Demon or Angel (Age of Exilum Book 1)

by Lynn Michaels

  “I know.”

  “You’re better. Way better than that nematode.”

  “The what?”

  “Nematode. It’s a plant parasite. A worm.”

  “Yeah, for sure. Alex is wormy.”

  They laughed and talked about other things the few short blocks to Vern’s house. “Hey, drop me here.”

  “I can pull up the drive, seriously.”

  “Trust me. You don’t want to. This is fine.”

  “If you say so.”

  Vern nodded and bumped fists with him. “Yeah. Thanks. See ya.”

  “Later.”

  He walked up the dirt path to the house. His dad’s truck wasn’t in the driveway. Thankfully.

  “Your dad will be home soon. You’re late. Go get cleaned up. Hurry.”

  His mom didn’t need to tell him twice. He jumped in the shower before the water had a chance to warm up and lathered the soap, hands swiftly gliding over his lean muscles. He scrubbed shampoo through his hair and rinsed fast. As he got out and hurried to his room, his dad’s voice boomed from the kitchen. He yanked his clothes on as fast as he could, practically holding his breath and dashed out to help his mom.

  Her wan smile told him she didn’t have much hope for a peaceful evening. “Set the table.”

  Vern nodded and pulled dishes out of the cabinet. He almost wished they would talk about it, share their fear and loathing. Never going to happen. His mother never talked to him about anything. They quietly bore their frustrations together and completely alone.

  With food on the table, they sat down. His father chugged a beer and grabbed a second before he took one bite. Chicken and green beans. Everything appeared normal. “So what? You tried out for the play again?”

  “Yes, sir. I think I did okay. Maybe even got a major role.”

  He slammed his half-empty beer on the table. The foam rose inside the bottle. “Why don’t you go out for sports?”

  As if...Vern wasn’t very athletic, but he could run. His dad didn’t understand what acting meant to him, and he couldn’t share it with him.

  “Vern? Plays are for pansy-ass fuckers. Are you a pansy?”

  “No. No, sir. This role isn’t—”

  “No. I’m sick of this. Why can’t I say anything about my son at work? Those guys have sons in football. Baseball. Damn.” He took another swig of his beer, and Vern’s mom jumped up to get him another before he demanded it.

  Vern couldn’t win this situation. “Um...I’m going out for track, Dad.”

  “Track?”

  “Yeah...running. I run.”

  His dad grunted. Maybe getting on the track team could be enough. “When’s that?”

  “Tomorrow.” Track and field tryouts were the next day, and he wouldn’t have to do anything with the play until the following week. He hadn’t considered trying out before, but maybe he could do both. Maybe he would make the track team. He could outrun most of the team. He was a regular Forrest-fucking-Gump.

  His dad finished his beer and popped open the next one, took a bite of chicken, and spoke with his mouth full, but Vern anticipated his words before he even said them. “You better make the track team. Forget drama. Plays are for panty-wastes!”

  Vern wouldn’t argue. He’d ignore his father and do both. Hell, his dad didn’t know what went on half the time. They ate dinner silently. Vern hurried. His dad was getting drunker by the second.

  His mom stood up and took his plate. “You done? Why don’t you go do your homework? I’ll do the dishes.”

  Vern didn’t have anything to study, but he didn’t want to be around his dad, either. He would not be allowed to go anywhere, not that he had anywhere else to go.

  He hid in his room, hoping the last bit of the day would end without incident.

  He stared out the window, daydreaming about the play and about maybe getting on the track team. That would mean spending time with Calvin Schmidt. He would never have anything to do with Vern, but it wouldn’t stop him from admiring Calvin and his long legs in his running shorts. He thought about the next day at school, hoping he wouldn’t have a repeat of the day in hell he’d been through. He’d remember his books and his glasses. And he’d have a shower. He slowly nodded off.

  Sometime later, his parents’ fighting woke him up. He could hear his father’s deep, thundering voice saying things that didn’t even make sense. He had no idea what kind of shit his dad came up with when he was drunk. He pulled the covers over his head, hoping the blanket would make him invisible. He silently prayed his dad wouldn’t barge in and harass him.

