Rebel Angels: The Complete Series

by Rosemary A Johns

  13

  When I strapped Flight between my shoulder blades ready to train with Battle on the last day before Drake’s dare was settled, she weighed heavier than ever.

  The lullaby that she hummed didn’t trick me. Because if I couldn’t change Drake’s mind that I was just another Glory, equally power hungry as my psycho mum…?

  Then even if Flight didn’t chop off my head, I’d lose my chance to win the Warrior Trials.

  I stepped out onto the mountain ridge and shuddered.

  Light: it shimmered through fat curtains of cloud, lustrous and warm against my face.

  Next to me, Rebel gasped, stretching his wings to catch the beams; his bent wing vibrated with the strain. I caught him in my arms, spinning him through the veil of mists on the rocky crag.

  Below, spread a country tapestry that paled London Fields: ancient woodland, lakes, and barren moorland.

  This bitch wasn’t in Hackney anymore.

  Rebel and I were trapped, high above a grand and desolate world: Eryri.

  It was a shame that I’d never learned how to bastard climb, and Rebel couldn’t fly.

  Suddenly, I realized that Rebel was limp in my arms and trembling, and then that as I’d swung him, my hands had clasped around his neck…and over his Mark. Like a threat.

  Taking a breath, I backed away from him, humming The Sex Pistol’s “God Save the Queen”, which had blasted out, whilst we’d trained together in the glade behind the witches’ house when Rebel had been my Custodian.

  Rebel tilted his head. “Mind yourself, Feathers, the Glories’ll think you’re going soft on your toy. Feeding me with light and… To be fair, you’re also torturing me with your voice.”

  “Way to reject my serenading, Custodian.”

  He glanced up with fleeting hope. Then he shook his head. “I’m not your blessed Custodian.” He rocked backwards and forwards on his heels. “Not anymore. If I was…? I’d tell you that you’re daft for taking these Trials. It’s a woeful risk.”

  I scowled. “So’s losing your hands.”

  “Wise up! Who says we’re after being here for that? Who says we don’t escape?”

  I startled, glancing around the mountain side at the piled pyramids of boulders and shards of rock.

  What if someone had heard Rebel?

  Mist clung to my cheeks like weeping spiderwebs; I brushed the back of my hand down them, wiping them away.

  What’s making you jitter like a scaredy-cat on a tin roof, Violet-pie?

  That Drake, the Legion, Battle, the Matriarch, or any of the other angelic assholes may overhear? Or that your brave punk is right?

  He’s planning something. That’s why the wallad wanted back in with Ash. They’ve got some crazy-arsed plot and they’ll screw up—

  Then where’s your plot?

  Instead, you dance through the angels’ hoops: hunts, games, and Trials. But you don’t escape.

  I’m trying—

  You know, if you want Angel World — home, mother, and power — we can work with that. But you need to decide.

  What’s inside me…? I’m battling to control the bitch.

  The Matriarch — this place — it’s poisoning you. And you’re swallowing every drop.

  I grabbed Rebel’s hand. “Drake’s our guard; he’s always bastard watching. Pull back on the Great Escape for now.”

  Rebel huffed but nodded. I tugged him after me down a path, which was cloaked by cloud. Then we broke out at a circle that was tight to the mountain. It was surrounded by pyres of stones; shaggy hazel trees burst from each one. Yellow catkins hung like furry caterpillars between red-tipped buds. A warm spicy fragrance caught in my nostrils.

  Then my shoulder was caught and spun.

  Supreme Commander Battle tapped my forehead. “First lesson, wee madam, notice the predator, not the pretty.”

  I smirked. “And I reckoned that you angels were all about the pretty?”

  Battle whipped back her braids. “Toys aren’t just for bedding, they’re for fighting.” When she examined Rebel, crossing her arms with hot contempt, he slipped into kneel at her feet. The Mark glowed, tender and throbbing on his bowed neck. Why had I ever wanted Rebel on his knees? “If you’ve marked Zachriel, then you don’t agree.”

  I blushed, clenching my fists. “We’ve hunted together; he’s a badass fighter—”

  Battle snorted. “Aye, right. Well, you’re not training with any Marked bitch on my watch, lassie. Broken, get your backside here.”

