Angels Soaring (Angels Rising Book 2)

by Harriet Carlton

  “So, what now? Am I supposed to just sit here?”

  “That is the general idea. Remain here, be at peace, learn what we have to teach you and allow Gabriel, Raphael and myself to run Project Delta.”

  “Project Delta?”

  “Yes, Imorean. Project Delta. Did you think that you and your classmates were the first ones we have done this to?”

  “Y – you've done this to other people?”

  Michael took a sip of the whiskey then set the half full glass down on the desk top.

  “Where do you think your, as yet unseen, upperclassmen came from?”

  “How many others have you done this to?”

  “Yours is the fourth project we have run in as many years. Projects Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie were the others, each with several hundred students. Your group takes us to a total of one thousand new recruits. In the past, well, there are too many to count.”

  Imorean's breath caught in his throat. One thousand other students? And that was just recently. Over one thousand other lives ruined? He shot to his feet, but stumbled slightly under the new weight of his wings. Gravity itself was pressing down on him. A cold stone of fear and horror had settled in his chest.

  “You're all insane,” said Imorean, narrowing his eyes. He held onto the back of the chair for a moment to gain his balance. “Do you know that? I’m leaving this place.”

  “I would like to see you try.”

  “I want no part of this plan.”

  “Then you are too late, Imorean.” Michael folded his hands atop his desk. “The supernatural genes of an angel have run in your veins since you were born. You became a part of this project when you were an infant and gave your consent to us when you signed that you agreed to our terms and conditions. Like it or not, you allowed us to do this.”

  “I didn't agree to be turned into a glorified canary!” shouted Imorean, slamming his hands down on Michael's desk. There was something horribly superior in the man’s eyes.

  “Actually, you did. You signed your life over to us when you signed the terms and conditions. You simply do not understand the end game yet. This war between us and Vortigern is not just a war between angels and demons. It is a war for all of humanity.”

  “I don't want to fight for humanity! I wanted to go to college, get a degree and get a well-paying job so I could support my family! That is all I wanted!”

  “Have you ever considered –”

  Imorean's temper fragmented. He couldn't stand to listen to anything else Michael had to say. Not this man. Not the one who had lied to him. Not the one who had ripped his world apart. His fingers closed around the nearest item. Gabriel's untouched glass of whiskey. Imorean’s hand jerked forward, splashing the amber liquid directly into the Chief Archangel's face. Michael fell silent. Imorean panted heavily and slammed the glass back on the desktop. He gained a twinge of pleasure from the furious yet stunned expression on Michael's face.

  “I think I’ve considered everything, Michael,” said Imorean standing up straight and making his way to the door, his large, unwieldy wings knocking over a stack of books as he crossed the room.

  Chapter 2

  Imorean walked as calmly as he could through the stone halls of the hospital. It was a dull kind of calm, only just covering the horrible fear that was bubbling just below the surface. The pitter-patter of his feet matched the horrible tattoo beating of his heart. The panic he was feeling now was worse by far than his fear of flying had been during the plane ride to Norway. This new terror was a fear of something that had already been done. A fear of something that could not be undone. A life that had been unraveled before his very eyes and could not be gotten back. As he walked, his chest tightened. He couldn’t breathe. Air stuck in his throat like glue. Quickly, Imorean looked for a door to the outside. He needed fresh air. He needed space. He needed to be away. It was stifling here in the hospital wing and he felt claustrophobic. If he didn't get out of doors soon he thought he might collapse.

  Before Imorean knew it, he was half running, half stumbling down the stairs, his new wings buffeting the bannisters, bare feet slapping the stone steps. He took little notice of the horrible, nauseating way his back and shoulders throbbed. New muscles, new limbs, were being stretched and pulled in all sorts of ways that Imorean wasn't sure if they should be. Wrong, wrong, wrong. All wrong.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Imorean quickly looked around for a door. When his eyes landed on one, he raced to it, ramming his body against the crash bar. He felt sheer relief when the door swung open and allowed him to exit the hospital and get out into air. Outside, he stopped and leaned on the outer, brick wall of the building. It was an autumn evening, cold, with a chill that bit straight through the thin clothes he was wearing, but that made no difference to him. If anything, it jarred him to his senses. Imorean leaned over and panted. His stomach turned. He braced his hands above his knees and retched. His stomach was empty. There was nothing for his body to get rid of. He straightened slightly, turning to press his shoulder against the wall. He tilted his head skyward. Heavy, gray clouds pressed down from above. The sky gave neither comfort nor solace. Full-body trembles racked his being. Breaths, harsh and erratic, came in ragged gasps. His long legs shook beneath him, his feet barely taking note of the rough, cold surface beneath them.

