Rebel Angels: The Complete Series

by Rosemary A Johns

  But still, he didn’t stop.

  Drake’s struggling reduced to drumming his bare heels in painful jerks.

  Finally, the Mage lifted his hands from his son’s temples. He wiped away the tears from Drake’s cheeks. “You will join us in the Legion, little princess, publicly.” He turned to me, and I was no longer paralyzed. I sagged over the sofa arm. He kissed Drake’s forehead, before abandoning him still tremoring on the rug. He paused in the archway with his back to me. “Tomorrow, the Matriarch is holding a ceremony to celebrate flying with her daughter once again and the preparation for the Warrior Trials. You’ll speak and support the Legion. If not…?” He glanced back over his shoulder at me, and his gaze was piercing. “My son’s punishment will be as child’s play to yours.”

  As soon as the Mage prowled out of the chamber, I dropped at Drake’s side, running my fingers through his sweat drenched curls.

  Drake didn’t even notice me, too lost in his agony. But then his gaze focused. “Calm yourself, I am well enough. Why do you weep over a clown who must’ve brought you such amusement?”

  I flinched. “You being hurt will never amuse me.”

  “It did,” and then, even quieter this time, “it amused you excellently to hurt me.”

  Karma’s a bitch.

  “I blame temporary insanity because you’d lied about my sister.” Drake’s gaze slid away from mine. “But if I’d had the — motivation — you’d had to trick me…? I’d have also lied my arse off. Now that’s as much Miss NicePants you’re getting, even if I’m fond of you too.”

  Drake’s eyes lit up, before he smothered his joy behind a cool mask. “We shall never speak of this again.”

  I grinned, whilst I bubbled with an excitement that I refused to name. “Not a problem.”

  I supported Drake, as he shakily struggled up.

  “My father doesn’t play games like your mother. I propose you do as he says at the celebration. The whole of Angel World shall be there. If you don’t obey him, then not only shall you suffer greater than I…?” He tugged his trousers up his hips, as they slipped down. “My father would rather a dead princess, than a rebel one.”

  Drake caught my hand in his, squeezing my fingers, and I flamed at his touch.

  Tomorrow, before the whole of Angel World, I’d have to declare either for or against the fanatic Legion and powerful Mage.

  The Mage’s gang, with its own ideas of perfection and ruling, was as terrifying as the Matriarch’s. Could I inflict that on the Broken, Imperfect, the kids…? And what the hell would my mum do if I upstaged her by siding with the Wings over the Glories?

  Tomorrow, at my own celebration, I risked punishment and death.

  18

  Angel kisses couldn’t save your life by healing wounds. Although Rebel had once tricked me that they had powers. But when Rebel kissed my ankle as he coiled a lilac ribbon around my calf for the ceremony, I discovered that angel kisses could heal friendships.

  Save love.

  The crystals in my chambers hummed, pulsing amethyst in the evening’s dark. Naked, I posed in the center like an empress, waiting for my slave to dress me for the orgy.

  Rebel had insisted Gwyn had been training him all day on his duties.

  Yeah, duties to get me bare-arsed.

  I looked away, whilst Rebel knelt, binding the silk around me.

  I never bastard wanted Rebel to kneel for me again.

  When he looked up, his smile was shy and questioning; my breath caught. He’d been prettified for my ceremony as well, like the painted whore that I’d Marked him. His eyes had been lined with more kohl than normal, and his lashes were butterfly black with mascara. Delicate silver chains looped from his wing tips in arches and clipped to his nipples with bells. I’d tried to take off the nipple clamps, but he’d shied away with a shamed tinkling because the Matriarch had picked out his costume. Just like she had mine.

  I dragged Rebel up to stand next to me. To hell with his duties, the Matriarch’s rules, being a princess.

  And to hell with Angel World.

  I’d hurt the angel who I loved. Who’d protected and risked his life for me. So, if Rebel wanted us to escape, then we would.

