Forbidden Angel

by Chantal Cross

  Forbidden Angel: Academy of Sin

  7 Huntsmen - Book 3

  Chantal Cross

  https://chantalcross.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Chantal Cross

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published in the United States

  Cover design by Sekhmetrics

  Chantal’s Website: https://chantalcross.com

  Contents

  1. The Order of Unitas

  2. Seth

  3. Ebony

  4. Gabriel

  5. Ebony

  6. Ebony

  7. Gabriel

  8. Leo

  9. Arrius

  10. Ebony

  11. Ebony

  12. Dorian

  13. Seth

  14. Gabriel

  15. Wrath

  16. Ebony

  17. Ebony

  18. Leo

  19. Seth

  20. Gabriel

  21. Leo

  22. Ebony

  23. Ebony

  24. Arrius

  25. Seth

  26. Ebony

  27. Ebony

  28. Seth

  29. Darius

  30. Ebony

  31. Ebony

  32. The Assassin

  Chantal Cross

  7 Huntsmen Series

  1

  The Order of Unitas

  Academy students crisscross the green in scores aware of nothing but the movements of their feet and their final destination. They barely notice the world beyond the academy. The rising spires of the castle are simply part of the scenery. The mountains encasing the valley don’t merit a second glance. Not even the dark mountain whose peaks tower over anything else. Its stones are naturally black as obsidian, jagged and slicing the sky.

  The students never look at the dark mountain. Even if they did, they’d never see the watchtower carefully carved into the stone. From the watchtower, a man in a black robe looks down on the valley. His eyes, enhanced by a permanent spell, can see great distances. He can make out the pattern of a dress worn by a fairy in the Academy’s greenhouse. He can see a young man on horseback swinging a sword with expertise beyond his years.

  Most importantly, he can see the face of a girl in the dormitory windows. She’s so beautiful, her dark beauty alone would arrest him. Midnight hair surrounds her face in a dark halo. She looks out the window, but her gaze cuts through everything. Her mind is in another world.

  The watchman’s been watching this girl since she arrived at the Academy. Already she’s caused quite a stir. Her name is Ebony Black.

  She shouldn’t be alive.

  With a heavy sigh, the watchman leaves his post and moves into the belly of the mountain. Many great rooms are carved into the obsidian stone. The watchman makes his way to the great hall in the heart of the mountain. Sconces lit with green and blue faelight illuminate the spacious room.

  At the head of the great hall are twenty bare stone thrones.

  These thrones are the seats of the Order of Unitas, an ancient and powerful order, old as time itself. The founding of the Order is shrouded in mystery. The watchman has been part of the order longer than most, and even he doesn’t know every secret.

  The Order of Unitas has but one goal, to keep the realm in perfect balance. They secretly influence every faction of life. They monitor the distribution of wealth, power, and magic. Time itself will obey their decree when pressed.

  When Rhiannon the Demon Queen rose to power, she disrupted the balance. The Order worked non-stop to restore balance to the realms she shattered. It was a slow, laborious process that claimed many lives of the Order. Rhiannon’s disruption was nothing compared to what emerged to defeat her.

  Snow White appeared like a fallen star crashing down on this mortal plane. Her power was unimaginably great. She rallied seven princes to fight by her side. Together, they were strong enough to take down Rhiannon.

  At first, the Order of Unitas was content to allow Snow White to restore balance on their behalf though she knew nothing of them.

  During the final battle, the Order was confident everything would go the way it needed to. Snow White would defeat Rhiannon then the Order would step in to remove Snow White. Just like Rhiannon, Snow White’s power was too great to go unchecked. With nothing to rival it, she would have to be removed from the realm.

  However, the battle took a turn that not even the Unitas Oracle could foresee. Snow White claimed her own life so that Rhiannon wouldn’t steal her powers. To the Order of Unitas, that was a minor problem. Then, the seven princes called upon ancient and terrible magic to bind Rhiannon between realms.

  This was not the outcome the Order wanted. Even though Rhiannon was sealed away, she could always come back. She was drawn to Snow White’s power like a mayfly to honey wine.

  The princes vowed to Snow White that they would kill her whenever she was reincarnated. This was a messy solution but a solution nonetheless.

  At the time, the Order decided to leave the matter be. Rhiannon wasn’t an immediate threat. Snow White was trapped in a tragic cycle of death and reincarnation. Neither could disrupt the balance. Until now.

  Rhiannon has been released back into the world, though her strength is limited. Snow White, reincarnated as Ebony Black, lives. For reasons unknown, the seven princes now known as the Huntsmen have been unable to kill her. Some refuse to do it. Others have been pushed back by Ebony Black's growing power.

  It’s become a tangled web of lies, deception, and mystery. The Order of Unitas can’t watch from the shadows any longer. For the sake of balance, they have to act.

