The Airel Saga Box Set: Young Adult Paranormal Romance

by Aaron Patterson

I got the very strong sense that Kale was like a gift from God. It was a radical change in my thinking.

  I sat down. Still, I had an axe to grind with Kale, especially if he was indeed friend and not foe. I decided to cut right to it: “My parents—”

  “Are fine,” he finished for me.

  I wanted to believe him, but I desired proof. I was thrown. All I could manage was, “But—” I didn’t like how these negotiations were going. It was worse than asking my dad for the car keys on a Friday night.

  “Airel, you need to learn how to trust me, and how to be patient as you wait for the answers you seek.”

  “But what does that have to do with my concern for my parents, for my life?”

  He was briefly taken aback, I could tell, but he dodged the question a little. “You may not be ready to see the answers yet. And what good would it do you to see anything that you cannot understand?” His eyes spoke volumes of kindness and empathy.

  I gave up, shaking my head. It was obvious that Kale wasn’t going to tell me anything but what he wanted to tell me, and there was no amount of bargaining that would change that. That didn’t mean I couldn’t try, though. “Okay, whatever. Just why am I here, then?”

  He appeared appreciative that I had changed my tack. “Airel, you are here to begin your training.”

  “Training. Like,” I couldn’t help giggling a little bit, “superhero training?”

  “If you don’t learn control, you’ll be a danger to everyone around you, including yourself.” A hint of a smile showed on his pale features. I turned to look at Michael. In spite of myself, I felt like I needed to be pinched.

  Michael leaned into me. “We should stick together. I think whatever he knows, we need to know. This is uncharted territory, if you know what I mean.” Michael took my hand in his. I could feel his pulse, and I couldn’t help but grin. His heart was beating just as fast as mine was.

  I turned back to Kale. “All right. What do we do first?”

  “‘We?’ ‘We’ won’t be doing anything. Understand, children, Airel needs to be here—as for you, Michael, you’re here for other reasons altogether.”

  I was seriously chafed now. “‘Children?’ How dare you?” I mounted my high horse and looked condescendingly down at him from it. “Don’t ever call me ‘child.’” I wasn’t angry at him for that as much as I was for what it implied: that I somehow belonged to him. I was so enraged that I could barely formulate the thoughts in my head, which, I was aware, he would probably be probing.

  He sighed in response. “Airel, your training is to be solo. Michael cannot undergo any of it. Most of it, he will not even be allowed to watch. You must learn these things in the quiet of solitude; you must become accustomed to your instruction one-on-one.” He stood and walked to a small, rough table that was standing by the windows. On it were several books, one of which was the Bible we had been using earlier, and all of which were very old. “Your first course of study will be history.”

  He selected one of the books. It was an imposing-looking volume, and me being somewhat of a book junky, although not a history fan, I nearly salivated looking at its hide-bound cover. He walked it back to the table, and as he did, my mind flooded with what could only be described as destiny. There was no other way to express it.

  “Your history, Airel.” His voice was filled with pleasure and pain, and as he said the words, he looked at me the way my dad did sometimes, right before he would tell me that he loved me. He placed the book on the table before me.

  I looked at it, and I had to admit, even before I ever touched it, the moment felt heavy. His words reverberated through me. I reached out my right hand to the book to open its ancient cover. As my hand neared it, it began to feel magnetic to me, like I couldn’t draw back even if my life depended on it. The tip of my finger rested at last on its front cover, releasing a torrent of sound in my head, a shout of triumph:

  KREIOS.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  1250 B.C.—The City of Ke’elei

  COLD SEEPED INTO THE place where Kreios lay awake fidgeting. Sleep eluded his grasp tonight. He resolved himself to that particular fate as he lay staring at the sky, watching the North Star’s constancy. He did not like the situation. He was wrestling with whether or not the council was willing to lie to him—or at any rate, to obscure their motives. It scared him. He wondered, though he attempted to reject the thought from his mind, if there was a secret alliance with the Seer within the council. It was unthinkable. It nagged at him, and he fidgeted again as he wrestled with it in his mind.