  From behind the maze of hazel tree branches, prowled the giant of a Broken with short afro and smooth dark skin, who’d pinned me in his arms, before pushing his fingers into my neck.

  When I growled, clutching for Star that was sheathed at my waist, Rebel glanced up at me questioningly.

  Battle chuckled. “My Broken’s a head case, just as I’ve trained him to be. I ordered him to rough you up a wee bit.” She jerked me into the circle of stones opposite Dillon, who bounced on his feet, limbering up. “Anyway, it’ll help a Glory who’s as soft as you to use the toy as your punching bag.”

  “Wait…? What…?”

  Battle backed out of the circle. When Rebel tried to rise and dash to me, she shoved him down. “Draw your sword. Let’s see if the Matriarch’s precious weapon is worth what the punters are willing to pay.”

  “What’s Dillon fighting with? The power of an evil stare?”

  Battle wrapped her fingers in Rebel’s hair, wrenching his head up to watch. “He doesn’t need a sword.”

  Whack — Dillon clouted me across the cheek; bones crunched.

  I staggered, trying to dodge, but Dillon’s second hook caught my chin, throwing me into a pyre. The stones tumbled and shook, as my back screamed in tremors up and down my spine.

  “I’m your Trainer. Don’t idiot disobey me,” Battle’s shrill voice cut across the thunderous ringing in my head. “Each mistake, hit, and disobedience counts as failure and to learn from that, I discipline, madam.”

  “Bit busy here,” I slurred, sliding under Dillon’s wrestler grasp.

  “Five,” Battle called out.

  Any wiggle room on the sword position? Because Dillon has muscles that I could ride into the sunset.

  I have one day left to show Drake that I’m not corrupted. How’s taking a sword to a Broken, even this one, going to grant me Violet Brownie Points?

  And how’s being dead going to grant you anything?

  I rolled over the floor; pebbles dug into me, even through my leather armor.

  Dillon stomped, so close to my head that the dust swirled like mist.

  I scrabbled up. Then I side kicked Dillon, knocking him back with a holler. I itched to snatch Flight and gank Dillon into chunky salsa. Yet when Flight hummed, I let myself take a boot to my guts and tumbled out of the circle, close to the crumbling cliff edge.

  “Eight.” When Rebel tried to stand again, Battle’s hand tightened in his hair.

  Distracted, I edged backwards.

  That was enough of the good girl act. How could I fight if I reined in my own powers?

  Except, when I reached inside for the raging fire, it didn’t even flicker.

  J, I’m asking; I need to be Hulked violet style.

  What’s righteous about fighting a Broken?

  Dillon leered, stalking towards me.

  I knew personal when I saw it; this training had handed me in a bow to Dillon. But why were we in conflict? Unless it was the possessive way that he’d looked at Gwyn…?

  Dillon stamped next to my head, and I rolled closer to the cliff face. Stones tumbled down, skittering against the edge.

  The sun caught in my eyes, blinding me. “For real, bro? Stop.”

  Dillon studied me, before leaning down; his sweat dripped onto my cheek. “Does he beg you to stop? Do you enjoy his fear?”

  “Gwyn…?” I asked, shocked.

  I shuddered, hating even the image of my sweet white-haired angel begging or trembling in fear.

 
; Dillon’s mouth twisted. “How’d you enjoy it? Being the powerless one?”

  “It’s a bitch.” I stared up at him. “But then I spent twenty-one years on earth being powerless. And I’m my mum’s prisoner now. You reckon that I don’t get you…?”

  “Get me?” Dillon’s fingers ran through my hair, before he drew back. “Tell it to me when you’ve been a toy.”

  He crushed my left hand with his heel.

  I howled, yanking at my hand.

  “Sixteen,” Battle intoned.

  “Enough with the counting of doom,” I hollered, as the powers inside me unfurled their wings at the agony.

  “Seventeen.”

  And that was it.

  I drew Star, stabbing the dagger into Dillon’s bare foot. Finally, it was his turn to howl.

  Flight whined, but I grinned, thrusting Dillon’s bleeding foot off my knuckles. Whilst Dillon hopped and squealed, I cradled my throbbing fingers.

  And didn’t watch out for the predator.

  Dillon grabbed my hair, dragging me back; my legs kicked like a crazy frog, until I was hanging by one foot upside down over the mountain’s edge.

