The Airel Saga Box Set: Young Adult Paranormal Romance

by Aaron Patterson

  Kreios took out his own pipe, filled it, and it lit without the assistance of fire. He drew on it slowly, allowing time to savor the sweet, relaxing smoke. It tasted like serenity. It was wholly unlike anything mankind had ever known. He let the smoke roll out of his mouth like a waterfall and curl up on his chest, drifting slowly down, draping him in a cloak. He leaned back to gaze at the stars with his old friend.

  Yamanu was his oldest friend. He was a Shadower. In another age, it was a very useful gift that a few possessed for combating seers, medicine men, and wizards. He could draw a shade over himself, or even a group, into which the enemy was not able to see.

  Kreios had grown up with Yamanu. He could remember when they had learned to fly back home, where the streets were gold. Life under the sun provides such bitterness, and the sweet diminishes day by day.

  Every member of the Arch race could fly—or at least, were supposed to. Yamanu had not taken to it as well as the other boys. One day he and Kreios stole to the entrance of the white tower, where only warriors were permitted. Kreios had the appearance of a boy of twelve, Yamanu ten. The doors stood as tall as five men and were over an arm’s length thick, with iron bands running throughout like spider legs holding them together. They heaved the doors open and walked into the darkness, closing them behind them with great effort. Shafts of light illuminated the circling stairway through windows as it led upward beyond them.

  To ascend the white tower just to jump off, just to learn to fly, was rash indeed. It was built as a lookout post for the warriors to use, not as a playground for boys. But some boys were more precocious than others. Some boys had to test everything. And without a doubt, Kreios and Yamanu were engaging in flight practice long before the Old Masters would have permitted. But in Kreios’ chest, there surged the heart of a king. He was not content with the safer jump-offs, where everyone else learned. At the tower’s top, he felt synergy, rightness.

  “Come with me, Yam, if you want to see things for what they really are. You will not be disappointed.” Kreios ran three steps at a time, with Yamanu close behind him. Kreios was not afraid of death. It was a foreigner to them in that age. The only ones who tasted death were characters in children’s tales, stories of the Original War.

  The tower pierced the sky. Even clouds were sometimes dashed against its white stone walls and cleaved in two. It was a beacon, a great statement of daring just to stand upon its battlements amongst the peaks of the mountains El Himself had crowned with glory.

  Yamanu stopped short when they reached the top, bursting into the light of the unbroken sky. Since it was his first time, he had not yet seen the expansive view, the breathtaking drop below them. Gusts of wind such as they had never felt, wild and unpredictable, greeted them as the sunlight kissed their faces.

  All that surrounded them was a short parapet, perhaps waist high, with one opening. A platform jutted out into thin air there, both warning and daring them to come closer. The tower was a perfectly circular spire. All that intruded upon the symmetry at the top was the rectangle cut into the floor that admitted the stairway, which, as was agreed upon between them, was a one-way ticket—the only way down from the top was to fly.

  “It is very far to the bottom,” Kreios said. They were both breathing hard. “The wind currents up here will keep us aloft for a little while,” he said, poking Yamanu in the ribs, “even if you do not know how to fly.”

  Yamanu looked over the edge and took a step back as a spasm of fear ran its icy fingers up and down his spine. “Are you sure this is safe?” he asked.

  “My friend, you and I are as safe as a babe in his mother’s arms.” Kreios grinned at him from ear to ear. “The worst that can happen to us is the acquisition of a bruised ego. And trust me, friend, I will not allow you to forget it if you fail to catch these wind currents.” He slapped Yamanu on the back powerfully.

  He walked forward to the opening in the wall in front of him. As soon as he went out past it, the unpredictable gusts turned violent. A weaker boy would have been tossed in an instant, but Kreios was not weak. He took another deliberate step toward the end of the platform, stopping two steps from the end. He looked over his shoulder at Yamanu, who had been putting on a brave face. But Kreios was intrepid, and his expression had become mischievous and daring. He looked forward, ran the last two steps, and jumped with his arms out like a bird.

