Angels Defying (Angels Rising Book 3)

by Harriet Carlton

  Chapter 42

  Imorean righted himself and took off downward after Michael. Horror and fear unfolding in his chest. Vortigern was forgotten. One thought alone ran through his head. Over and over again. A desperate mantra.

  ‘It can’t be Michael. It can’t be Michael. It can’t be Michael.’

  The Archangel was tumbling downward head over heels at a dizzying speed. It was hundreds of feet to the ground. He was falling too fast for Imorean to catch up to or stop. Imorean bared his teeth, pushing himself faster. As far as he knew, none of the other angels were even aware that their commander had just been rendered useless. Tears that could not possibly have been caused by the wind streaked their way out of Imorean’s eyes as he tried desperately to catch his commander.

  Imorean watched helplessly as Michael tried in vain to beat his wings. They snicked powerlessly through the air. Imorean shook his head in horror as Michael dropped down out of sight behind a ridge. There was a second, softer pulse in the air. The white-haired squad leader was close behind. He alighted on top of the ridge for a moment. His eyes scanned the ground for Michael. His heart constricted as he saw a trail of displaced rocks, blood smears on the black surfaces and tufts of emerald feathers. In the valley at the bottom of the ridge, hundreds of feet below, was a river. On the shore, a glimmer of something dark green. He knew instinctively that it was Michael. Imorean felt paralyzed by shock. He just couldn’t move. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t. Not Michael. Then the green object moved. Imorean watched in stunned silence as Michael reared up to his hands and knees, grabbed Vortigern’s sword by its handle and pulled it from his abdomen, tossing it aside. The white-haired teenager gasped as he watched his commander rise shakily to his feet and stumble forward for a few paces. The illusion that Michael would be all right was shattered only seconds later as he crumpled back to the ground and lay still.

  Imorean took off toward his commander immediately, wings folded tightly against his sides. As he drew close, he could see that both of Michael’s wings were bent at awkward angles. A broken bone protruded from one of them. Cuts and grazes littered Michael’s face. There was a crunch as Imorean’s boots touched down on the snow, but he barely heard it.

  “Michael!” shouted Imorean, tearing his goggles off and dropping to his knees. “No! Don’t be dead. Come on. Come on. Don’t be dead. Open your eyes. Please.”

  The teenager’s eyes flickered to the gaping wound in Michael’s chest. It was bleeding heavily, staining the dark gray shirt and jacket that Michael was wearing. Imorean was starting to fear the worst when Michael’s closed eyes flickered.

  “Michael?” asked Imorean, his heart lifting.

  “And I thought I would be alone,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “Hold on,” said Imorean, doing something he would have never dared to do if the Archangel had been at full strength. He settled close to Michael’s shoulders and rested his mentor’s head in his lap. Hesitantly, Imorean placed one hand over Michael’s chest and applied pressure, somehow hoping to staunch the blood flow. He didn’t know what else to do. What could he possibly do? Michael groaned and bared his teeth.

  “I’m sorry,” gasped Imorean, pulling his hand away. It was dripping with fresh blood. Imorean choked back the urge to vomit.

  “Keep pressure on it. It is all you can do,” said Michael, his jade green eyes opening a fraction and meeting Imorean’s.

  With a swallow, Imorean leaned forward again and pressed his hand back against Michael’s bloody chest.

  “You’re not alone,” he said, hoping to keep Michael talking for as long as he could. Until someone figured out that they were missing. Mentally, he reached out to Raphael, screaming for his brother. In the back of his mind, there was a flicker of movement. Worry. Fear.

  “I am proud of you,” said Michael. Imorean couldn’t help but feel that the words were said with a sense of finality.

  “Well, wait until we get back to Felsenmeer to say this stuff, yeah?” said Imorean, swallowing hard. Tears were welling up in his eyes and he looked away.

  “Imorean,” said Michael seriously. “I am not going back to Felsenmeer.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Imorean, his throat constricting. “Of course you are. We’ll have Raphael patch you up and you’ll be fine.”