  THREE

  Teague

  In the bright Georgia sun, Teague took his true form. The incandescence wouldn’t be seen by any of the humans from where he hovered in the bleachers. Watching Vern run around the track with the others was a new thing. Teague wanted a cigarette but couldn’t smoke in this form. His body was barely a physical thing at all. But still...

  The teen bent over, stretching his legs before lining up with the others. Vern had proved to be fast—exceptionally fast. He had not only made the team but apparently gave the rest of them quite a challenge. A run for their money. Teague laughed, unsure why he felt proud. After all, Teague hadn’t done a damn thing. In fact, it was a great setup to do some serious damage, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. When he looked at his target, he wanted to shelter him, not harass him as he’d been assigned to do. Teague would surely damn them both with this course of action—or rather lack of action.

  He huffed a bit, resigned to watching. Watching. Always watching.

  A tingly pull inside his chest alerted him to his twin brother’s presence. The asshole had to be lurking around, but like Teague, Zepher would be hard to spot.

  On the track, heat waves roiled up from the polyurethane surface. One such spot shimmered a bit more than the others, and when the racers passed, it reached out and pushed the track star. The tall blond kid fell, face first, palms out. Vern had been right behind him and stopped to help the kid up.

  A shiny glow on the track hovered around the boy who had fallen. Zepher whispered in the kid’s ear—influenced him.

  Sure enough, the kid shoved Vern and yelled, “Get off me, faggot!”

  Vern’s mouth dropped open. He didn’t even bother with a defense.

  “This ain’t your place. You need to quit and go find some other faggot losers to hang out with.” The kid stepped up into Vern’s space. For a second, every set of eyes zoned in on them, and an eerie, preternatural silence fell as if every kid and coach out there held their breath.

  Teague barely made out Zepher’s shiny form reaching out his influence on the kid. A simple push. A nudge. That’s all it took. The kid shoved Vern, hands on his chest.

  Vern fell back but kept his footing. When the other kid stepped closer as if to hit him, Vern raised his arms in front of his face in defense.

  Teague wanted to jump in, wanted to yank Zepher’s influence away, wanted to protect Vern. He couldn’t. Not without blowing his cover. He watched, horrified, as the fight continued.

  Vern did a decent job of blocking. He should know how to block, having spent years protecting himself from his shithead father. He kept his arms up but didn’t fight back. Teague silently wished the kid would go ahead and slug the asshole already. He didn’t. He stood there and took smack after smack against his arms, protecting his face and head, then took a punch to the belly.

  Finally, the lame-brain coach stepped in. “Cal. Man. Back off. Enough.”

  They walked away together, leaving Vern standing alone in the middle of the track. After a few moments of looking around, Vern walked off, slowly. Head hanging. Crushed. This was more than just being smacked around by a bully. Hell, he was pushed around on a daily freakin’ basis. Nope. This had a more personal feel.

  Teague looked back at the bully and the coach walking away, then back to Vern. His head perked up, and he glanced at where Teague loitered, almost as if he knew Teague had been watching them.
But no. Vern had no idea Teague existed. The expression on his face–

  Wait. I know that look.

  Vern had a crush on the guy. Teague had been around for eons...since humans first walked on two feet. He could tell. Yep. Vern had a crush on the asshole who humiliated him only moments ago. Damn.

  Something inside Teague simmered hot at Vern’s pain. That feeling meant trouble. Zepher had overstepped his bounds and caused the heartbreak on Vern’s face. Teague couldn’t let it go. He wouldn’t. According to their rules, Zepher had done nothing wrong, but in Teague’s heart, he couldn’t forgive it.

  It took a few hours to find his brother after the incident at track practice. The more distance between them, the less he sensed Zepher. The weird tingle-pull inside him worked like a location beacon. After searching a wider circle, Teague picked the feeling up again and followed the sensation to a biker bar all the way up in Atlanta, near Little Five Points. Fucker got around.

