"Oh, I love 'going with the flow.'" Laughing out of spite, Laphelle threw the outfit on top of Kiazmo and said, "Where's the rat's clothes?"
"He won't need them. He's small enough that nobody will notice him. They'll think him a little girl playing make-believe games with a cape."
"A girl?" Kiazmo questioned, quivering.
Laphelle snickered.
"Tonight, Kiazmo," said Malynko, "we'll let them think you are a female. Innocent. Frail. Watch them and learn. On every world it is the same. People treat females differently than they treat males. Many angels who are shape shifters choose a feminine guise. They are suspected less and at times get incredible amounts of work done using nothing but their looks."
Laphelle added to that information. "Kiazmo, people are nothing but wingless ingrates, too stupid to use the minds that were so foolishly given to them."
After tossing the eyeliner atop the mantle, Malynko positioned his sheathed sword around his waist and pulled out the blade. Holding his hair in his pale, long-nailed grip, he asked:
"Should I cut it, Laphelle? It doesn't really matter here. Some men wear it long."
"Well, if it doesn't matter, why don't you curl that gorgeous mane, pin half of it on top your head in a fabulous wrap, and weave pearls into the falling tendrils?"
"I'm being serious," said the Elitist.
"Go on, do it," said the rogue with a shrug. "And while you're at it, cut your throat, too."
With one fell swipe, the Elitist trimmed several inches off of his raven locks. He sheathed the sword and turned to face the first rank. Laphelle stared at him, hoping he would not make him change his wardrobe. Waiting for Malynko to speak, he impatiently opened his wings in inquiry.
"Jest with me all you like," said the Elitist, "but I won't have you ruin this mission."
Laphelle parted his lips to begin a protest, but a sudden cry from the top of the stairs cut him off.
Amy.
Laphelle turned his attention to her and sneered, eying her as she ran down the steps, her naked limbs peeking through the bed sheet she awkwardly used to clothe her body. Her nude soles padded the crimson carpet runner until she made a mad leap for Malynko, practically throwing herself at his feet.
"Please, don't go, I beg you!" she cried, tugging on his pants legs.
Her eyes were wild, her cheeks flushed. Laphelle had seen this behavior many, many times before. He had witnessed the faces of those foolish humans who had become lost in a Malynko-induced insanity, unable to see the true shattered state they were in, nor feel the bruises and scrapes that colored their used, fragile bodies. He knew Amy wasn't capable of even thinking about where her husband might be or what the angels had done with the dogs. There was only Malynko, that dark and sacred being of lust. And he was her god now.
"I must leave you for the time being," the Elitist said, pulling away from her with a graceful—but insistent—turn.
Amy clutched her sheet. Laphelle continued watching her, hawklike, standing on the left side of the front door. Kiazmo twitched across the hall. The First Rank crossed his arms, scoffing at the woman's desperation, and leaned against the wall, his sword pressed against his back. He eyed Malynko, who reached into the bag of garments once more. The Elitist pulled forth a ball of bills fashioned to impeccably resemble America's green currency. Placing the fake money in his pocket, he pursed his lips together, a sign Laphelle knew meant he was making sure he wasn't forgetting anything. After a moment, Malynko strode with military precision to his two accomplices and waved a hand. The door flew open.
"Do not leave this house," he ordered Amy. "If someone comes to the door, do not answer it. If the phone rings, do not pick it up. You are mine now." His massive wings opened in a chilling whoosh. "We will return before dawn."
Taking Kiazmo by the hand, he pushed off the floor and soared into the night.
Laphelle looked back at Amy before taking flight, met the woman's wide eyes, which watched his narrowed orbs. She reached for her sheet and pulled it around her body. He didn't move his mouth, but instead said to her mind:
You are a very foolish little girl.
Before she could react to his telepathic warning, he released her from his icy stare and flew through the door, slamming it shut behind him.
***
Gidyon
"Forgive me for jumping from one subject to the next," Max said. Gidyon looked up, friendly and eager to begin a different topic. "But if angels fight in true physical bodies, then can't you—"
"Yes." He nodded. "We can die."
