Wings of the Divided: The Divided Book 1

by C. J. Sullivan

  "What is it?" Max asked.

  "Take my hand and we'll get there faster," the angel replied. "Our wings won't fit very comfortably in that thing."

  "Take—take your hand?" Max's eyes dilated.

  Gidyon grinned. "Yes."

  He grabbed Max's wrist and all at once allowed the man to feel with wonderful adrenaline what humans have longed and attempted to feel since the beginning of their existence: the exhilaration of flying.

  ***

  Laphelle

  All the lights in John's mansion were out. Laphelle held out his hand, his palm facing a large window in the demolished foyer. Aside from the ruined piano, shattered vases and broken lamps littered the floor. Cracks lined the walls, and paintings had fallen to the floor. The Starry Night's frame was now splintered, a jagged rip running down the middle of the canvas. But the windows had stayed intact. Laphelle wanted it that way. He pressed his palm against the chilled pane and closed his eyes, the black crystal on his neck flashing a smoky glow. The glass fogged, and thousands of tiny veins began to grow across the smooth surface like a mutated vine, until it went completely black.

  He did this to all of the windows, from the round glass of the kitchen to the rectangular panes of John's study. No sunlight would get in now. But Laphelle could still see everything in the darkness with feline sensitivity.

  He still, however, desired a little light.

  He ascended the stairs and found a spare bedroom. Bending over a chest-high dresser, he searched for a few more candles. He'd already lit several downstairs. He pulled on the copper handle of a drawer and hit the jackpot. Grabbing a handful of the long, waxen pillars, he heard the sound of a door shut and he shot upright. He narrowed his eyes. The click of the latch was barely audible—like someone was trying to sneak into the house.

  "Kiazmo?" he asked, his voice reverberating through the house. He waited. "I heard you come in! You'd better be finished burying him! Do you hear me?"

  Silence. The blond rogue squeezed the candles in his hand until the wax melted, warmly oozing between his fingers.

  "Answer me, Kiazmo! I know it's you!"

  "I—I just—for—forgot the—the," Kiazmo said.

  "What'd you forget?"

  "I was just—I—uh—"

  "Speak up! I can't hear you up here!"

  "You see—the bodies." He took a quick breath in between each word. "They—they—the bodies—"

  "I can't understand a thing you're saying."

  Laphelle threw the deformed candles at the cherry wood dresser he had located them in. Taking a deep breath, he pushed back down the rising fumes of his terrible temper then descended the stairs.

  "I was nice enough to find you a shovel," he said. "I didn't have to do that."

  "I—yes, but—"

  "But you're incompetent." With each step down, his irritation increased. "I know. In my ignorance, I thought that burying two dogs and a human would at least keep you busy and out of my way for a—"

  He froze when he reached the foot of the stairs. Kiazmo dragged John's bloody dead body back into the house, leaving a trail of rich-smelling, freshly-dug dirt. The mud and blood left a trail on the carpet. Kiazmo looked up at Laphelle like a mouse that had come face to face with a hungry crocodile and quickly stood in front of the corpse.

  In a syrupy-sweet tone Laphelle asked, "What do you think you're doing with that body?"

  "N—nothing. Nothing! I was—juh—juh—just—"

  "Juh—juh—just what!"

  "Just—just—oh, don't hurt me!" He raised his hands to hide his face. "Please! Malynko told me all about pain! All about it! I don't want it! I don't!"

  "Kiazmo. Nothing in this world would please me more than to inflict pain on you." His voice fell eerily calm. "But since you are Malynko's apprentice, and he would throw a fit if I touched you, I think I'll let you live long enough to get yourself destroyed." Kiazmo lowered his hands, his face resembling a confused porcelain doll. Laphelle huffed. "Then again, Malynko isn't here is he?"

  "He—he's upstairs! He'd come down! I'll scream! I'll scream!"

  Laphelle grabbed the quirky angel by the neck. "And what will you do if I cut out your throat? What will you do then, Kiazmo?"

  He had a vise grip of stone. His hard nails dug into Kiazmo's flesh, causing thin trickles of blood to stream down the little angel's collarbone.