  Teague recognized the place. It was so much like a million other hole-in-the-wall joints. The kind with motorcycles lined up in front that could be seen easily through a huge plate-glass window, and inside, a large bar dominated the center of the room. One side had pool tables, and the other had high tops and stools. And the clientele? Obviously limited to leather.

  It took a few seconds for Teague’s eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, but as he peered around the dingy bar, he spotted the familiar body he’d been looking for. Zepher stood in his standard Manna form. Dark hair fell over half of his lean face, and the one eye Teague saw was dark and shifty. He wore a black leather jacket over a red t-shirt. He gave a jerk of his pointy chin when he spotted Teague.

  Teague had changed to his Manna form and dressed it similarly, but Teague had chosen all black, t-shirt, jacket, leather pants, and heavy boots. A chain clipped at his waist jingled as he strutted across the floor, stopping only when he came nose to nose with his asshole brother.

  “What do you want, Teague?”

  “You know why I’m here. You messed with my charge.”

  Zepher laughed in a twisted, dark way that made his perfect, porcelain face turn ugly. He scowled, blotchy red patches rising on his cheeks and wrinkles marring his forehead. Teague practically saw his venomous thoughts churning.

  “Zeph. I’m serious. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Huh. Wrong with me? What? You’re asking what’s wrong with me?” His voice rose, grabbing too much attention. “You want to take this outside, Brother?”

  “I want to kick your ass right fuckin’ here, mother fucker.” He shoved Zepher’s shoulder.

  “Figures. Can’t decide if you’re lazy or an idiot...or what? And now you come in here picking a fight. I’m guessing you’ve lost your mind. Or your touch? Maybe you’re not cut out for this shit anymore?”

  “What the fuck?”

  Zepher tilted his chin down, peering up at Teague with a raised eyebrow and accusing stare. “You’re pandering to the boy. He should be tougher by now. He should be full of fire and pain.”

  “He’s full of pain all by himself.”

  Zepher shook his head with his ugly laugh again. “You’re not doing your job. You should be thanking me. Dad wouldn’t come in and do it for you—”

  “Like you are?”

  Zepher leaned in. Even though they were twins and had the same height in these forms, Zepher was less muscular but no less powerful for the force underneath his slimmer build. “Yeah. Like I am. Cleaning up your fucking mess, Tea. I didn’t break any rules. Didn’t do anything but try to make up for your lack in the only way I could.”

  Zepher spoke the truth. He hadn’t directly messed with Vern. “Still. You’re messing things up. I have a plan, and you’re interfering.”

  “What plan? You haven’t done anything. You’re going to watch him into submission?”

  “It’s none of your business what I’m doing. This is my assignment. Not yours.” He poked his finger into Zepher’s chest. “Stay out of my business.”

  “Or what?”

  “Childish prick.”

  “Like you’re not.” Zepher shoved Teague back, making him stumble, not unlike what had happened between Vern and his crush at the track earlier. But Teague wouldn’t stand there and take it. When he managed his footing, he came right back with a wide punch to the jaw.

  Zepher’s head snapped. When he slowly turned to face Teague, he had all of their father in his eyes. Evil. Cold. Calculated.

  One of the bouncers, built like a tank with shoulder muscles bulging under a black tank top, approached the bar where they stood. “Take it outside, guys.”

  “Fine.” Zepher’s one word, flat and icy, let Teague know exactly what they were in for when he stepped back outside into the humid, Georgia air.

  As soon as he was out the door, Zepher turned and kicked out, catching Teague in the thigh. Teague didn’t go down, he rebalanced and jumped into a roundhouse kick. Zepher ducked out of the way and bounced back a few steps with an evil chuckle. “Not going to take me out, bro. Uh-uh...”

  Teague’s Manna body was capable enough. Muscular, fierce, agile. He wanted to pin Zepher in place. Easier said than done. Zepher moved fast and catching him would be a challenge. Teague needed a different strategy.

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest and flipped his blond hair behind his shoulder with a jerk of his head. Radiating calm, he stood and waited.

