Le Bone seethed, pointing at me. “I’m being set up. Even I’ve heard about the crazy bitch—”
“I have an idea,” Haven said, typing a phone number onto a second phone in his hand. “I’m going to make a quick call and see who answers,” he said, lifting the phone to his ears.
Le Bone looked incredulous. He opened his mouth to respond—
The room suddenly wavered like a mirage and I gripped a table beside me in confusion.
Simultaneously, my thumb pulsed with such a bone-deep cold that I actually hissed. The ring of shadows encircling my thumb was about to make the White Rose lose a petal to frostbite.
RUN…FLY…OR DIE! a weary, disembodied voice wheezed from within my mind, sounding as if it had used the last of its energy to warn me while hanging suspended in the deepest, darkest pits of Hell. Which might not be that far off base.
Because the voice belonged to Nameless, the Fallen Angel I had bound to my finger.
Chapter 8
I wasn’t sure if the shifting shadow ring was the Angel or if it contained the Angel. But it hadn’t been there before I trapped him. I gritted my teeth against the pain as I glanced down to find the shadows spinning faster than usual. And my thumb was almost entirely purple. No one in the room seemed to have noticed, still staring transfixed at Le Bone, waiting for him to respond. But…no one was blinking.
Like apparitions, I saw a host of winged, robed creatures racing towards me from the furthest edge of the room, ripping through people like they were mist—but causing them no harm and seemingly unimpeded by their physical bodies. In those hooded faces, I saw only glowing white eyes and outstretched fingers like pearl claws as they whisked closer, eyes locked on only one thing.
Me.
It seemed the Angels were finally ready to chat with me about their little brother, Nameless.
I didn’t even hesitate about the lack of reaction from the crowd. I spun and sprinted as fast as I could towards the giant glass window overlooking the streets below. I flung my hands out ahead of me in a concussive vortex of air like a horizontal tornado—knocking everyone in its path safely to the side and creating a clear tunnel for me to run through. Since they were frozen still, my real-time vortex struck them to create a cinematic marvel that would have made Netflix drool—if they ever decided to call me about a documentary on my life.
Or the end of it, depending on the next few minutes.
It was the most bizarre sight to see the partygoers so motionless, and then suddenly flung back as if hit by a truck. My blast of air hit them so fast and hard that I could see the skin on their cheeks quiver and ripple upon impact, sending them immediately out of my way before they slowed back down again, drifting through the air like dandelion fluff. I hoped the time-distorted blow hadn’t broken their necks.
I sprinted down my tunnel of still-rotating air, angling my shoulder forward as my tornado shattered the glass. I hadn’t been sure if the glass would need an extra little nudge in addition to my weight.
I flew out into the night sky, the slits of my gown ripping as I called upon my wings—only just now considering what might happen if they didn’t respond. I was still learning how to control them and hadn’t perfected their use yet. They seemed to work best on instinct.
Thankfully, my wings also responded well to panic—because I wasn’t sure I had ever felt so startled and caught off guard as I was to suddenly have Angel assassins gunning for me. Maybe it was because I couldn’t think of a reason for Angels to suddenly want me dead. Well, there was the ring, of course. But I hadn’t heard anything alarming from the Biblical side of the fence—Angels or Nephilim or Demon—since the night I had trapped Nameless and freed the Greater Demon, Samael. An accidental twofer.
My wings flared out from my shoulders, chips of ice, stone, and blue vapor crackling around me as they caught the air in powerful sweeps to either slow my descent or take me away from my pursuers. Shards of glass rained down around me, seeming to blend with my wings.
I thought I was going to pull off my escape before I felt one icy claw grasp onto my shoulder. Another grabbed my leg. Then another gripped one of my wings. But rather than climb up my body to pummel me midair, they seemed to work like a single hive mind, and collectively threw me straight down.