  “Raphael cannot fix this. The sword may be gone, but its damage is already done,” said Michael. He paused for a moment and groaned, gritting his teeth together. “I am going to die here.”

  “No!” shouted Imorean. “Don’t say that. I can’t lose my family, Gabriel and you. I just can’t.”

  “Gabriel will be fine,” said Michael with a shuddering breath. “Out of action in the air for a short time, yes, but fine.”

  “And why won’t you be?” asked Imorean, keeping his eyes away from the blood seeping up through his fingers from the deep, bleeding hole in Michael’s chest.

  “Gabriel was not struck in a vital place. Vortigern missed my heart by a miracle, but I can feel this wound taking all my strength. I am dying, Imorean.”

  “Michael,” started Imorean. Tears were in his eyes again. He fought them. He didn’t have a hand to wipe them with. “Don’t. Please. We need you. I need you.”

  “There is a piece of me in you, Imorean. I will always be here. Do not pine for me. It will do you no good,” said Michael, a hint of authority creeping back into his tone. There was a sudden sense of urgency behind Michael’s eyes. “I have one final assignment for you, Imorean.”

  “Yes?” asked Imorean.

  “Find Vortigern. Defeat him. Destroy him.”

  “What if I can’t do it?”

  “You can do it, Imorean. I have faith in you and in your squad.”

  “I can’t do it without you,” said Imorean.

  “You will have to,” said Michael. “Find Vortigern and you may find me too.”

  Imorean swallowed as the Chief Archangel rested a bloody hand on his forearm. He bit the inside of his cheek. Michael looked so pale.

  “Uriel will assume command of the Host. You and your squad must be out of his way before he does. He will try to stop you. I would not trust Uriel at this time. Do not let him stop you, Imorean. This is a dangerous mission I am sending you to do, but you can trust Gabriel and Raphael. They will help.”

  “Michael,” whimpered Imorean, noticing how weak the Archangel’s grip had become. Even his manner of speaking was changing. It sounded as though it was costing him great effort. Some of his words were slurring together. Michael’s eyes slid closed and his breathing started to slow down. His face was draining of color. Dark shadows stood out under his eyes. A shudder tore through the Chief Archangel’s body.

  “Michael!” shouted Imorean. He looked up and around when Michael didn’t respond. “Raphael! Gabriel! Help! Someone! Help! Come on! Help me!”

  Michael’s grip went limp and his hand thudded down onto the snow. Imorean buckled down over his commander, his chest tight with sobs. Panic seized him. In the back of his mind, he acknowledged a sound. The ticking, second hand on his watch beat a tiny tattoo against the glass face. So much like the heartbeat of a dying creature, pulsing, rapid, desperate.

  “Michael!” cried a voice from behind him. Imorean turned. Raphael and Gabriel had finally appeared. Behind them, Imorean saw his squad looking from him to Michael, finally realizing what had happened. There were audible gasps. Ryan was missing. Roxy covered her eyes and fell to her knees. Mandy hid her face in Dustin’s chest. Baxter, Colton and Toddy stood stock still in horror.

  “Move!” shouted Raphael, grapping Imorean by the shoulders and shoving him backwards. He settled on his knees next to his fallen brother. “I need space for this. Roxy, over here! Now!”

  Shock and heartbreak were clear in Raphael’s blue eyes. Tears were splashing the lenses of his glasses as he tore the white band marking him as a medic off his arm and threw it down on the ground. There was fear in his tearful eyes. Roxy arrived at his side, a large black box in her
arms. Gabriel approached more slowly. He seemed to be in a trance. The bloodstained bandages around his chest and shoulders hampered him as he moved.