  Yamanu of course followed him, and learned to fly that day. It was an age ago.

  But even now, here, on this porch in front of this little shack, Yamanu did not look his age. Though his beard was full and white and his head was so bald that it gleamed in the moonlight, he was lean, strong, and young. Just as when he was a child, a dark aura hovered around him.

  A shadow.

  “I have been waiting for this day,” Yamanu said, breaking the silence. Both of them still looked ahead and above at the stars, not at one another. “You come with haste.” Then he turned to regard his old friend. “I know why.” Yamanu took a long drag from his pipe and then looked back up to the heavens.

  “Do you indeed?” Kreios looked at him. “And already.” He puffed his pipe.

  “Indeed I do. And I see you’ve found your old plaything, the Sword of Light.” Yamanu smiled broadly.

  Kreios set his pipe on the rail of the porch. “My daughter is in great danger, old friend. We must take her to the mountains of Ke’elei.”

  Yamanu turned, looking on him with wonder. “The City of Refuge.” He sighed. “This is more than I imagined.” He paused again and looked at the ground. The smoke had pooled at his feet, fusing itself to the shadow that clung to him always, in symbiosis. “Tell me … is it true that your wife is dead?”

  Kreios had to take a moment. His hands were trembling as he nodded. “It is true.”

  Yamanu reached a hand to Kreios’ shoulder, touching him affectionately. The tears around his eyes mingled with a furrowed brow. “I am sorry, my old friend. She was everything to you.”

  There was only a moment more of silence and consideration until a fire was lit within the eyes of the Shadower and his decision was made. He stood. “We must go.” He descended the rickety steps and began pacing briskly in a little circle, his nervous energy spilling over. “I can feel your urgency,” he said, then paused, looking to the east. “With that easterly wind, I fear the Seer is closer than you might have guessed.”

  Kreios stood and came close.

  Yamanu moved behind him quickly and spoke in a whisper, “I will fight with you to the death, my friend.”

  “We must be careful, old friend. We fly to the headwaters of the Two Rivers, and you know—”

  “—That it is easy for an angel to drown, yes, I do. But my dear Kreios, from here forward, if we meet the Brotherhood in battle, we might just as well hazard a flight over one of the great oceans. That would be safer. But we do not engage in war because we think it is safe.”

  Kreios smiled, blood thirst in his eyes. “No, indeed. Peace is not a thing that is kept. It is a thing that is made.”

  CHAPTER XXVI

  A LARGE TENT, LOW and wide, held up by castoff branches and antlers, hovered above the earth in the darkness like a putrescent bubble. A low, hideous light emanated from deep within this diseased sac, which was ringed by hundreds of other tents at a distance that suggested supreme command, fear of authority, or both.

  Choking smoke soughed from the flaps of the tent as the Seer looked deep into the pulsing red of the Bloodstone.

  Intense, bloody light bloomed from the gemstone like a mortal wound in clear water. Even though it fellated and fed upon his life and will, the ecstasy it defecated into his heart and mind ensured that he could not pull away. He lusted for the hot glow—he obsessed in the same dreams night after night as it whispered improbable keys to riddles and mysteries he had never before imagined.

  The seams in the tent’s skin betrayed the goings on within. The light dimmed, flared up, and then faded back to a fragment of its former self while those without
watched the spectacle at their own peril. The Bloodstone might call a new name soon, which was an addictive kind of misery for any man who beheld the masked truth on which its parasitic power was founded. A host was a host was a host. New alternatives for the Bloodstone were being prepared all the time, and attrition was a parlor game in which the tokens were blood and flesh.