  Wings, Archangels, demons, war, the fate of humanity? It was just too much to process at once. Why him? Why had they chosen him? Imorean stood, feeling as though he was seeing the world from down a long tunnel, and trudged dazedly along the path, his feet taking him in the direction of the male dormitory. He still felt sick. Was it coincidence that Dr. Haroel had been giving an introductory lecture about angels just before Imorean had been taken to hospital? Or was it by design? Some deep instinct told him that everything had fallen into place exactly as Michael had planned it. None of the dominoes would fall until Michael mandated it.

  Imorean desperately wished his friends were awake, but he knew they were still asleep and he didn't know how long they would lie dormant. Transforming was the word Michael had used. As though they were experiments. He paused and looked over his shoulder, moving one of his wings so that he could see properly. He wanted more than anything for Roxy, Bethany, Toddy or Colton just to be here, to be with him and he with them. He hoped they were all right. Thinking of Bethany almost convinced him to turn around and go to her. She was special to him. Imorean gritted his teeth. If she got hurt, he didn’t know what he would do. He didn’t turn back though. He couldn’t stand one more stifling moment in that building. Not with Michael or Gabriel. To be alone would be better than being near them.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Imorean pushed open the door to his and Toddy's dorm room. The room had been left unlocked, a mistake which he was grateful for, as he had lost his key. He sighed and sat down heavily on his bed, his wings bending uncomfortably on the mattress. For a moment, Imorean shuffled a few muscles, trying and not really figuring out how to move them and work them to where he wanted them to be. In a way, it was horrifying. New limbs. Limbs he had never asked for. Moving these ungainly things was a little like having a new set of heavy, feathery arms. He looked over his shoulder and glared at them.

  Imorean used his own voice to break the silence in the room. “It's a set of arms I could do without.”

  The sound of his own voice did not bring comfort to him and he sighed a moment later, his glare dropping. The wings weren't going anywhere any time soon. Would he only have them for a few years or were they ... were they permanent? Imorean leaned back against the wall. He wasn't sure if he even wanted to ask. Pain shot down his spine and the teenager rocked forward again almost immediately. The tender muscles of his shoulders and back couldn't handle the added pressure of the rest of his body. Imorean retched and covered his face. The pain was enough to make him nearly vomit. Again, there was nothing in his stomach but bile. He couldn't even get comfortable. His entire body was just one, big, throbbing ball of hurt and he realized suddenly just
how much of a mercy the morphine had been. He flopped down on his stomach, one wing splaying off the side of the bed. The primary flight feathers rested on the carpet. The other wing was folded, the primaries bent toward his back.

  Imorean closed his brown eyes for a moment, wanting to use sleep as an escape from his current problem. Just to slip into a dreamless sleep would be a blessing. His entire body was starting to relax when a loud, pinging noise came from his laptop. He had left it open after its last use several days before. How it hadn’t run out of battery, he didn’t know. Imorean groaned and looked up, his blood running cold when he saw that he was getting an incoming video call from his mother. He slowly got up and stood in front of his computer. Was their technology back online? Michael hadn't said anything about it being so.

  Imorean wanted so much to see his mother, even if it was just through a video. He wanted so much to talk to her, to hear her voice. The one person who could always bring him comfort … but not now. With a heavy sigh, Imorean closed the lid of his laptop.