  “Michael? Michael!” shouted Gabriel. Imorean’s heart quaked at the sounds Gabriel was making. There was pain in Gabriel’s voice. Horrible, real pain. Imorean moved away a few feet to give the three brothers space. Gabriel knelt next to his twin and cradled Michael’s head close to his chest. Raphael moved closer and took Michael’s limp hand in his own, raising it to his lips and whispering something inaudible. A scream of horror and agony was torn from Gabriel’s throat as he rocked back and forth, his arms wrapped around Michael. Raphael was rummaging through the black box Roxy had brought. A needle appeared in his hands. In the other, a bottle of bright orange liquid. In a flash, Raphael had filled the syringe. Imorean trembled. He couldn’t imagine what Raphael was planning.

  “Move, Gabriel,” whispered Raphael. Imorean barely heard his voice.

  “What are you doing?” asked Gabriel, as Raphael rolled back Michael’s sleeve.

  “I’m putting him under. If I can medically induce a coma, it just might save him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, but it’s our only chance,” whispered Raphael, as he jabbed the needle into Michael’s arm. His thumb hesitated on the needle’s plunger. Blue eyes locked on Imorean. “You’re going to feel this too.”

  Imorean inclined his head, but as he was about to speak, a scream was torn from his throat and he crumpled to his knees, feeling as though he had been ripped out of his own body. Hands caught him just as he fell to the rocky ground. The world went still and quiet. Everything faded away into darkness. Imorean was glad of it.

  The first stars of evening were the first thing Imorean saw when he opened his eyes. Memory had not dissolved in sleep. He knew why he was here and what had happened. He did not need reminding. Night was falling fast, but none of the onlookers had moved. They didn’t seem to notice that the world was cold. Gabriel had not released his hold on his older brother’s body, nor had Raphael moved from his position at Michael’s side. The empty syringe was still in his hand. Imorean sat up. Someone had put a blanket over him. He looked at his hands. They were no longer covered in blood, but the last vestiges of dried rust lingered around his fingernails. Imorean shut his eyes and looked away. He didn’t move from where he had been lying. He was still some distance away from them all. Not with his squad, nor with the Archangels. He checked his watch. Hours had passed. He stared straight ahead, looking without seeing. Waking up had brought the world back. Michael was lying motionless.

  It was a distant rumble of thunder that finally seemed to shake all the angels from their sorrowful dazes. There was a pale, emerald glow emanating from Michael’s hand and Imorean raised his eyebrows as the hilt of Michael’s sword appeared in the Archangel’s hand.

  “No,” whispered Gabriel, as the glow faded and Michael’s blade came into view. The white metal was broken into three pieces. Imorean remembered that many months ago, Professor Haroel at Gracepointe had said that an angel’s sword will only chip, crack or break when they had been killed. What Imorean was seeing finally confirmed everything. Michael… Was it possible?

  Raphael stared blankly at the broken sword, then placed his fingers against Michael’s throat. There was something hollow as he spoke his next sentence.

  “… He’s alive… but he’ll be of no more use to us. He is beyond. He is very deep on the astral plane. He’s as good as dead.”

  Imorean looked up and more tears trickled from each of his eyes. Michael was alive, but dead to the world. Beyond help. Imorean opened his eyes in just enough time to see the flicker of an aurora in the sky above them. It was a dark hue of perfect, rich emerald. As though Michael had already ascended.

  Chapter 43

  Upper Morvine. It was not what Imorean had expected. Unlike Felsenmeer or Gracepointe, Upper Morvine was settled on an island archipelago on Norway’s north coast. Imorean was not surprised to find that he and his squad had been placed on the same encampment as Uriel, Raphael and Gabriel. A small cluster of buildings known as The Terrace. Each student residence camp was built onto a fjord and each was styled like a fishing village. One border was the fjord itself, the other was formed by dizzyingly high mountains. Boardwalks served as paths between huts, offices and other houses. The fjords were the transit highways between camps. The Terrace was on the outskirts of the campus itself, several miles away from the Main, the heart of campus—Haroel had been reposted to the Main. For some reason, that small detail stuck out to Imorean. The Main was where the majority of the lecture halls, student facilities, angels and student body were located now. The hospital and auditorium, too, were there. Could it even be called a campus anymore? Imorean liked the area, but he wanted to go back to Felsenmeer. Felsenmeer felt like home. It didn’t feel cramped or watched like Upper Morvine.