  When Rebel ghosted his fingers over my shoulder blades, it was electric: a zinging down my spine like he was caressing a touched nerve. It was a pleasure so extreme that it was tinged with pain, as if my wings were just below the surface, quivering.

  He was barely touching me, and I was squirming.

  My chest tightened. I’d worked Rebel’s and Drake’s wings, roughing them up Hackney style. When I’d sulked, refusing to forgive them, they’d had a hundred feathery reasons not to forgive me.

  I jerked back from Rebel, and he hurriedly pulled away from my shoulder blades.

  “I was terrified when the Mage did a flit with you. And now you’re here, alive…naked.” Rebel nuzzled my neck, before scrutinizing me, serious again. “But what you’ve told me about the ceremony, and the Matriarch’s instructions…?” He whacked the bells hanging from his chest and then hissed, hunching over at the pain. “Stuck in the dark as I was, it made me blind. But I see it now. Everything you do and say will fly Angel World into the light or back into the Matriarch’s shadow.”

  “Not helping with anxiety levels.” I traced his lips, as he sucked lightly on my finger.

  Then he grabbed my feather dress from the ledge, shaking it out: a prehistoric birdwoman’s wedding dress.

  I shuddered. Who had the feathers once belonged to? Enemies? Traitors? Just like the thrones?

  Tonight, I’d be wearing the dead.

  I didn’t miss Rebel’s shudder either.

  “I asked you to escape; I was wrong.” I started at Rebel’s low admission. His face was hidden by the dress, as he slipped it over my head. The feathers scratched and itched in all the wrong places. If Rebel hadn’t been forced into kinky bondage, I’d have died by the cringe factor of my dress alone. At least I didn’t jingle each time I moved. “The Broken, the Children of the Fallen, Addicts, Tainted, the child soldiers, all the Imperfect… I’m a muppet for hiding from the truth. You’re a princess, but you don’t have to be the Matriarch’s princess. This is your chance to show them the woman who I know.”

  “You didn’t see the power of the freaky spell caster. If I don’t go out there and speak to the Legion’s cause, he’ll gank me. And you’ll go back into the Lowest Levels.”

  Rebel smoothed down the shoulder of my dress. His gaze ached with sudden sadness. “Sometimes, princess, you have to sacrifice more than you could ever imagine.”

  I gripped his hand, stilling it. I craved to take away the melancholy, which had settled like fog even through the bond.

  What had happened to Rebel? What had he sacrificed?

  “Everybody will be watching me. So, let’s give them something to see. They reckon that my bloke’s a Marked Imperfect? They dress you like this?” A blush spread up Rebel’s chest to his neck. I tilted his chin to look at me. Warily, he met my gaze. “My bloke’s good. He’s mine. And I’m proud to have him at my feet, by my side, or at my back. Tonight...? You’re on my arm. My partner, not my bed slave.”

  He bounced on his toes, breaking into a wide grin. “Blessed Mary, that’s lighting a bomb. I’m honored, so I am, to be the fuse!”

  I laughed, stroking the chains along his wing tips with the lightest of touches, as he had my shoulder blades.

  This bitch would never forget how sensitive an angel’s wings were again.

  Rebel arched, before he growled a purr, deep in his throat. “Princess, will you take me off your List of Asses to Kick now?”

  I smirked. “Don’t push it.”

  I tugged on the chain, and Rebel purred again, pushing up onto his toes.

  Harahel had lost Anpiel: his partner. Equal. And I’d abandoned him to Battle on a principle. I couldn’t do it again, either to Rebel or the other angels.

  Tonight, I’d play the part of princess. But at my ceremony, I’
d reveal the princess I truly was. I’d defy the Mage who wanted me obedient or dead.

  If the glares of a thousand angels could strike you dead, I’d have been flamed to ash the moment I’d stepped arm in arm with Rebel onto the ledges, which spiraled the night-time mountain.

  When I twerked to the haunting music that thrummed from wings, which rubbed like crickets, mixed with the martial beat of drummed feet from the choir of Imperfect…?

  I’d need to have been resurrected, just to be killed all over again.