Max placed a hand on his chin. "You know, I suppose it makes a lot of sense, doesn't it? Biblically you fought in a great war."
"You refer to the passage in Revelation."
"Yes. And from what I've learned today, you're still quite engaged in this war."
"We are."
"And what would the purpose of war be if you couldn't kill or at least injure each other?"
"You're catching on. It's amazing how many people miss that little detail."
"But then," Max said, "what if you died? Wouldn't that take you back home? Back to your spiritual essence?"
Gidyon cast his eyes to the ground. How little the people of Earth knew. The soothing sound of crickets chirping rose from the hills, the hidden musicians bold enough to play their song loudly, but too shy to venture out of the grass.
"No," said Gidyon, raising his eyes. "We were never meant to die, you see. It's all part of the risk we take coming into physical bodies for the sake of preserving the light and saving you from darkness. Thus the cycle for us is far more mysterious than it is for humanity."
"Oh." Max's gray brows lifted. He crossed his arms and leaned his right shoulder against the church's door. "Do go on."
"We believe that there is a place where our souls go when we die. The Lands of the Angelic Dead. Only God knows of their location. Angels are rumored to sleep there. But the dead have returned to us before, and they were healed completely from whatever fatal wound took their lives away; however, none remember what the Lands were like or where they are located, only that they were a place of peaceful sleep."
"That doesn't sound so complicated." Max crossed his arms. "You die, you sleep, you wake and return home. What's so difficult about that?"
"What's so difficult," Gidyon began, his brilliant wings drooping, "is that even though some have returned, the vast majority have not come back."
"Oh."
Max cleared his throat. The angel automatically detected nervousness in the gesture. He wished to calm the man's apprehension, but what else could be said? The truth was often hard to hear, hard to face, hard to accept.
"Gidyon?" Max asked, and the angel raised his brows. "Earlier today you promised to tell me about Michael's top warriors, the Thana—takra? Did I say that right?"
"Yes, you did, and yes, I promised that, didn't I?"
The angel calmed his own inner battle and silently thanked Fate for sending him someone flighty, someone who abhorred uncomfortable tension as much as he did. He continued:
"The One-Thousand Thanatakra possess skills you'd think were impossible." He lowered his voice in respect. "These angels are a master at whatever weapon they choose, ranging from swords and sai to guns to their bare hands. When they sense danger, something inside them responds—their eyes go bright white"—he smiled and widened his blue orbs for effect—"and the angels transform into completely different characters." Dropping his voice down, he whispered, "Ones with terrible power."
Max whispered, "How terrible?"
Gidyon placed a hand on the man's shoulder and then raised the pointer finger of his free hand. "They're the deadliest of all Michael's fighters, feared by people all over the universe. Even some angels of light are afraid of them, and that doesn't make sense to me." He gave Max's shoulder a pat. "I mean we're all on the same side, so why should we be afraid?"
"What rank is Noam among the warriors, then? Is he much below the Thanatakra?"
; Gidyon did not respond. Something was wrong. His body stiffening, he lifted his gaze skyward.
Max frowned. "What is it?"
"Don't move. Listen."
The man froze. Gidyon felt it again: a slight but sudden change in the atmosphere. The night had gone deathly quiet, the crickets having fallen completely silent. He waited, his supernatural heart kicking with fierce beats.
Then, a sound.
It was soft at first, but then it grew much louder:
A shrill, maniacal laugh.
Max looked to Gidyon in alarm.
Don't panic, he telepathically warned the man.
As the sound neared, Max stood so very still; Gidyon could hear his silent prayers.
It was then that Noam burst through the doors of the church.
His eyes flashing pure white, he grabbed Max and Gidyon by the collar and yanked them inside the building. Max's glasses went flying off of his face, hitting the floor with a clink. Noam closed the doors with swiftness equal to his force, the latch sealing the entryway shut. With ghostlike grace he reached within his brown duster coat and withdrew two vicious silver sai. He spun them around with wicked momentum as that great and deadly power awoke inside of him. Gidyon took a step back, protectively taking the man in the crook of his arm. Barely visible from the speed in which he moved, Noam made an X with his arms in front of him then pulled them apart, the three-pronged knives clashing in a violent scrape. The metallic cry echoed through the cavernous sanctuary, ringing a deathly promise of violence.