  “Imorean,” said Raphael, jerking Imorean back to the present.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re wandering again.”

  “Yep.”

  It had been a week since Michael had been placed into his coma. Imorean swallowed hard. He didn’t want to go over this. The shock was still setting in. Michael, his mentor, was unreachable. Imorean still felt so hollow. So vulnerable. Where Michael’s presence had been felt in his mind, there was just insubstantial nothing now. Absolute nothing. He felt empty.

  Raphael inclined his head, his blue eyes kind behind their lenses. It was the third therapy session Imorean had had this week. Imorean met Raphael’s eyes for a fraction of a second. Brown eyes shot out of the window, wanting to escape Raphael’s gaze. The kindness in Raphael’s eyes made him uncomfortable. Outside, it was gray. Low-bellied clouds hung near the water, obscuring the mountains.

  “Tell me about my grandfather,” said Imorean, desperate to keep the conversation away from Michael. Away from the reason why he was here.

  “Your grandfather?” asked Raphael.

  “He was a medic during Vietnam. He fought under your group. He must have done.”

  Raphael went quiet for a moment, and Imorean glanced at him. Then those blue eyes looked back up. “What was his name?”

  “William,” replied Imorean. “William Watson.”

  Raphael hummed. “Yes, I think… Watson. He was a good medic. Straight into the battlefield when we needed him. Brave. Reliable. Steadfast. I remember him. His company members always spoke very highly of him. He was a good man, Imorean.”

  “He never told me,” said Imorean. It had been bothering him for months, but suddenly it seemed much easier to talk about than what had happened in Iceland. Michael.

  “Would you have believed him?” asked Raphael, leaning forward in his chair.

  Imorean turned his gaze back out the window. “No, probably not. But after I got my wings. Why didn’t he tell me, then?”

  “I don’t know, Imorean. I don’t have the magical answers for that. He may have not been sure whether you had wings or not. He may have thought you would take him for a senile, old man. There are a thousand possibilities.”

  “And I’ll never know, will I?” asked Imorean.

  “… No. There are some things though, that we will never know with certainty. That’s a terrible, horrible part of life.”

  “Yeah. I’m finding that out,” replied Imorean. He stared out beyond the mountaintops, eyes fixed on an invisible point on the far horizon.

  “Imorean, if you continue to suppress what you saw and how you feel, it will bite you. You know that, don’t you?”

  Imorean shrugged. He shook his head and looked at the floor. He wanted to be anywhere but here. The conversation was turning, and he didn’t like where it was going. He drummed his fingers against the leather strap of his watch. There was still a smear of blood darkening it. His stomach turned. He knew somehow that it was Michael’s blood.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Brown eyes met blue. How could Raphael ever understand how guilty he felt? Ryan
had been injured in the battle. Michael had nearly been killed. Both because of him. If he hadn’t left the squad, everything would have been fine. If he had followed orders. If he had been faster getting to Michael. If he had given the squad more direct orders to fall back. It was all his fault.

  “Guilty? Ashamed?” asked Raphael.

  Imorean nodded slightly.

  “You shouldn’t. It could have happened to anyone.”

  “I’m sure,” muttered Imorean.

  “How is your squad handling everything?”

  Imorean’s shoulders rose and fell, his wings rubbing the chair behind him.

  “You have to socialize. I know you don’t want to, but it’ll be better for you if you do.”

  Imorean shook his head. “I don’t want to.”

  “Have you eaten this week?”

  “Yeah.” It was a lie. Imorean hadn’t eaten for several days. Food simply turned to ash in his mouth. He didn’t want it. He was losing weight.

  Raphael raised one eyebrow.

  “No,” sighed Imorean.

  “You need to eat.”