  “You sleep less than I do; I did not think that was possible.” Yamanu lit his pipe in a fluid motion. He drew in and let out a puff of smoke. “Your thoughts betray your heart. If you die, how is that going to help your daughter? Are you better off dead?” Yamanu pulled his cloak tighter to his neck and looked out past Kreios at the moon.

  Kreios kept his gaze on the steady North Star, unmoving in the heavens, and the stars reflected in his eyes like infinitesimal diamonds in a sea of black. “She is all I have. Victory will be victory. Even if the victory is as small as my daughter and I flee with her into hiding. And never return.” He looked at Yamanu. “We have a specific purpose, and we must use what tools we were given to accomplish what lies before us.”

  “Friend,” Yamanu said, his eyes beginning to glisten, “we shall be victorious if El wills it. I cannot see any other reason for our circumstances having been drawn up so tightly as they are in this moment. The council does not see it, or insists on being blind, but I feel very strongly about the purpose of these heavy times. For what other reason would El allow us to be so threatened? Our last remaining option is to stand firm and wage war. It is for such a time as this that we have been born, bred, raised up, brought through many trials, and tasted both the triumph of the conqueror as well as the havoc of failure. The sinews of war are clustered in our hands—we need but to pull on the proper cord at the right time. For such a time as this. We have not yet begun to pour out the cup of wrath that has been stored up for the Seer and his ilk. Father has a plan, my friend … and I believe He is revealing it to us even now.”

  Kreios cracked a smile in holy submission to El, looking at Yamanu. “You have the faith of a child, my friend. I will take heart, and I beg your forgiveness for my doubt. It is both a gift and a curse to be such a practical thinker.”

  Yamanu waved his pipe, moving the headwaters of the trail of heavy smoke that had been pooling at the hem of his robe. His laugh was pure, musical. “Friend, behold: the sun begins to rise. Let us also rise to the purpose of this day and be off. No use letting the Seer’s horde have another peaceful day.”

  Kreios stood up, stretched, popped his back, and let out a grunt. He was getting old.

  He found his daughter sleeping soundly in his brother’s room and went to her, nuzzling her skin. Memories of his beloved wife flooded over him as he held his daughter close, cradling her up to his face, hearing her breathing in soft snores. She stretched and yawned luxuriously, her body showing the rustling of her thoughts, and he wondered with loving eyes what she could be dreaming.

  He suffered himself to weep silently as he held her, wondering, but not quite asking, why the bonds of the family had had to be so violently shattered; why such a simple thing as his love for his daughter—and the memory of his beloved—would set into motion such a wicked menagerie of events. It felt as if creation might tumble in upon both of them at any moment. This moment, he decided, he made himself believe that he knew, was holy: he, warrior and husband and father, standing with his daughter in perfect embrace. He savored all of it, breathing in her fragrance deeply, remembering. He could not complain to El for his lot in life.

  Kissing her softly, he whispered blessings in her ear and laid her down on her bed. She raised a tiny hand, yawned again, and cooed before slipping back into a deep sleep. He left the room quietly so as not to awaken Maria. Zedkiel was waiting for him outside on the balcony that overlooked the beautiful city
.

  “I will do my part, brother; do not worry your thoughts. She will be safe no matter what. I swear it by the life of the blood that courses through me.” They grasped arms, Zedkiel’s long hair wafting in wispy strands in the light morning breeze.

  “I know,” was the simple response. Kreios was not able to say much more.

  Zedkiel nodded and said in a hushed tone, “She will have the child tonight. I can feel it in my bones.”

  Kreios smiled at his brother. “I am glad for you, brother. All will be well, and in the morning, you will be a father.” The thought of Zedkiel holding both his wife and their new baby in his arms brought on a pain so deep that he wondered if he might be jealous of his brother.

  Kreios turned from him, gathering up his pack and his Sword. He held the sheath and listened to the voice that hung on the air, in his spirit. He could feel his daughter through it, and he knew that she would be safe. He grasped the Sword and unsheathed it, running his hand along the flat of the blade, pulling back in surprise. The blade was warm to the touch.