  "I know all about you," he continued through gritted teeth. "I know your kind. Hiding in the shadows of the first realm, floating from this world to that, whispering evil thoughts into the minds of men, corrupting them. I bet you haven't even seen Hell. You whisper to people and you don't even know where you're sending them! Oh, yes, Kiazmo. I know all about your fear. And if there's one thing I absolutely hate, it is a coward."

  The color left Kiazmo's trembling face, and he reached up defensively to grab his attacker's arm. His dirty hands clawed desperately for release. Laphelle jerked back, retreating from the filth on his palms. Kiazmo gasped and fell to his knees.

  "You're disgusting," Laphelle said.

  The grandfather clock in the hallway struck five. The blond rogue glanced behind him at one of the chairs he had sat back up after the whirlwind. His sheath and sword sat on the regal-looking furniture as if perched on a throne. He debated on whether or not he should go hunting for someone to slaughter—might release some of his tension. He smiled. The enticing, metal blade called to him in a wicked murmur only he could hear, sending pulsing sensations to the two tiny pinprick scars on his right bicep. The unhealed snakebites were as much a part of him now as his very wings.

  You've always been good to me, he thought of the sword, but the night is old. Day will be coming soon and we don't want to go out then, do we?

  His shifted his black wings, and one of the candles he'd placed above the massive marble fireplace blew out from the gust of his movements. Striding over to the candle, he caught a glimpse of himself in a long rectangular mirror with a gilded frame that hung above the mantle. He took the opportunity to run a hand through his messy locks until his mane looked presentable—but nothing more than presentable. Laphelle hated his beauty. The only reason he didn't disfigure himself into a demon was because it would have lowered him to an even lesser rank than what he was. Such disrespect was out of the question. So he chose to remain a specimen of loveliness; both men and women across the universe were apt to fall under his spell. Malynko had commented on his exquisite physical composition on several occasions, but the things he'd said weren't from jealousy, only observation. Malynko had no reason to be jealous. He was a walking pheromone.

  Listening for any signs of life from his old tutor, Laphelle heard excited female cries mixed in with a melody of the general's dark laughter. He sneered, trying to erase the mental image of his commander who was upstairs ravaging John's wife with great enjoyment. Before he got disgusted enough to break something, Laphelle turned his focus to something else.

  He looked down at the cold candle and curled his thumb under his pointer finger as if he were about to flip a coin. Bringing the long, smooth nail to the wick, he flipped the imaginary coin and a flame burst from the friction of his nails, igniting the waxen rod. The flame grew tall, absorbing the wick, and he watched it, letting his stress subside. He couldn't help but notice that the tip of it looked like a tiny person reaching upward. Up, perhaps, to God.

  Every time he lit one he noticed.

  And he wondered if any of his fellow Fallen brethren had ever seen it too.

  "Get out there and finish burying them," he said to Kiazmo, facing the flame.

  The light reflected dancing sylphs in his icy blue eyes. He listened as Kiazmo rose to his feet and obediently retreated back into the night, sulking, dragging the limp body behind him.

  ***

  Gidyon

  Moments before reaching the city, the angels ceased their flight. Max's feet found the ground, his body wobbling. Nevertheless, he laughed. Gidyon, chuckled at the man's gaiety, and Noam ignored the both
of them.

  The city of Edenton lay on two slightly sloping hills several miles north of the Catskills Mountains. A cerulean river flowed through a valley between the slopes like a rippling ribbon. Inside the city limits, Mannsway forked into two paths, one transitioning into a paved road, the other remaining its original cobblestone, but narrowing, allowing only pedestrians and bikers to travel on its stony surface. The second fork ran straight through the city, bridging over the river.

  On the south side of town where Max led his new visitors, cement Highway 88 snaked in a busily bending ramp that provided plenty of exits leading to the linear roads running by the bases of the tall cement and glass structures that created Edenton's skyline. Law firms, banks, museums, technology centers, and superb hotels all decorated the morning sky. From an aerial view, they looked like chairs in an auditorium gracing the sloping hill that led down closer to the river.