Wind whistled in my ears and the sounds of the street—laughing people, honking cars, and jazz music from a street musician—mocked my plight. My eyes watered at the unbelievable speed in which the dirty sidewalk raced closer. Several rapid blasts of power struck the ground in a ring, flaring to life in a circle of unfamiliar runes on the pavement. The concrete between the runes rippled like a pond, the ground no longer solid below me.
I struck it like a rock hitting wet newspaper, the sounds of screaming wind and nightlife ceasing in a single moment.
My wings caught the air, finally, and I landed in a crouch upon cracked, dry earth. I panted in relief to be alive, but my wings abruptly flickered out as if they had run out of batteries or been damaged by the Angels. I scanned the area to assess my battleground, wondering where the Angels had sent me.
Maybe they had whisked me off to Heaven. If so, they had probably deposited me just outside the Pearly Gates, since they hadn’t given me a security lanyard yet.
I frowned to find that I wasn’t even in a distant, twice-removed cousin to a paradise.
I stood in a desiccated world of dehydrated plants, husks of skeletal trees, bleached bones, and discarded weapons that looked to have once been the finest blades ever created.
An ancient battlefield where the war had been so profound that even now, generations later, nothing dared grow back to life…almost like—
“What is Blockbuster Video?” one of the Angels asked from above, catching the idle thought that had briefly flickered across my mind. I blushed in embarrassment, pretending I didn’t know what he was talking about. I looked up at the flapping sounds that heralded the arrival of the rest of the Angel gang. They circled above me like vultures, but I let out a gasp to see a semi-transparent ceiling above them that showed the streets of Kansas City—looking like a reflection of my city in a puddle.
Three of the Angels remained circling me in the air, sweeping their wings to watch as their brother landed about a dozen paces away from me. He lifted his hand to flash them a few unspoken commands, and then turned to face me, his wings evaporating. His fellows continued circling us, but in ever-widening arcs, eyes outward as if determined to make sure my execution remained unwitnessed.
The Angel before me flung back his hooded cloak and tossed it to the ground dismissively, obviously not sticking to the unwritten—but universally accepted—Eleventh Commandment, Thou Shalt Not Litter. He seemed content to stay put and study me with his white eyes from a safe distance, possibly wary to get too close to me and catch the human contagion I carried.
His face was merciless and beautiful, harsh and perfect in every way—but it was an entirely different type of beauty from Dorian Gray. The Angel’s beauty enticed no sexual hunger or fiery passion of any sort in the beholder—only the frozen, untouchable perfection of an ice sculpture. A mold of what mankind should look like.
I realized my eyes were watering, but not from the dry air of this place…it was at the sudden acceptance of how starkly flawed I was in comparison to the blonde Angel.
However…
Despite his millennia of existence, his face looked lifeless, showing no sign of wrinkles from the thousands upon thousands of laughs or tears he had to have spilled over his long lifetime. Like a new pair of boots that had never been worn, eternally stiff and crisp and painful.
He wore crystal armor straight from a videogame—ridiculously embellished to the point that it looked more grandiose than functional. It was similar in looks to the interior of those seemingly ordinary rocks sold in gift shops near mining towns that had been cut in half to reveal an inner beauty of raw, uncut, vibrant crystal. The Angel and his armor looked to have been pulled from the exact center of a planet a
fter fermenting the Holy Spirit for about a billion years.
I had met two Angels in my life on Earth—Nameless and Eae—and it had been eerily difficult to spend too much time around them because of the raw power emanating from their bodies and their utter lack of empathy or emotion. Still, they had managed to blend in with us humans after much practice. Like a wolf among dogs.
This Angel would never—ever—blend in with mankind. Not a chance.
Witnessing this stark difference in the three Angels I had met up close, I was reminded that Angels had hierarchal classes—a pecking order, if you will.
And this Angel was obviously a significantly higher rank than Nameless or Eae, judging by the incredible waves of power rippling around him. I could tell he was holding back so as not to strip the flesh from my bones as a result of simply standing too close to him.