  He closed his eyes, thinking back, going deep into the folds of his mind, remembering the door once again. He wondered how he had missed it for so many years. The door had not been there in the past, but now there was nothing he could do to make it go away. Its presence filled him with elation and fear, because he felt that whatever stood beyond that door was not good. He knew, furthermore, that he was going to have to pass through it. The thought made him want to run far and fast.

  ***

  YAMANU STOOD BY WATCHING his friend, smoking his pipe. He could see deep lines chiseling themselves into the surface of Kreios’ face, and it worried him. This upcoming task was suicidal. The only thing keeping Kreios from knowing his thoughts was his ability to shadow them. Yet he would fight, and fight to the death with every fiber of his body and soul. If he were to die, so be it; and if by some miracle they lived… “All glory be to El, and to El alone,” he said.

  Kreios nodded, sheathing the Sword and strapping it on. Pulling on his cloak, he tied his pack to his belt and lifted the hood over his white blond hair.

  The air felt alive. Kreios walked to the open window and jumped out without a moment’s hesitation. A crack of sound followed his arc through the clear blue sky as he broke the sound barrier. Yamanu shook his head and muttered under his breath. He shoved his pipe in his pack and jumped from the window. “Show-off.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Somewhere in the Mountains of Idaho—Present Day

  I WALKED ON A thin path that wound its way through green trees in full leaf that towered over me. I felt small and so confused, realizing that one of the things about Kale that didn’t compute, among the millions of others, was that if I remembered right, he had kidnapped Michael and me on an autumn evening in late September.

  Why, then, is it summertime in the mountains? I almost said it aloud. There should have been snow, especially if our elevation was as high as I suspected it was. But things were arranged backwards, just like the thoughts going through my brain. But like just about everything in my life, I simply had to let go. I decided that I might very well be completely out of my mind—but I also decided that all things considered, I might as well enjoy it.

  Kale had given me that old book, told me to read it. He said it was “my history,” part of my schoolwork, I guessed. I held the book under my arm as I walked. I could feel it there, as if it were alive and our movements through the wood were mutual and agreed upon at every step. Verdant green fiddleheads of young, new-growth fern studded the shady areas, and some strange plants with red-tipped leaves grew on either side of the path. Michael and Kale had stayed behind—they had “things to discuss,” and I wanted to be alone with my own thoughts anyway.

  How did we get here? At one point, an eternity ago, we had been kidnapped by a killer. Now, I had let myself slide into the kind of thinking that allowed me to consider the idea that a murderer was to be trusted. He had physically taken us, kidnapped us from the mall parking lot. It made my head swim in chaos—but I felt the Book under my arm would provide the anchor I needed in the midst of my stormy existence. I couldn’t name the assurance I had, but it was there nevertheless.

  A large boulder blocked the little trail, but I climbed over it without thinking. I was in a dream world. All the woodland sounds were closer and clearer than usual. None of this was lost on me, either. I was aware of my awareness; it was like the Book—or maybe just whatever it had awakened in me—was stimulating a dormant seed that God Himself had planted within me.

  If I was really descended from a race of immortal angelic beings, it only made sense that that seed had come from somewhere further up my family tree, waiting for the right moment to spring forth. I wondered if it had been on my mom’s side or my dad’s side, but I brushed aside everything I couldn’t understand, which was plenty, and just felt the sun beaming down on me through the canopy of the trees.

  I saw another patch of sunshine just off the path, up on a little knoll. I turned toward it and began to climb. It was a small, natural clearing of wildflowers and meadow grass, centered on an ancient redwood that had littered it with broken limbs and discarded needles. It was so undisturbed and natural that it was irresistible, and I sat down on a clump of soft green grass near the tree to read.

  I put the book on my lap and opened the front cover. There on the flyleaf were the softly glistening letters of the name of Kreios, fading as if they were not sure if they wanted to reveal themselves or remain invisible.