  He couldn't show her what had been done to him. She didn't need to be worried or fretting about him. He couldn't, he wouldn't burden his family. Not with this knowledge. For a moment, as though it would bring him closer to home, he rested his fingers on the machine. This wasn't fair. He blinked quickly, holding back tears. He slid his hand from the computer. He had never asked for this. Why him? What cruel twist of fate had allowed this to happen to him? The side of his mouth twitched down and trembled. He could feel tears of disgust and utter fury burning the backs of his eyes. He whirled around, emotions boiling over. His hands curled into tight fists. There was no outlet. He was like a wild creature trapped inside a cage that grew ever smaller with each passing second. Claustrophobia and a sense of frustration unlike any other he had ever known roiled through him and he slammed his hands against the door with a scream. Fury at the situation. At the wings upon his back. At Michael who had decided all of this. At the unfairness of the world.

  Knees hit the dorm room carpet as Imorean slid down to the floor. His fists were still resting against the room’s exit, but he had no true means to find escape. He could not run from his own body and mind. Anger, frustration, fear and betrayal all blurred together and threatened to overwhelm him. Tears slid free of his eyes. Another full-body tremble seized him and he gasped for breath. He was drained. He felt too much. Overfilled and overcome by emotion, yet in the same moment, he felt nothing at all. Worst of all was his helplessness. He could fight his sobs and fight for breath, but he could not fight what had been done.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Full darkness had fallen outside. Imorean shook himself and struggled to his feet. As though in a dream, he crossed the room. Everything felt surreal. He flopped face-down onto his bed. He didn’t have it in him to care anymore. Imorean sniffed and turned his head to glance out of the window. Lonely stars shone down from above. He hoped fervently that his friends would start to wake up tomorrow. He wanted so much to see them, to talk to them. To not feel so isolated. Imorean yawned and allowed sleep to rise up through his body and claim him, wanting nothing more than to be dragged down into the dark void of the subconscious just for a little while.

  Chapter 3

  Imorean groaned when he woke up. His body felt stiff and sore, but the pain had lessened. He opened his dark eyes and rubbed them, clearing the sleep from them. He didn’t feel refreshed at all. He sighed and got out of bed, his new wings hanging lifelessly at his sides and dragging along the carpet. Imorean scowled at them, hating their very presence. No matter what Michael said, these wings were not a part of him. Imorean moved toward his wardrobe to get dressed, then realized that the infernal wings would not fit under any of his shirts. How was he supposed to get off the shirt he was wearing now? Imorean covered his eyes and growled in irritation. Why was it that everything had to get so complicated? The simplest of tasks now seemed impossible. How was he even expected to get dressed?

  The white-haired teenager frowned and took another look at the wings protruding from his shoulders. For the sake of convenience, he should at least try to learn to move them. The night before he had thought of them as long, feathery arms. Would they move like them? Imorean focused hard and moved the muscles between his shoulder blade and his back. He almost jumped back as the wing began to rise up from the floor. Imorean let the wing flop back to the floor and thought for a moment. Arms had three main joints, the shoulder, the elbow and the wrist. Were these wings the same?

  Imorean decided to test his theory. He stretched out his left arm, and, at the same time, he raised his left wing. Slowly he bent his elbow, quirking a small smile as his left wing bent in roughly the same place. It bent in the opposite direction to his elbow, but it was bending, moving. At least it would be out of the way. Imorean shuddered though, able to feel both the sensation of his arm moving and of his wing moving, too. It was strange and alien. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not. He stretched his arm back out and bent it a few more times. He felt oddly transfixed as his own huge, white wing bent in the middle. Feather, muscle and sinew folding in smooth perfection.

  Did the wing have a joint like the wrist as well? Imorean found himself wishing he had paid more attention during biology when they had been studying the structures of the avian wing. There were lots of things he wished now that he had paid more attention to. Imorean stretched his arm straight out, allowing the wing to copy its motions, then moved his wrist back and forth, up and down, left and right. His wing mirrored the movements, but in a different, more rigid way. The primary feathers stuck out like inflexible fingers. He shook his head and dropped his arm, wondering if the wing could perform the motions on its own. He took a deep breath and moved his wing, using the muscles he had felt earlier. The structure moved as though it had been connected to Imorean his entire life. He flared it, scowling as the white plumage caught the sunlight from the window. He didn’t know whether to feel disgusted or impressed.

  “Okay,” Imorean muttered to himself. “So, I can move them.”