Reading my mind, the Angel gave me a very slow nod, confirming my analysis.
I stared up at a sudden pounding sound that seemed to echo like distant cracks of thunder. I gasped to see Cain in that strange reflection of Kansas City, beating his fist into the center of the street—but to me, it was the transparent ceiling to this place. Our two worlds brushing against each other like two soap bubbles. From the near-sighted look of rage on his face, he couldn’t see us, having decided to beat his fist into the concrete where I had last been seen.
The anguish I saw in his eyes made me fall partly in love with him. That look wasn’t simply anger from battle, but a deep, inner pain. A personal wound. It wasn’t any kind of romantic love on my part, but akin to seeing a brother-in-arms weeping over your dead body on the battlefield.
You know, because it was totally normal to comprehend such macabre visions as that.
Another thought hit me. If Cain was that upset, wearing a look that screamed that all hope was lost—a look of total despair…who, exactly, did he think had taken me? I had the presence of mind to glance down at my feet—at my shoes. They had been made by Darling and Dear and had the ability to change shape and design to match my outfits.
But they also pinched my toes when pointed in the direction of a nearby demon.
I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or concerned they weren’t pinching my little piggies right now.
I noticed a scythe embedded in the ground to my immediate right with a flag hanging limply from the base of the blade. The partly scorched ribbon said Non Serviam.
A spear was embedded in a nearby boulder, and a shredded ribbon on the tip said Defiance.
It tickled my memory, but I didn’t know why.
If I had to name the place’s overall style, I would call it Old Testament Chic—a trend that had died long ago. Husks of large trees peppered the landscape as far as the eye could see, but they were burned and skeletal as if the bones had refused to die centuries ago. I shivered, turning my head slightly to digest the rest of this dead world. The entire place looked to have been scorched to ashes, but white, lumpy pillars rose from the ashes like mounds of melted candlewax. Even though I didn’t see any sun to speak of, the sky was a burnt orange, and the pillars glinted here and there.
Salt, not wax. They were pillars of salt.
I had somehow missed the gargantuan—but worn down—rock wall surrounding a forest of sorts a hundred yards away. A massive golden gate stood in the center of the wall but it was pitted and bent as if having survived a great battle and a thousand years of acid rain. The gate continued up into a giant, battered arch that read The den of Ed, but the spacing between the words was inconsistent.
I glanced back at my abductor, deciding to speak before he got any fresh ideas about taking me on a romantic walk. “I make it a point to never enter a place referred to as The Den. Only people who like shattered rainbows, lost puppies, pissed-off cats, and broken dreams willingly enter a Den. Not the kind of place a respectable human would enter willingly.”
He didn’t smile, and he didn’t frown. “The Garden of Eden,” he corrected, seemingly unwilling to look directly at the gate.
I stared at him for about ten seconds, my mind rebooting like an outdated computer.
Holy crap.
This was where Lucifer had turned against God, where Angel had first fought Angel.
And God decided to place the Garden of Eden, here?
I’d learned something new today.
Chapter 9
I slowly turned back to the wall itself, realizing much of it also looked as damaged as the gate and the arch. Scrutinizing it closer, I saw it was at least the same scope as the Great Wall of China, but the passing centuries had blown hills of ash, dead brush, scorched bones, and other rubble up against its base until sections of it appeared level with the land itself. Time had buried or concealed much of its grandeur like some of the oldest castles in Europe where Mother Earth had reclaimed her surface.
Now, I wasn’t an arborist or anything, but beyond the wall looked decidedly rough and overgrown. It was green—relatively speaking—compared to the desert-like side of the wall we currently stood on. It wasn’t remotely pretty or impressive, though. Nothing like I had dreamed it would be. Not only did it look overgrown, it didn’t even really look like it had a lot of vegetation in it. If there had been skyscraper-sized trees covered in flowering vines I totally would have sympathized with a lack of beauty, seeing it was obviously too large and wild for anyone to maintain.