  Scattered around the base of the tall buildings were smaller ones, most not reaching over five stories. Among these were the famous Edenton nightclubs—Max noted some of them stayed open until the break of dawn as well as turned a blind eye to under-aged patrons, which made them extremely popular among high school students. The smaller buildings included clothing stores and apartments, a plentiful array for each type of income. Out of the couple hundred thousand people that populated Edenton, there were very few homeless.

  In order to see the entire city, occasionally Gidyon would take hold of Max's hand and when no one was looking, give a quick flap of his invisible wings. This way, they were able to travel an entire block in one quick second.

  As Mannsway crept closer to the river, pleasant parks and a large marketplace with friendly vendors stood on the outskirts of the crowded edifices of downtown. The sweet aroma of hot bread fresh from the oven swam through the air. Flowers of all wonderful smells and colors grew on the sides of the road. As the morning progressed, people swarmed the markets and their voices combined to create a choir of busy dealings and gossip.

  Going down closer to the river, one could choose from an array of cafes from the finest of Italian foods to the most uncommon Asian cuisine to the good old American burger. There was something for everyone in Edenton. Even the most unlikely visitor.

  The river dividing the north side of town from the south was known for its replica gondolas, almost an exact copy of those in Venice. For a price, one could take a ride and listen to the tunes of the mandolins aboard. But that music was nothing compared to Edenton's orchestra. On the north side of the river, near the edge of town, was Remington Auditorium. Oddly enough, Mannsway extended its one and only branch to the square, brick building's front doors. Edgy new artists came frequently to display their talents to a loving audience. The stage was known for holding excellent concerts, including the renowned Edenton Symphony's monthly concerts.

  The north side of Edenton was quiet. Aside from the auditorium, there were more churches, small neighborhoods, big Country Club homes, and Edenton Manor. The latter was Max's home, a grand manor built in Elizabethan style. Always giving off a glow of welcome, it sat west of Mannsway, guarded by a golden gate that encompassed a lovely maze of gardens, presently afire with the autumn-red leaves of maple trees. Among the most vibrant flora were yellow rudbeckia blooms, red dahlias, and the pond's pink sunrise flowers. Behind the house was a park, home to many of the same flowers as the gardens. Max often paid struggling musicians to come and play on the cement amphitheatre he had constructed in the middle of it. Barefooted children were allowed to play in the fountains in the summer while their tired mothers sat on the handcrafted wooden benches beneath the shade of Oriental cherry trees.

  "It is a beautiful day," Max said as he handed a rose to Gidyon. "Another thing about this place is it has the most wonderful soil! Perfect for gardening. I hope you two gentlemen are hungry. The food is on its way."

  Gidyon took the flower, bringing the soft, sweet-smelling petals to his nose. He sat at a round wooden table under a blue umbrella. To his right, Noam gave a blank stare to the river, passing gondolas making gentle splashing noises. Gidyon leaned back and listened to the faint plucking of mandolin strings. Max waved to a young couple that greeted him from one of the boats and then relaxed in a chair across the table, facing the two angels.

  "Why did you give this to me?" Gidyon asked holding up the flower.

  "That woman selling them told me to give it to you." Max pointed to one of the carts on Mannsway. "She wouldn't let me pay for it. The poor dear barely spoke a word of English. She's been around since I was a young man. I believe she's from Spain."

  Gidyon searched for the woman. His eyes found her. She was at least sixty years old with many years of hard work aging her dark skin even further. Her braided hair fell down her back like a thick silver rope. Wearing a purple country dress and white wide-brimmed hat, she stood near a boutique and collected more flowers to carry along the river in hopes that someone would purchase one. A younger woman behind the boutique pointed out which flowers to take. Gidyon watched in wonder as the old one's frail hands gathered the blossoms. So much character was expressed through those hands.

  Thank you, he telepathically said to her.

  She stopped. Brushing back a few wispy bangs, she set her basket at her feet. Then she stood and turned toward Gidyon's table, holding a hand above her eyes to shield the bright sunlight. Their eyes met. The angel waved the flower in gratitude. The woman folded her trembling hands together and nodded, her wise eyes smiling.

  The invisible cloak on Gidyon's wings fooled most people.