  I turned the page, but it was completely blank. I turned to the next, and the next, until I was flipping through the book, beginning to feel either dumb or hopeless.

  The voice came to me so loudly that I almost jumped up: “Stop.” Again, I heard it: “Stop.” This time the voice was softer. I knew who had said it. She was becoming so familiar that it was getting difficult to tell the difference between her voice and my own.

  I took a few deep breaths, calming myself, and tried to respond as best I could. “Okay. Just what am I supposed to do with an empty book?” I cracked it open again, this time to the middle, and looked up at the huge tree standing guard over me.

  “Close your eyes and search with your heart.”

  I shut my eyes, trying to clear everything out. I opened them after a while and looked at the textured, creamy white page. Still nothing. I persisted, though, and began to see that there was something there. I couldn’t distinguish it, but it was there, hidden with great care.

  I touched the page. My hands trembled. In the sunlight, if I held a single page open, I could see the imperfections in it. To me, imperfections went beyond character or charm. Imperfections were what made something real. I felt like I had died and gone to heaven. Perhaps I have.

  Letters grew under the touch of my finger on the page. Like the flyleaf, they appeared and disappeared as if underwater, like they were being viewed through a cloud. As they became more recognizable, though, I could see plainly that they were not English. Of course not. It made perfect sense, but it frustrated me.

  Though you see through a glass darkly…

  I closed my eyes again and focused on the positives. I thought of the day I had first seen Michael Alexander, how he looked at me, that knowing stare. How he seemed to accept me right from the beginning for who I was. The real question was, though, precisely who had I been? And much more importantly, who was I now? I well enough knew what Kale had told me … and I was sitting in an impossible place reading an impossible book with impossible figures on the page that probably spoke about impossible things … which were impossible for me to read.

  I opened my eyes to find that I had been crying and that a single tear had dropped onto the page, soaking in instantly with a rainbow of color. I was so worried that I had somehow destroyed an irreplaceable book that I couldn’t see straight—but I realized that I was able to understand the text on the page now. It was a smooth script, a beautiful hand, and the ink was so dark and crisp that I thought I
might be sucked into the world within the words.

  The world I had known was so thin. Now as I read, I was sure that it was somehow. Thin—and unreal.

  1250 B.C. New moon full and low.

  THE BATTLE AHEAD WEIGHS upon my mind as a heavy stone. Part of me desires nothing more than to flee, taking Eriel as far away from the Seer as possible. But another part of me desires nothing more than to remove the Seer’s head from his body and place it on a pike on the highest hill for all to see. How is it possible for evil to so completely fill up such an empty vessel? There seems to be no end to this madness. I must take my stand against him, though I remain uneasy. I trust El; but it is difficult to do so. Though the Sword of Light has returned to me, I find no rest for my tortured soul.

  Kreios

  It was a journal. Kreios. I had heard that name when I had touched the Book the first time, too, as if the Book spoke for itself as to who owned it. I had been given the secret history of his life. I flipped through the pages, astounded at the span of time his life encompassed. The beginning date was 2700 B.C., and the last entry was 788 B.C. That’s an interesting wrinkle—how could someone who had lived before Christ know precisely how many years before Christ he had lived?

  I skimmed through more pages and found that they had all been written in the same fluid and beautiful hand. It had to have been written by one person. There’s no way one man could live that long…

  But He wasn’t a man. He was one of the angels, or descended from them—I wasn’t sure which. That’s what Kale had called them: Sons of El. I wondered if they lived forever. Maybe they could be killed. This Book did end; perhaps it meant that Kreios had met his end. From the looks of the final entry, it didn’t look good for Kreios.

  I turned back to the beginning, deciding to read the whole story in order. I learned the whole story of Kreios. I read the account of his time in heaven before the Fall, his love for a woman whom he would never name ... and other things as well. The pain I felt for him as he wrote about his beloved, as I read his Book, produced in me tears of my own. I inevitably compared his love for her with my own love for Michael, and I marveled at the pain his love for her endured. I took it as a warning that there would be pain of my own that I would have to bear, as well.