  Zepher’s boots thudded on the pavement with every step as he marched toward him. Anger blazed like a flame around him. They had rules on Manna though, and Zepher pushed the boundary with every angry stride. Seconds before he reached Teague, he stopped and shifted his weight to slug Teague.

  Teague anticipated his move and flinched to the left. Stepping back, he let loose a powerful punch. His fist caught Zepher beneath his collarbone. He staggered back.

  “This is stupid. I’m not fighting you here.” Zepher clearly had to work at reining in his fury. “I won’t be able to do enough damage.”

  “Don’t fucking threaten what you can’t back up, Brother.”

  “Fuck off and do your job.” He pointed at Teague, violently, finger stabbing the air. “Or...”

  Teague didn’t wait around to ask what he meant. The fight had confirmed his suspicions. They’d had arguments before, but nothing like this. They were both prone to violence, their skirmishes ended with them knocking each other around a bit, not in angry accusations and threats. No, Zepher had a plan. He wanted to take Teague out one way or another. He had made his intentions obvious. Zepher felt betrayed and meant to do something about it.

  “Run back to watching your boy, Teague,” Zepher taunted as he walked away. “Leave the real work for the grown-ups.”

  Teague headed the other way. He couldn’t let Zepher get to him. He had to be alert, calm. Protect Vern. Even if he didn’t understand why.

  His father would not deal favorably with his newfound conscience. Zepher would ruin him, and his father would...hell, he didn’t know what his father would do.

  The main drag through town depressed him with most of the old stores closed and the streets abandoned. A few lights didn’t work, and the ones that did cast a weird orange glow over the world. Teague pulled out a pack of cigarettes and flicked one out. He needed to think. He lit it and kept walking. He couldn’t change forms or travel if there were any witnesses. He found an alley between a thrift store and a closed-down five and dime where he shifted to his true form.

  Finding Zepher, fighting with him, and changing forms too many times cost Teague energy. Once shifted, he rose into the air with a great flap of his wings. He needed Zepher to back off of Vern without letting Zepher know the kid meant something more to him.

  Instead of heading straight off to find Vern, he fought those instincts and went home. Or rather the home he had made here on Manna. He needed to recharge his energy stores and think.

  For now, Vern was on his own.

  Teague had stopped watching Vern and switched to w
atching Zepher. Their ability to find each other anywhere, regardless of what dimension they were in, made it pretty easy to find Zepher, most of the time, if they were close enough in proximity. It was also more difficult to spy on him. Zepher instinctively knew when Teague was near as well. It made hiding from Zepher nearly impossible.

  He stayed as far away as he could, relying on other means of spying. Though he shouldn’t use his tools for spying on his brother, he did it anyway. Tools were used sparingly, when needed on assignment, not for his own whims. Their cost warranted discretion, but desperate times, desperate measures. Plus, Teague never cared much for following rules, and he would deal with any consequences after he had what he wanted.

  He dug through the chest he had brought from Exilum, looking for the perfect device. It had fallen to the bottom, underneath an old blanket. He brought the cloth to his nose, smelling traces of sulfur and ash which, ironically, comforted him. He discarded it quickly and picked up the coin, flipping it over in his palm.

  The face of Beleth had been struck on one side, and the other side had been left smooth. To create the tool and give it potential, the coin blank had been infused with the blood of Ezekiel, one of the enemy. Ezekiel had been a war angel, his body and blood collected after the Greatest War. Why they named it at all when there’d only ever been one war and it still continued Teague had no idea. Nor did he care much about it. The blood turned the coin into a tool. That’s what he cared about.

  He pulled out a tiny vial of angel blood and used the dropper to squeeze a tiny splash onto the empty side of the coin to activate it. This type of tool needed a double whammy of Osestra influence to work. As it grew in his hand to about the size of a computer tablet, only round instead of square, it buzzed in his hands, turning colder. Concentrating on his brother to tune the tool, he watched the blood turn into a screen of sorts. It was almost like the blood turned to a thin layer of gel where images could be projected. He could make out his brother’s Manna form standing on a street corner beside a yield sign. His dark hair hung over his smug face, and his arms settled over his chest, crossed together.