  Dizzy, the forest far below blurred.

  I caught my sunglasses before they could tumble from my nose, as I swung in the breeze. Flight squeaked, nuzzling closer into the scabbard. When my dress fell down, I shivered; it was lucky that angels preferred silk panties to going commando.

  Then Dillon’s hand slipped on my ankle, and I jerked downwards.

  I squealed.

  Dillon’s wings were nothing but cauterized stumps like Gwyn’s; if I fell, he couldn’t catch me.

  I twisted, staring up at him. “I’m not hurting Gwyn,” I wheezed, whilst my heart thundered. “I’d never hurt him.”

  Dillon’s gaze was blank but steady. He didn’t believe me. Why the hell should he trust me?

  At last, I was hauled up and hurled onto my face in the circle. I shook, hugging the earth like it’d be stolen from me again.

  Dillon crouched over me. “I couldn’t kill you: you’re the Savior.” I glanced up, startled at his sneer. “But if you ever do hurt Gwyn, I’ll hurl you off this mountain anyway, you get me?”

  I nodded, shakily.

  Battle marched over, forcing Rebel to crawl after her on his knees.

  To my surprise, Rebel threw himself at me, wrapping his wings around me and brushing his hand through my hair as if checking that I was still alive. His face was ashen when he drew back. “By all the saints, don’t do that again.” Then he gave a dazzling smile, the type I hadn’t realized I’d missed so badly. “But that with Star was brilliant!”

  “It’s a good thing you think so, wee man, because you’ll be using this here dagger to teach madam a lesson.” Battle sauntered to Star, which was still crimson with Dillon’s blood, and held it out to Rebel.

  He shrank back. “Not a chance.”

  I held Rebel closer, at the same time as edging my free hand towards Flight. “You want to shank me, bitch? This time I’ll fight with my own blade.”

  Battle sighed. “Discipline, daftie, you’ve earned twenty. Or your whipping boy has. On the day that you earn none, you’ll be ready for the Trials. How else can I teach someone as stubborn as you? Or are all your fights going to end with you being chucked off a cliff?”

  Rebel rose, taking his dad’s dagger from her, before drifting to the smallest hazel tree.

  Confused, I watched as he jumped up to a low branch and cut off a thin green length. He leaned against the trunk and slid the blade up and down, stripping off the leaves. When he wandered back to us with his head lowered and handed back the branch, I swallowed.

  Swoosh — Battle cut the branch through the air.

  Whipping boy…?

  Hell, Rebel had just been forced to cut his own bastard switch and now he laid himself at my feet as a sacrifice.

  He shimmied his trousers to his ankles; his wings were outspread.

  Shanking a Broken and getting Rebel whipped in my place because I’d failed in my training…? When it came to the Win Over Drake campaign that was a massive tick in the Epic Failure column.

  I slipped Flight’s harness off my back, before dropping onto my front next to Rebel. When he turned his head to gaze at me, his kohl smudged eyes were soft but assessing.

  “Crack on with it then.” I linked Rebel’s pinkie with mine, and for once he didn’t flinch. “My twenty mistakes: my twenty strokes. Don’t want to mess up the pretty boy.”

  “Let the Supreme Commander whip my arse,” Rebel whispered. “She’s fierce powerful, and fair on you for acting like I’m worth more than the Mark on my neck, but she’ll flay the skin from you.”

  I flinched. “I’m keen on you keeping your skin too.”

  Battle swung the switch back and forth, striding around us: a wildcat deciding where to bite into its prey first.

  As the sharp switch pressed into the hollow of my back, I held my breath and waited to be beaten bloody.

  14

  Cool mist teared down my cheeks. I stretched my shoulders, tensing against the phantom blow of the first lash.

  Above, birds of prey circled in the gray clouds: Merlins, kestrels, and sparrowhawks.

  I wriggled on my belly, trapped in the circle of pyres and catkin cocoon hazels. Stones dug into my front, whilst the biting tip of the switch traced down my back. Heady on the spicy fragrance, I forced myself to smile at Rebel, still linking his pinkie with mine.

  Rebel tore at his lip with his teeth, casting glances between me and the hovering predator: Battle.

