CHAPTER 11
Armaros had rushed the healing. His body had been devastated, and the effort left him drained, but there was much to do. He was needed. This was the age of the prophecy, just as Mikhael had told him, and he would not be found lacking again. He hoped there was still time.
His brother Azazel was cunning. And patient. He had waited twenty four years before striking, but when he did attack, the results were absolute. Armaros had watched, trapped outside of his own body and helpless to do anything, as the fiend sent his most recent underling to Cane's house. The boy was probably already dead.
He removed himself from the stone coffin and started after Azazel's newest minion. Right away he could feel that he wasn't ready. The sword strapped to his back threatened to pull him back down. The healing needed more time. His strength was absent. The powerful forces that regularly surged beneath his skin, forces granted to him by the Elect at the time of his making, were not wholly replenished.
He could not recall ever feeling like this. His limbs seemed heavy. His senses, normally heightened, betrayed him now. The world around him was dull and cloudy. The land was silent; neither the trees nor the wildlife communed with him. He heard only his own footsteps as he continued towards Cane's trailer.
I can do no more than a man feeling like this. Still, I must try.
As he exited the little cemetery, a porch light in the distance beaconed. A thought entered his mind as he focused on his destination, and he tried to push the idea away. It was the First Magic. He could use it now and be at Cane's instantly. It had never left him, and it never would. He was the original and most fluent purveyor of the First Magic here on earth—at least he had been before, prior to the reckoning. And now Azazel was back. He wasn't sure anymore.
It had become as much a part of him as the life force he was still trying to replenish, perhaps even more so. He took what they had taught him and expanded upon that knowledge a thousand fold. Eventually, he surpassed even Raphael in his understanding of spellbinding. But that had been a long time ago. He hadn't used spells or incantations in thousands upon thousands of years. He had sworn an oath to himself that he would never practice the First Magic again. And so he fought against his own nature, and he never allowed the power to leave his body . . . not since the reckoning.
No, you're going to get there anyway you can . . . except that way . . . can't risk losing it again.
Armaros began moving faster as he put some distance between himself and the old cemetery. He was getting better. Perhaps he would be able to help Cane after all. The boy didn't deserve saving, but he wasn't going to judge anyone. That was somebody else's job. He forced himself to remain hopeful.
Come on boy, try to stay alive just a little longer.
The Peacock Angel: Rise of the Decarchs Page 20