  The watchman approaches his seat. Each seat has a symbol carved into the back of the chair, positioned so that it sits above the head of the Order member. His symbol is an eye with a star for a pupil. All but three of the other chairs are empty.

  He joins the three, all wear identical black robes to the watchman’s.

  “Any news?” Asks a man with a thick grey beard raises his eyebrow. His chair has the symbol of a raven etched above his head.

  “No change. She’s still alive. The Huntsmen are doing nothing to remedy that fact,” the watchman replies.

  “And Rhiannon?”

  “No sign of her.”

  “I feel her energy mingling in the air, smelling like something rotten on a spring breeze.” A robed man with his hood pulled up speaks. A perfect circle is carved above his head.

  “She has not gained the strength to fully rise,” the bearded one nods.

  “What of Wrath?” The third man asks. His hood is down, revealing a face that’s younger than the others. He has newly inherited his chair with its carving of two crossed daggers. His dark, glittering eyes take in every detail, missing nothing.

  “No sign,” the watchman replies.

  “What good are you, then?” the younger man sneers.

  “Erabis.” The bearded man doesn’t raise his voice, but his tone sends a clear warning. “When you have served as long as the watchman, only then will you be allowed to make such observations. You have many centuries of catching up to do.”

  “Apologies,” Erabis mutters.

  “Accepted,” the watchman replies.

  “Diaval, what do you sense?” The bearded man looks to the man bene
ath the perfect circle. Diaval pulls back his hood to reveal milky white eyes with no iris or pupil. He extends a hand out in front of him and goes still.

  “Snow White’s power grows. Wrath is nearby, but I cannot sense his exact location. He wields powerful magic he’s never had access to before.”

  Diaval lowers his hand and pulls his cloak back up.

  The bearded man draws a heavy sigh.

  “Time is short. We have to act now.”

  “Should we not wait for the others to return? Such decisions require discussion,” Diaval says. Many members of the Order prefer to be out in the world, their identities hidden. They dutifully report back to the dark mountain with valuable information concerning the state of the realm.

  “We cannot wait for the others.”

  “At least, allow me to summon them, Raseamun,” the watchman says.

  “Very well,” Raseamun nods and closes his hooded eyes. “Before you do, I must make a request.”

  “Yes?”

  “I require the three of you to help me summon our best agent,” Raseamun says.

  “You can’t be serious,” Erabis scoffs.

  “He is deadly serious,” Diaval replies, unblinking.

  “We need a swift solution before our world suffers more,” Raseamun says.

  The watchman stares at the raven carved above Raseamun’s head. A symbol of wisdom and clarity. The watchman has trusted Raseamun’s leadership for nearly two-hundred years. He will not question him now.

  The four members stand in the center of the room, arms raised to the stained-glass circle letting in the natural light from the peak of the mountain. Raseamun casts the summoning spell.

  Brilliant, golden light shines down from the skylight. It grows brighter and brighter until the watchman has to look away. All except Raseamus shield their eyes from the light.

  If an Academy student were to look at the dark mountain at that moment, they would have seen rays of light shining out from every cranny and tunnel.

  Slowly, the light fades away. The watchman can finally open his eyes once more. When he does, a man stands in the center of their circle.

  His skin looks like it was brushed over with a light coating of golden dust. He towers over the others by a head. His shoulder-length hair shines white in the darkness. His eyes are the color of molten amber. Pure power radiates from him.

  “Arrius,” Raseamun beams. “Thank you for answering our summons.”

  “I am duty-bound to answer your call,” Arrius replies curtly. At his hip is a gleaming sword. It shines as if a fire is burning from within the metal blade. White stones adorn the hilt. Drops of purity harvested from the heavens. The watchman has never seen anything like it.

  Erabis regards the newcomer with a cold gaze.

  “An Archangel?” He sneers. “Surely, we don’t need to call upon the heavenly warriors to solve our issues.”

  “You do not know your place in the order,” Arrius replies. Quick as lightning, Arrius unsheathes his sword and swings it at Erabis. The edge of his blade stops mere centimeters from Erabis’s neck. Erabis goes still as stone, his eyes widen with fear.

  “You’ve made your point, Arrius.” Raseamun steps closer to the Archangel. “Erabis has only recently acquired his position within the order. He has much to learn.”

  “Clearly.” Arrius sheaths his sword and steps away from Erabis. Once the Archangel’s back is turned, Erabis steps back into the shadows.

  “Why have I been summoned?” The Archangel demands.

  “Snow White and Rhiannon have returned to the realm,” Diaval explains. “They threaten everything.”

  “They need to be dealt with before chaos ensues,” Raseamun instructs.

  “It will be done.” With a flash of heavenly light, the Archangel vanishes.

  2

  Seth

  No matter how hard I try, I can’t keep my eyes off her.

  It seems as if every aspect of nature turns to her and lends her its grace. The sunlight that slants down from the high windows caresses her hair, and makes her vibrant skin glow. Her deep red lips shame every rose that ever bloomed. Her midnight hair always seem to be in motion, as if the very air cannot stop from touching her.