  “Are you just going to stand there stroking your stick like a newbie with his dick?” I scoffed. “Because please tell me that I earned Gold Level Licks? Next time? I’m shooting for Platinum.”

  The switch raised from my back, and I held my breath, waiting for the line of fire to explode.

  Instead, Battle laughed. “Will you hear your blether? Now I understand the — rumors — whispered about the Matriarch’s so-called daughter. You’re off your head, wee idiot, to offer yourself as sacrifice for a toy.”

  Rebel winced on the toy but he murmured, “She’s right. I’m nothing to you now. Let me be your whipping boy.”

  Nothing?

  The powers inside shot their claim through the Mark, before I could stop them; Rebel jerked, and his legs kicked. Then he flushed, pulling his pinkie away from mine.

  Why did that hurt more than if he’d booted me in the gut?

  My hand curled into a fist. “Don’t analyze me, Freudface, you’re the one with the spanking fetish.”

  Swoosh.

  I braced myself, but it was Rebel who yelped.

  I scrambled to my knees.

  A livid welt had been painted across Rebel’s thighs. Blood beaded from the edges.

  I glared at Battle, who bended the switch between her hands, before drawing it above her head again.

  Rebel tensed.

  ‘The idiots like you, cheeky madam, who sacrifice themselves for others can take their own pain. What they can’t take?”

  Swoosh.

  A stinging shot across Rebel’s arse. He keened.

  “Please…” I begged, hugging my knees

  “Two.” Battle met my gaze. “Pain to someone else. All.” Swoosh — Rebel’s lower back. “Because.” Swoosh — Rebel’s shoulders. “You.” Swoosh — Rebel’s right wing. “Failed.”

  Swoosh.

  She struck Rebel across his damaged left wing, and he screamed, finally curling into a sobbing ball.

  I reared up, but she booted me back down, before grabbing Rebel by the neck and throwing him onto his front.

  “Fourteen more,” Battle panted. “How much does this hurt, madam? Will you fail me again, when each mistake has such a cost?”

  Pressed to the dirt, I shook my head.

  Battle grinned, before raising the switch again, and I wailed because I couldn’t protect Rebel. Because he was taking the punishment for me. And because I didn’t know how
to save us.

  Crimson, purple, and black.

  A criss-crossed web of welts and bruises sliced down Rebel’s shoulders, back, and wings. I couldn’t see underneath his trousers now that he’d yanked them up, but the blows had rained down onto his arse and legs all the way to the knees.

  How was he still bastard standing?

  I perched on the ledge in my cave chambers, squeezing a cushion to my cheek. The ivy tangling down the crystals tickled me through my dress.

  How was it fair that I failed and got hugs and tickles, and Rebel took the beating?

  But then, who said life was fair?

  Rebel leaned against the cabinet, warily watching me, whilst he wrung out a cloth in a bowl of water. He hadn’t spoken since Dillon had helped him limp back to my rooms from our mountainside training.

  I’d expected Dillon to be in swag mode, but unlike the bitch face he’d scowled at me, with Rebel he’d been gentle.

  Slave solidarity?

  I clutched onto the cushion to stop myself grabbing Rebel and licking every inch of him: the candy sweetness of his blood burst in — slam — intense waves — slam — that dragged me to that possessive place — slam — that demanded no one hurt Rebel but me.

  Rebel furled his wings in front of him, dabbing the cloth gingerly against the lashes, and then he swayed. Alarmed, I chucked the cushion sliding across the floor and darted to grab his arm to steady him, but he reared back like a skittish foal.

  “Lay off, princess.” His hand clamped over his Mark in defense. ‘It’s like this, see, don’t touch me…please…if I still have a choice.”

  I recoiled, flushing with a desperate hurt. “What the hell, wallad? You’ll always have a choice.”

  A small smile escaped at the wallad, before Rebel killed it. He dropped the cloth back in the bowl, and the water coiled with rusty tendrils.

  My toes curled at the divine scent, and I forced myself to take a step back.

  The collared cutie is bonded and Marked because you wanted him. He already loves you.

  In this game you’re playing? You should trust your instincts.

  Become the monster?

  You are a monster. It’s the flavor this whole gig is about. And you and I both know, there’s no one tastes quite like the Bitch of Utopia.