  But not all.

  ***

  Max

  "So let me get this straight," said Max.

  He walked his two guests back to the cathedral. As they headed south, the sun retreated to the right, and a fan of sunrays cast fiery colors on the horizon.

  "After the Fall, the angels were divided into the Orders. A healing Order, a warrior Order, and a messenger Order. And you, Gidyon, are under whom?"

  He smiled. "Raphael."

  "Raphael!" Max snapped his fingers for forgetting. "Yes. And Noam is under Michael?"

  "Right."

  As they narrowed in on the cathedral, Noam flicked his wrist, and the latch on the church door released. The angel uncloaked his wings, letting them glow, and closed his eyes. He held out the palm of his hand. Dozens of fireflies soared in from the grassy hills around them, coming out from under tree leaves to gather around his open palm.

  "Oh my," Max said. "That's lovely!"

  Noam opened the cathedral's entrance with a wave of his copper hand. The little lightning bugs flew inside and landed on both edges of each pew, creating four glowing lines that looked like tiny runways leading to the altar. The angel walked through the doorway.

  "Show off," Gidyon said with a smirk.

  The dark-haired angel huffed but gave a side grin. He lifted a hand to bid Max farewell and then closed the door. Thrilled that he had made some effort to entertain him, Max called through the thick wood of the door:

  "Goodnight!" Then he took in a deep breath. Releasing it, he turned to the healer by his side. "Forgive me for being so blunt, Gidyon, but I must ask you something." He took off his spectacles to rub the soft, aged skin on the bridge of his nose. "And I didn't before because I wanted to keep the mood as jovial as possible around Noam since he seems so—"

  "Of course. What's your question, Max?"

  "You're here with no specific mission, correct?"

  "Correct."

  "You simply arrived to elude the enemy."

  "Also correct."

  "Why can't you go home then? I don't understand."

  Gidyon's brow furrowed. "I didn't explain this over lunch?"

  "Well, yes," Max said, blushing. He knew he could be difficult in wanting all the details. "But wouldn't the Archangel tell you when he was going to reopen the gate?"

  "Not necessarily." Gidyon crossed his arms. "Sometimes we don't know."

  "Forgive me, but why then would
you come to Earth knowing you had no way of escape? It seems like you're leaving something out. Either that or I'm just—"

  "The enemy attacked out of nowhere." Though he seemed complacent, there was a certain edge to Gidyon's words. As if he were indeed leaving something out. "We needed a place to go. Understand that it's not like an angel of light to flee from a challenge, but with Malynko, it's different. He…"

  Gidyon trailed off, his eyes losing some of their luster. Max hadn't noticed how cold the evening wind was until then, the moody night chilling it with a spell of melancholy. He suddenly felt himself in the presence of an altogether different Gidyon. It was almost unnerving the way his countenance darkened, perhaps distraught by some secret story. Max cleared his throat, stupid, nervous gesture that it was. Gidyon looked into his eyes.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "Malynko is…different."

  "I see," said Max.

  Not really seeing at all.

  ***

  Laphelle

  "Hurry up," Laphelle said, fighting back the urge to kick Kiazmo's face in.

  Standing at the center of their new headquarters' foyer, the little angel revealed the bag of clothing he'd been carting under his cloak. Laphelle stepped forward, but Malynko blocked his path and dived into the black luggage. He pulled out a red metallic shirt and black leather pants that both promised to be skintight when donned. He quickly slipped into the new outfit and replaced his original boots on his feet. Kiazmo started to reach into the bag but Laphelle pushed him away.

  "Let me see," he said, clutching the sides of the dark sack's opening. Standing utterly still, he blinked his eyes three times. Malynko had to be kidding. Yanking out a pair of jeans and a velvety, mauve button-down shirt, he said to the Elitist, "You want me to wear this?"

  "I had all these clothes especially made to resemble the fashions of Earth," said Malynko. "I did extensive research." He examined his appearance in the mirror atop the fireplace and then pulled a charcoal pen from his pocket. Carefully he used the fine tip to apply a line of black around his already entrancing eyes. " 'Go with the flow,' as they say here."