  The camp numbered only a thousand men, hosts to their Brothers, a thousand demons. This small clan was not as strong when the men were separated, the demons manifest in their true forms. The Brothers, demonic agents of the kingdom of hell, sought lodging in the minds of men, feeding upon their life force. The hosts followed the Seer, the Supreme Host of the Bloodstone, consumed either with every filth to which they could give themselves, or to which the demons could tether them. The hosts, though erroneous, regarded the Brothers as men too—thinking they merely possessed kingly authority, which was never questioned without mortal consequence. The hosts had been blinded and cursed by the power exchange—power they thought they received from the demonic relationship, but which, in fact, they gave and re-gave time and again to the agents of hell that fed off them and eventually killed them. This deception was an addiction both parties found irresistible. All of them, Brother or man, were coerced into slavery by their fear of the Seer, and ultimately by the Bloodstone the Seer bore on a chain around his neck.

  The Seer groaned, his body writhing. “Yesss … Yes, show me what you will have me do … ssspeak.” His face was consumed, his eyes became empty sockets that filled with blood, and the demon light replaced any remaining human features with something entirely different. The figure that stared into the pulsing pendant was ancient, repulsive, expressing real evil, a profane idol rotting on a plinth.

  His hollow sockets blazed. His lips parted, revealing jagged black teeth. The red of the Bloodstone parted just enough to allow him a glimpse inside. An angel—no—the angel, Kreios, automaton of El at Ai, herald messenger of so many injuries to the Brotherhood over the millennia, had finally broken the treaty, had declared open war. This the Seer already knew, but being led back to it like a dog by the Bloodstone was shaming. Worse, though, was that the enemy’s offspring still lived. The Seer spit and cursed at this indictment, at the sight of his arch enemy.

  In response to his unspoken question, the Bloodstone split open, at first a narrow rift of darkness, then spreading wide, bathing the Seer in hate. The old man writhed, rocking back on his heels and toppling over, sprawling in the dust.

  Arms curling into cadaverous claws, the Seer opened his mouth to scream out in pain, but nothing issued forth. The Bloodstone grew hot and burned his hand, melting the skin, filling up his mind with a vision of the future; breaking his will even further. He arched his back, thrashing against it, fought it, spewing and retching—but the torture continued.

  A silken voice then spoke to him in a lost tongue. He could not have dared to try to speak these words, but here upon the cursed ground he could at least comprehend what he was being told. “Listen to me, Seer. There is not much left to you. The immortal Kreios draws near to the City of Refuge. You must kill him and seize the child before they reach the walls… or I shall have no use for you anymore.”

  The Bloodstone burst into red flame, blanketing his body, enveloping him, lifting him off the ground. He hovered upright, eyes wide and knowing. He clutched at the stone and whined, a whipped dog, spittle drenching his cracked, bleeding lips.

  The Bloodstone went dark, abandoning him.

  He was thrown violently to the ground. Crumpled on the floor like so much waste, the Seer groaned, coming back to himself. He shook his head and regained his feet. He looked at the now-cold pendant with the dim recognition of a dumb beast, unable to recall something very important. But hanging over his mind like a ready avalanche was the certainty of the next step the army was to take. That decision was immutable.

  Was it he who had made the decision? He replaced it around his neck and tucked it under his robe. He flattered himself that he was a partner with his master. But that was why he was Seer—he was so easily persuaded of his own importance. He did not dare to dream that he would be like every Seer before him: completely replaceable.

  No. His reign would be different.

  He needed some clean air. He pulled back his hood, revealing the face of a young man with smooth black hair, unblemished pale skin, and eyes that were pools of black wherein death lurked beneath the ripples.

  Wickedness housed in his smile, he brooded over what he would do to Kreios. The smile pulled taut. He contested with voices in his mind about what would be done with the girl. So much enjoyment awaited him. He would try to savor it this time.

  Kreios could watch.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  KREIOS AND YAMANU JOINED Zedkiel at the headwaters of the Two Rivers, and it didn’t take long to assess their situation. Maria needed rest and help. They would have to split up. Adding to their urgency was Zedkiel’s report that their encampment had been detected not long ago. In the darkest phase of the night, he’d heard the watchful breathing of a Brotherhood scout over the susurration of the rivers.

  The three angels silently but speedily packed their small camp, burying the fire and anything else that might leave a trail. Kreios knew they had been spotted, but he didn’t want to throw any bones to the dogs. Since they had a Shadower with them, he knew that the Brotherhood could only track them by following their physical trail—but only if they left one.