Facing the door with the sharp, forked weapons grasped firmly in his stone grip, Noam stood without a sound, not moving, not even breathing. Gidyon darted his eyes to and from the door, feeling Max's childlike stare burn into him. He tried to put on a show of strength, but knowing who was out there, knowing all too well the nightmare that Edenton would soon experience, he was unable to hide the apprehension that coursed through him like a foul fever.
Outside, Laphelle's criminal cackle was replaced by a great flapping of wings, the striking sound climaxing at a thundering volume overhead. Then, the noise faded. Until it stopped completely. And as if nothing had happened, Noam spun his weapons around one last time and slipped them into his coat. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were green. He looked at Gidyon, so much knowledge swimming in his gaze.
Gidyon, hesitating to accept the truth of their situation, at last said in a deep and disappointed voice, "There will be no rest for us tonight, Max. I'm afraid your city is in great danger." His beautiful face darkened, despite the glow of his wings behind him. "We are all at the mercy of the Devil's helpers."
Max fell to his knees. Gidyon didn't kneel to try and comfort him. Instead he stood, letting the queasy feeling at the core of his being diminish.
Malynko…
"It would be wise for you to stay here tonight," the healer said. "They don't like churches."
He watched as Max looked to his left with tears in his eyes and found his spectacles. The round lenses were cracked. Gidyon experienced the man's feelings as if they were his own. Like someone coming out of a tranquil dream, he felt Max's lethargy, felt his nausea, felt his dread. And he felt his worry for his missing son, the pain becoming his own.
"Please," said the desperate man, his voice almost gone, "please do what you can to keep everyone safe."
He placed his broken glasses on his face. Gulping down the lump in his throat, Gidyon pointed a finger at the fractured lenses, and the clear crystal around his neck started to glow a prism of colors. There was a quick flash of light. Max removed the glasses. They were good as new.
"You don't need to worry," said Gidyon lowering his finger. "Earlier you asked me what rank Noam fell under." His blue eyes shining, he looked at his comrade, and his lips shifted into a proud grin. "Now you know."
***
Women of the Evening
On Scott Street, deep in the heart of downtown Edenton, stood three voluptuous ladies of the night. Wearing clothing that left nothing to the imagination, they shamelessly advertised their bodies to the people walking by and waved to passing cars, winking, teasing, tempting. Neon lights of the clubs around them cast a rainbow of shadows on their colorfully painted faces.
Ally, a prostitute with a thick poof of brown hair, grabbed the hand of her blonde, short-skirted friend and co-worker, Mindy, and they danced as people passed. A third hooker with bright-red, spirally locks stood in the road, leaning in the window of a car, naming her price. After the chat, she turned to her dancing friends and waved goodbye.
"Aww, Monique," Ally called, pulling away from the playful tango. "You always get picked first! That's it. I'm dyin' my hair."
"It don't work, Ally," Mindy told her, still tapping her feet to the song. "Besides, it ain't the hair, it's the knockers."
Ally laughed. She and Mindy jeered at their shapely friend as she got into the man's car. They blew kisses as it drove off, grabbing their own smaller breasts in mocking.
"You know they're fake, mister!" Mindy shouted. The car turned onto another street. Mindy turned to Ally with a pout on her painted lips. "They're real, damn it."
Ally leaned over, laughing. Her tight clothing rode up every crease of her body. A young man passed by, headed to the strip of nightclubs.
Quickly composing herself, Ally said, "Hi there, cutie."
The man ignored her and walked into a club down the street. She blew him a kiss anyway and waved her fingers, clicking long, fake nails. Several different songs could be heard from where the hookers were standing, but it was the "Habanera" that really got them dancing. Ally grabbed Mindy's hand and they went at it again.
"For just once, I'd like someone sexy to screw," said the blonde with a sigh. She closed her eyes and let the sensuous vibe take hold of her. "Give me fuckin' Fabio. Is that too much to ask?"
