow stood over it. I had never seen one so large. His black feathers gleamed, even without the sun. He just stood there, while I couldn’t wait to get away from it or away from the real meaning of the graveyard.
Death.
Every cross and tombstone told the same story. All those people were dead, under our feet. Dead like Mother Clarisse inside that simple black coffin. The thought of it brought the need to throw myself at the coffin and stop everyone from taking her from me. But it was a futile exercise. She was gone forever, I realized. A large knot in my throat threatened to either asphyxiate me or break free into a wreaking and raw scream as I stood so close to the grave. I stepped back, until I bumped into someone, winning me the mocking snickering of my dear classmates.
The Sisters in their starched habits lifted white handkerchiefs to their eyes—mine were dry and burning. I could hear Sisters Magdalene and Agatha clearly whispering to each other from their sitting places.
“After all Mother Superior did for her.” Sister Agatha’s softly spoken words clearly reached my ears and the highborn and mean-spirited classmates standing very close behind me. Her reproachful stares were no accident. A pronounced aquiline bridge in her nose dominated her face, giving her a permanent derisive expression, as if everything that crossed her path had a bad smell, particularly if that something was me. That was also something she shared in common with Sister Magdalene. However, I had the strange feeling that Sister Agatha hated me the most.
This was not the moment or the place for such an undignified comment. Even Father Peter gave her a disapproving glance. He stood alone on my left, at the head of the grave. He had traveled a long way for the funeral.
The unfairness of their judgment was hard to fight. Anger curled inside me and fought to get out. But emotions were a luxury I couldn’t afford, especially in front of everyone. Things never went right when I did embrace emotion. Sparks sometimes appeared around my hands, or there were strange random electric fluctuations at the academy when something bothered me. I was aware that Sister Agatha and Sister Magdalene believed I was unnatural, even evil, but it seemed like that was all it took for my classmates to label me besides orphan—freak.
Not all was bad. I was capable of healing animals and also had a photographic memory. I’d read nearly all the books in the academy’s library and found that once I read something, I never forgot it. Sometimes I could use telekinesis to move books. However, as luck had it, I had unintentionally scared the Sisters a few times, among other things, when books moved on their own, levitating between shelves. I had been trying to test my ability.
Unfortunately, there were things the Sisters wouldn’t ignore, like the nightmares or injuries that disappeared the next day or that I had never been sick. The exception was that one time I had overextended myself healing my wolf friend. Mother Clarisse had hidden me in my room, not calling for a doctor. That was the first rule I learned then. No doctors. I scratched the pesky itching on my left arm that had been persistent since the night before.
If my powers were “gifts,” as mother Clarisse used to call them, they would have come with the ability to heal the annoying itching and turn myself invisible—even only for a second to keep the Sisters from seeing fresh hot tears well up in my eyes.
They were gifts that I, for one, couldn’t understand nor control most of the time and that could be misunderstood as evil. I would incriminate myself further in everyone’s eyes if I did, and Mother Clarisse wouldn’t be able to come to my rescue as she always did. It took everything I had to hold it in.
Mother Clarisse had always exhorted the importance of controlling my emotions, and I knew she wouldn’t have wanted me to lose control. It was the least I could do for her on this day, out of respect and love for her.
“Not even a single tear for the woman who took her off the streets,” I heard Sister Magdalene say aloud, reminding me how pitiful I was. Her somewhat scrawny figure moved uncomfortably in her seat as Father Peter cleared his throat. She had obviously missed the memo from Father Peter.
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