  In true Sid Vicious form, Rebel leapt up and down punk rocker style, even if he winced from the tug on his chest chains. My tribal dress dug into my hips, as I twirled, sweeping its train behind me.

  Fires flickered like fairy lights, wound around the mountain face, and feather lanterns floated in the branches of the trees. I breathed in the night air, heady on the danger and the freedom.

  The bitch was back.

  I glanced around for Harahel, even if the sight of him at Battle’s feet would choke me, but I couldn’t see him. Battle had boycotted my Warrior Trials Prom; the bitch had balls.

  Glories swooped closer to watch in the black velvet sky; their fire-fly wings trailed ghost-light across the stars. Girl Glories giggled, chasing each other in hunting games.

  Where were the boys?

  The only blokes were the Marked Wings kneeling at their Glories’ sides, or the Broken who knelt too, but with their heads bowed, no more important than the fire decorations or the lanterns.

  The Glories shone in glowing perfection, just like the angels I’d designed in my computer game Angels vs Vampires. Now here, celebrating my own impending death in the Warrior Trials, I noticed the way that they stroked each other’s arms, or dove after each other in adult versions of the girls’ hunt.

  Had the angelic side always provoked me to shag men and boot them out the next morning?

  Or was that the lie to excuse the monster?

  Your punk rocker angel can slide down my guitar any day, girl. Isn’t he just the bondage lollipop that needs sucking in those chains?

  Gross and gross, J.

  Not from where I’m standing, and that’s inside you.

  The frock you’re wearing…? The violet feathers belonged to Glories who took the Trials. And failed.

  Cheers, you’ve just made me hurl in my mouth.

  Feathery princess, you may go to the ball. But remember at midnight you turn into a pumpkin.

  What’s set fire to your scaredy-pants?

  Eleganza as your dead angel frock is, I don’t want a dead princess inside it.

  What makes the Mage a Bigger Bad than the rest?

  Trust me, if you have the power to resurrect angels, control the Bitch Queen, and command the Legion…? You’ve earned the right to make everyone pull on their scaredy-pants.

  I stumbled in my dance, catching myself on the mountainside; rock crumbled underneath my hand.

  “Princess?” Gwyn jumped up from his spot kneeling on the ground to steady me.

  I ran my hand through Gwyn’s hair; it’d been gelled in honor of the ceremony with sparkles, and when I pulled back, my palm glittered.

  I grinned. “Are you dancing?”

  Gwyn’s eyes widened, and he glanced around at the Glories who were flocking lower to gawk. He wrung his hands in his loose trousers. “B-broken aren’t allowed to dance.”

  “Not tonight.” I gripped his elbow. “It’s my party, and everyone who wants to dance, can bastard dance.”

  I looped my arm around his waist, but Gwyn shuffled his feet.

  “How?” He looked up at me pleadingly.

  “It’s nothing, so it is. Pass the wally here.” Rebel held out his arms, and I spun Gwyn to him.

  Gwyn let out a delighted squeal, and Rebel caught him, before swaying him more gracefully than I had been.

  “I taught myself ages ago with the humans,” Rebel murmured to him. “I loved their music. You just feel it: the freedom. Let yourself be free for once.”

  When Rebel twirled him, Gwyn laughed, and it washed over me: his freedom in the dance for the first time in his life.

  Small fingers clutched my wrist, yanking me around.

  Drake glared at me, whilst his shoulders shook with suppressed fury.

  Like Rebel, Drake had been dressed for the ceremony: indigo swept under his eyes like an Egyptian, and gold chains, instead of silver, even webbed between his curls. Unlike Rebel, the nipple clamps were so tight that Drake’s nubs were bruised.

  “Brats,” Drake hissed, scanning across at Rebel who was bopping with Gwyn in a wild rock out. “You’re making quite the public statement.”

  “I reckoned so.”

  “Of course. You send out a message. Yet how astounding that you’d include my father in your insolence.”

  Drake peeked over his shoulder at the sheltered circle of rocks and hazel trees: my training ground.