"Those types don't exist, baby," Ally said, giving her a twirl. "Only in fantasies."
"Aww, come on. Somewhere out there, someone like that has to exist."
Then the brunette stopped short, catching her breath.
"What? What is it?" Mindy asked.
"Shit," said Ally, breathless. "You might just get your wish, girl. Look."
***
Kiazmo
Kiazmo huddled next to Laphelle, practicing his mind reading in the flesh. Up the street he saw Mindy, read from her thoughts that she was calculating Malynko to be around twenty-six to twenty-seven years old. She figured he stood at least six-foot-six and was without a shadow of a doubt the sexiest thing she had ever seen. He had the fantasy makeup: long, gorgeous hair, piercing eyes, high, prominent cheekbones, brawny shoulders, and a mouth—a mouth to die for.
Kiazmo didn't understand why she would die for such a mouth. From what he'd heard, death was to be avoided at all costs. He watched as Malynko strode up to the woman, stopping only inches away, looking down into her wide eyes. The little angel stepped forward, clutching the fabric at his chest. He focused, and the violet crystal on the silver bracelet encircling his right wrist glowed as he vicariously felt the sensual heat from Malynko's elegant body engulf the hooker like a wicked spell. He felt as she feared her knees would buckle under his power, felt as Malynko's green eyes sent a hot, erotic rush through her body, all the way down to her toes and back. He smiled as she smiled, letting out a goofy gasp of rapture. His ears picked up the conversation as if he were standing right beside them.
"Good evening, madam," Malynko said to Mindy, smiling.
"Hi, hun," she squeaked. "Nice manners ya got there."
"Why, yes." His smile got wider, more carnal. "A woman such as yourself deserves to be served with courtesy."
He sent a glance to Ally and winked. She nearly lost her footing. Turning to Malynko, Kiazmo watched the general shift his invisible, folded wings a fraction of a centimeter to ensure that his left appendage was still positioned over his sword, covering it with chameleon-like accuracy. As the blushing girls exchanged glances, their throats on the verge of elated giggl
es, Malynko suddenly took Mindy's hand and started to dance with her.
"Oh, the girls are gonna DIE when they hear about this," Ally said, her voice shrieking in Kiazmo's ears.
She covered her mouth and Kiazmo covered his ears as she hollered. Shaking his head, he turned his focus to Mindy again.
"I'll be nice and not charge for this," Mindy said, giving herself over to the Elitist. "Just tell me you're from around here and will become a frequent customer."
Malynko turned her around slowly, parting her legs just slightly with his knee like the tender hand of a gardener coaxing open a shy blossom. Kiazmo understood she was no frail bud in her field of work, but the way he touched her…he made her feel anxious, nervous, excited like she was a virgin all over again, with every movement titillating her body to the point of rapture.
"No," the Elitist said with a slight moan as he let his hand trail like a brush of silk down her arm. "I'm not from around here."
Kiazmo licked his lips. He'd heard about the famous meeting of eons ago, when Lucifer had taught the Fallen all about sex. With the Devil's magical touch, they gained the ability to morph their anatomy into either gender and enjoy the pleasures of human fornication—but with an angelic twist. Kiazmo didn't understand the details of the differences between human and angelic copulation, but he did know that they could do it with humans or do it with one another. Kiazmo, of course, had never been in a physical body (until now) to try it yet, but Malynko had promised to show him how. He'd also promised to give him tips on how to make it the most gratifying. The little angel could barely wait.
He watched as Ally gathered three more prostitutes from down the road to take a look at the new client. She bragged, pointing to the dancing couple with an extended arm. Next to her, Kiazmo saw a woman with long raven hair named Bette gasp.
"That lucky bitch," she said to Ally in an Italian accent, watching as Malynko took Mindy to heights she never thought possible. The Elitist grinned. "He's stunning! A goddamn trick from heaven! Why the hell'd he pick Mindy?" Her eyes popped open and she grabbed Ally's hands. "Does he do threesomes?"
Wings of the Divided: The Divided Book 1 Page 5