  Imorean remembered how Michael had folded his wings the day before and decided he should try to do it himself. It seemed to be a position where they were the most out of the way. He raised both wings up, his right feeling a bit stiffer than his left, and folded them both at the elbow joint. They tucked down, compacting into really quite small shapes, considering the wingspan. The feathers rested flush against the skin of his back. He frowned. He didn't think they would fold any more than that. Much to his surprise though, they seemed to have settled comfortably on his back. The very tips of his primary flight feathers barely brushed the backs of his thighs and the bend of the joint was just barely visible over his shoulders.

  A heavy sigh was pulled from Imorean’s chest. He could move the infernal things, but how was he supposed to get changed and get properly dressed? None of his old clothes would fit him anymore. Not with these new, massive limbs on his back. All his shirts would have to be modified to accommodate them.

  Imorean stripped off the shirt the school had provided him with in the hospital and he was grateful when his wings slid out of the garment with ease. He huffed quietly and opened his wardrobe, wondering if the school's uniform clothes would work any better. He sifted through them, pushing clothes from one side of the wardrobe to the other. Then he noticed it. A tiny handle hidden at the very back of his closet. How had he not noticed this earlier? Or had it materialized while he had been in hospital? He wouldn’t be surprised if it had. Imorean closed his hand around the knob and twisted. The handle turned easily and a door swung open, revealing a second wardrobe, equally as large as the one that currently held all of his clothes. Imorean leaned into the second closet and looked at the clothes within it. They were certainly uniforms, but they didn't look like any school uniforms Imorean had ever seen before. Imorean reached inside and pulled out one of the sets. There was a pale gray shirt, along with dark gray, camouflage-patterned trousers. He thought immediately of an overcast sky.

  “Milita
ry uniforms?” Imorean wondered aloud, laying the set of clothes out on his bed. Slowly, he picked up the shirt and turned it over in his hands. The fabric was quite stretchy and seemed soft enough, which he was glad of. Imorean twisted it around and looked at the back. There were two large slits in the fabric. He swallowed. The holes must be designed for the wings to go through. Gabriel and Michael had had this planned out from before the time he and his classmates even got here. The intricacy of Michael’s plan was stunning.

  Imorean sighed blankly and pulled the shirt over his head. His arms and wings folded as one unit and as he put his arms through the sleeves, the wings poked through the slits as well. He could feel the fabric of the shirt rubbing at the place where his wings joined his back, feeling like a second pair of quite tight sleeves. While the sensation was strange, it was by no means uncomfortable. He wanted to turn around and look in the mirror to see how the shirt fit, but he didn't. He didn't want to see the wings flaring out behind his shoulders. Imorean quickly pulled on the trousers. The fabric was rough but not uncomfortable. Imorean frowned slightly. The trousers were pretty baggy around the calves and thighs, but at his hips and ankles, they were tight. They reminded him of combat fatigues. In fact … he ran a hand down one of the trouser legs. Just as he thought. They were combat fatigues. Imorean ran the fingers of his other hand through his hair. He didn’t know what to feel. He was just confused. Turned upside-down and inside-out. He was about to sift through his own clothes again for some shoes when his eyes landed on a pair of black lace-up boots in the bottom of his wardrobe. Of course. Michael and Gabriel would have thought through everything. Imorean snorted in disgust. The two Archangels must have analyzed all the students’ belongings the night they arrived and matched the sizes. It was no wonder their luggage had arrived in their dorm rooms before the students themselves. With a slightly shaky hand, Imorean reached into the wardrobe and pulled out the boots. They weren't nearly as heavy as he had thought they would be. They actually weighed less than his running shoes. Slowly, he sat down on the bed and tied the laces. When he was finished, Imorean sat very still, his wings resting on the bed on either side of him, his hands folded on his lap. Here he was. Already in the role they had set up for him. Yet, once again, not of his own volition. He rubbed a hand over his face, not quite believing what was going on. Perhaps this was all just some strange nightmare. Surely, it had to be a dream. Imorean closed his eyes for a moment then reopened them. No. Everything was still as solid as it had been just seconds before. This was no dream. This was real.