But this…
It had been neglected. Since…well, since Cain’s mom decided to eat an apple, perhaps.
“It is time you handed over the Spear of Longinus,” The Angel said in an utterly calm tone. “It is not safe in the hands of mankind, let alone one such as you.”
I wasn’t even surprised at the demand. I’d been expecting something like it for quite some time. I’d found the Spear of Longinus—or the Spear of Destiny, as some knew it—when a Demon named Johnathan had attempted to destroy it. He’d made the mistake of inviting me to the party and it hadn’t ended well for him.
Ever since I’d killed him, the Spear had somehow resided somewhere deep inside of me. I’d only been able to draw it out a handful of times, and only after a full day of calming meditation with exactly zero interruptions. Even then, I’d only managed to call it for a few seconds at a time.
Knowing that I had the Spear that stabbed Jesus while on the Cross hidden inside of me had not been the transcendent experience most would expect. Because I hadn’t been given a choice in the matter—it had chosen for itself. My stomach curdled even thinking about it. Not in disgust or anything but…it was just a lot to process. It made me feel unworthy.
A fraud.
And I hadn’t even wanted it. But you play with the cards you were dealt.
And now this Angel wanted to take my least favorite toy away. But it was still my least favorite toy, and I’d failed the sharing exam in preschool.
“You are not worthy of it. Hand over the Spear or die. Your choice,” the Angel pressed, reading my thoughts as clear as day. I decided I was about finished with that nonsense, so I used a trick I’d recently learned to wall him out, blocking him from reading my mind.
I waved a hand distractedly, letting him know I’d heard him before he grew upset and pulled an emotion muscle that might disqualify him from the Den of Ed’s upcoming annual flag football tournament with his siblings.
I thought about my earlier conversation with Dorian—how he believed that I was acting out as a result of feeling like I didn’t belong anywhere, that I didn’t have a purpose to guide me, that my lack of purpose was making everyone fear me as the new boogeyman of my city.
Then I thought about the Angels being hardwired with a purpose and a family and how they still somehow managed to fail on such an epic level.
I realized that, more than anything, I felt disappointed. With all of it. The Angels. The Demons. The Garden. The carnage in my city. The hatred in the world. My own actions.
I was fed up with it.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I knew I was no Saint.
I had no reason to try to be one. I had yet to meet an Angel who had lived up to their reputations—a being that exuded poise, promise, and goodwill. One who made you weep with understanding.
Instead, I felt…nothing. No love. No hate. Just…a screaming emptiness. An eternal, rattling, death wheeze. Exactly like me, these creatures had forgotten their purpose, broken their family.
And instead of admitting it—deciding to fix themselves—they wanted to point a finger at me.
To bully and tell me how unworthy I was to hold and protect their precious Spear.
When it was pretty apparent, judging by our current locale, that their track record of protecting sacred things and places…
Was abysmal.
That, as a family…
They had turned on each other to such a degree that their future rematch promised to be Apocalyptic.
That, as shepherds of mankind, tasked with guiding and protecting their flock…
They were even worse. I’d run into—and killed—two Demons before an Angel ever deemed me worthy of a meeting, and then that Angel had ended up Falling from grace not long after.
And now an Angel wanted to point the Holier than Thou finger at me?
By some miracle, I was still clutching my apple from the party. I smiled absently, turning back to the Angel. Then I took a big, fat, juicy bit of the red fruit.
Let me put it into perspective: a woman took a bite of an apple while standing before the dystopian Den of Ed. I was very likely the only human being to ever set foot here since Adam and Eve—and for good reason. A few bad apples had ruined the barrel. Literally.
The Angel really didn’t like my choice in fruit. Not. One. Bit.
His armor abruptly snapped, crackled, and popped, growing larger and spikier like one of those puffer fish, and his fist shot to the crystal hilt of his sword. His white eyes flared brighter, but he remained in place, staring at me.
Sinner: Feathers and Fire Book 5 Page 5