  It’s maddening. My frustration feels like a living thing, a snake that whips through my blood and makes my bones crackle. Even though I’m sitting perfectly still and an onlooker might assume me to be relaxed, I’m full of tension.

  I want to walk up and talk to her. Have her look upon me with that same soft, eager look she always had in the past. When I remember our easy intimacy, the way she would crawl into my arms for comfort whenever she was upset—I feel a kind of pain I’ve never known, not from any wound.

  We have barely spoken since our step-mother, Cordelia’s, death. That split our little foster family scene wide apart, not that it was ever stable before that. It just seems to me that for most of our lives, running from Cordelia was what drew Ebony to me. Now our link feels broken.

  I shift in my seat, trying to ease my muscles. I can appear casual, but it doesn’t stop my muscles fighting against each other, wringing tension through my joints.

  Today, I’m not trying to pretend I’m on guard—watching for all the evils that might befall my love. Nope, I’m owning this pure and simple.

  I just want to look at her. I want to sit in this quiet space, the silence somehow more reverent here than in a church—as if knowledge has a greater respect than religion—and allow that atmosphere to soothe me. How it enhances her beauty, this atmosphere of peace and learning.

  She lifts her pen from the paper and touches the end to her mouth. My eyes focus upon the small dent it makes on her full lower lip. She frowns, squinting at the page and her pink tongue explores the tip of the pen.

  I feel like my knees are shaking. I look up, closing my eyes for a second. I shift the book lying open in front of me. I don’t even know what it’s about, I haven’t looked at it.

  All I’ve looked at is Ebony.

  Everyone has been shaken by the recent events, Cordelia’s death being so sudden and unexpected it left us all reeling. I’m not even sure how Ebony feels about it all. She was pretty broken after the whole apple cobbler incident. It caused her to examine everyone in her life and re-evaluate trust itself.

  Still, I think she would have felt terrible loss at losing Cordelia for good. Ebony is just that kind of girl.

  I look down at the book I’m pretending to read, seeing ancient monsters tearing each other to shreds on the page. What the hell am I reading here? I can’t even remember which section I grabbed the book from. The pages are yellowed and smudged. Well-worn then.

  Before I can flip the cover to remind myself of the title, I glance up at Ebony again. When I realize she’s looking at me, dark eyes crawling all over me, it’s like a blow to the chest. I sit bolt upright, staring, eager as a faithful puppy.

  When she notices my attention, she looks back at her books. Her eyes slip away from me without an expression, a blank gaze that doesn’t change as it moves from my face back to her work.

  She taps the pen on her lip once, then makes a few notes. For a moment, my eyes can’t seem to stop looking at her hands. Long, graceful, slender, they grip the pen with ease and flow across the page, dancing like lights in the night.

  I feel like I need to go and dunk myself in ice water. Being separated from her is affecting me deeply. I thought the aching within me couldn’t get any worse when I actually had access to her—when we were close, emotionally and physically. I thought having her with me, the immediacy of her body wafting up into my nostrils several times a day, was the worst hell I could endure.

  But at least then, I had contact. I could hear her voice running over me as her eyes looked into mine. I could take her hand and feel her trust. I could put my arms around her and dream for just a few seconds, we were somewhere else, anywhere else.

  I now understand the jealousy of the others much better. They were all ‘at least you get
to touch her’ and I was like ‘oh it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be’ and now I get it. I totally get it.

  In fact, I think I have it far worse. Because I did have her touch and her trust. The physical intimacy was freely given and equally shared.

  Now it has been torn away. And in all the battles I’ve ever fought, I could not have imagined a moment this painful.

  Sitting in a quiet, safe spot. My beloved close enough to touch, glowing with power and beauty.

  But completely out of my reach.

  I could have talked to her. I know it’s useless to sit here and blame the recent events for our break when I could have spoken to her at any time. Until I do that, I can’t be sure what she’s thinking.

  I’m afraid to.

  I’m ashamed of myself.

  I let rage consume me. I let myself fall. I didn’t fight as hard as I could have. I surrendered to the power.

  Ebony sweeps her hair back off her shoulders, tossing it behind her. She chews the pen again briefly, flipping pages and making notes. The sunlight shimmers, answering her beauty. I’m struck for a few seconds and can’t even think.

  I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to make her suffer. It wasn’t even the simple paradox of killing her to keep her soul safe. This was about blind, rage-induced torture. To destroy, certainly, but destruction comes in many forms.

  The worst of it is to wear the victim down to nothing before they are killed.

  In the darkest parts of my mind, I see horrible, violent images. I see my hands wrapped around her slender forearms, gripping them tight enough to bruise. So tight I can hear the bones straining under my grip. I see her flesh marked by horrible wounds from blunt-edged weapons. I can hear her crying out for me to stop. Begging, please.