  Kreios glanced at Maria, then Zedkiel. Maria was obviously exhausted, but travel was a necessary evil. No amount of rest would rejuvenate her until she delivered the baby. She needed skilled help for the remainder of her pregnancy or she could die along with her baby.

  Then Zedkiel announced his decision. “No need to worry about hiding the camp. We must take to the sky and rely upon Yamanu, that he will indeed hide us from the reconnaissance of the Seer.” He shoved the last of the deer jerky into his pack, tied the drawstring, and slung it over his shoulder. His face was drawn tight with worry, but when Kreios smiled he loosened up, bringing back the sparkle in his eyes.

  Yamanu broke in. “Do not be troubled, my old friends. I am as strong as I ever have been, and in the presence of the Sword of Light, my gift shall be even more powerful. The enemy clans will have been wandering in the woods for days by the time they realize we are gone.” He snapped his fingers and shadow dust floated in the air, shedding foggy blackness. Whenever he moved, it fell off his body to the ground.

  Kreios was itching to go. “The time for talking has now passed us by. We must move. I can feel their army near; they must be no farther than over the nearest rise to the west, and they are moving fast. It will be impossible to fight them in the air while also keeping my daughter and Maria safe. It will leave us outnumbered, with too much distraction from the fight.” Kreios possessed a practical mind, but now he seemed like he had no sense of humor at all. The message was received. This was not a game.

  Their mounts would hide themselves deep in the wood, far from where any man would tread. Kreios, removing bridles and saddles, sent the horses away with a glance, placing his daughter carefully in her little sling.

  The angels rose slowly from the ground in battle formation: Kreios on point, Zedkiel tenderly carrying Maria at his right hand and Yamanu on his left, already difficult to see. The air was cool under the brightness of a full moon. A touch of spring could already be felt, a prophecy of hope to them.

  Kreios looked to the west. The unholy flicker of Brotherhood war torches, fueled as always by the fat of swine, greeted his gaze. Black and gray mist hovered around the angelic troika, fingers of dark smoke, masking them in shadow. They quickly faded into the night sky.

  Turning north, soaring like eagles on desert updrafts, the travelers coasted gracefully toward a city to which they had never been. They hoped and prayed it did exist. They hoped more fervently that Yamanu’s gift would be effective, that the secret city would remain a secret.

  The sword grew war
m against Kreios’ back. An idea surfaced in his mind that the Sword knew the way home and would lead them.

  He breathed in, a sigh of relief that he allowed to become tainted with hesitation. There was something else, too. Something that he had been avoiding. The Sword was definitely connected to his daughter—he had been feeling that very clearly, and it was obvious why. After all, why not? She was her father’s daughter. Why shouldn’t she too be able to wield it when she was ready? Kreios therefore struggled with the very notion that he might one day share the responsibility of the Sword of Light with another, especially since up to now he had been flattering himself that it had been forged for him alone.

  He pushed away from these troubles. They were for another day under the sun. For now, he would not rest until he was sure they were safe, having arrived in the safest place on earth.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Boise, Idaho—Present Day

  WHEN THE DOOR OPENED and I saw Michael Alexander standing there, I stood paralyzed, hoping with everything in me that what I feared was not happening, that this was all just a bad dream. He was staring at me with an unsettling mixture of awe and disbelief.

  “Your head ... the …” His voice was soft, questioning and spooked. “It’s gone. I mean, it just disappeared.” He reached out, muttering something incoherent, trying to touch my forehead. But I ducked and took a step backward. He lowered his eyebrows and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Airel—”

  My mind refused to function. Despite the fact that I needed it more than ever at this very moment, it hid like a stupid kindergartener on her first day of school, refusing to come out from under the bed. Should I pretend that I didn’t know what was happening? Play innocent? Or should I fess up? Still, I wondered, Why can’t I let myself bring Kim in on all of this? Why did I feel so safe around Michael when I barely knew the guy?