  And at the center…?

  The Mage stood at the shoulder of the Matriarch.

  The Matriarch was not the same bitch as the Glory in bare feet with shadows under her eyes, whose world had been infiltrated by the enemy. Instead, this was the immaculate tyrant in a dazzling dress that pooled behind her over the entire circle; she looked like a goddess rising out of a pearly sea. Her hair towered on her head, pinned with feathers. She dwarfed the Mage.

  It was the Mage who made my blood thunder in my ears, however, and my mouth dry, even though he was dressed as simply as before. Unlike the Marked Wings, he’d been allowed the dignity of remaining unpainted.

  His burning gaze met mine across the party. So, that’s what it was like to be turned into a pumpkin.

  I shrugged. “Insolence in black and violet, bro, that’s me.”

  “Was my father’s demonstration not sufficient?” Drake stroked the fingers of one hand over the other, as if checking that they weren’t broken. “He shall kill you. He punishes disobedience and failure.”

  “Screw his whole daddy kink vibe. He’s not my father.”

  “For which you should be eternally grateful,” Drake snarled, before catching himself and taking a slow breath. “Truth: what are you going to say tonight?”

  I blinked. “You’re scared.”

  “Play the game.”

  “The truth, that’s the answer. You wanted me to show the leader I’ll be? That’s what I’ll bastard do.”

  I turned away, but Drake wrenched at my wrist, pulling me back.

  “Did you not understand? He’ll kill you.” His grip tightened. “I shan’t be able to—”

  “You know what?” Frustrated, I tugged away my wrist, rubbing at the red imprints of his fingers. “Dare.”

  Forty years Drake had been Rebel’s jailer, and finally I could boot Drake in the balls for him, even if it’d hurt me to take revenge on the pretty bully. Yet I’d only make it equal to the game he’d played on me.

  Drake frowned. “Now is not the time—”

  “Wrong, bro, now’s the perfect time for your genie arse to speak up in front of everyone — just like you forced me to do with my mum. Payback’s a bitch, and it’s coming for you tonight. I dare you to ask your dad—”

  “Don’t,” Drake backed away a step; his bells jingled humiliatingly, as he shook. “I’m no coward, but what you ask…”

  I prowled after Drake, pinning him against the mountain. “Dare: ask your father the one question you’ve always wished you could.” He twisted his head to the side. “We may as well ride the screwed train together.”

  “As you wish.” He still wouldn’t look at me. “I accept your challenge. We play for high stakes. And after, it’ll be time for your big announcement, princess.”

  Drake’s gaze flicked to mine, cold and hard; I hated that I’d made it that way.

  When I turned, I shot Rebel and Gywn a smile. “Stay here. They’re just about to cut the cake. Time for the speeches.”

  Rebel leveled a steady stare at Drake. Maybe I’d been smoking unicorn weed, but it was Drak
e who drew back. “Commander.”

  “Zachriel.”

  That was it?

  Prisoner and jailer for decades and now they were playing stiff upper lip bluff?

  Rebel sniffed. “Brutal brave choice in costumes.”

  “Likewise.” Drake nodded up the path. “Shall we?”

  I trailed Drake up the mountain side to the circle of stones: the training ground.

  The Mage’s eyes flashed, before he grinned; the bastard reckoned that he’d won. He even condescended Drake with a smile.

  How hadn’t I realized immediately that the two were related? They could’ve been brothers, except for the silver in the Mage’s curls, and Drake was slighter.

  And just like that, I wished that I could claw back my petty revenge.

  Drake was owned by my mum and gifted by his dad. He didn’t need me wading in on the punishment game. Not when Rebel had chosen to do no more than banter at him.

  I shook my head at Drake — not superhero level code but the best I could think up to stop the dare.

  Drake’s head was turned away, however, as he hunched to the side of the Mage and he didn’t notice.

  Myrrh scented wings banded around me, pulling me against my mum’s chest; her hands held my wrists. Even though I was half way between puking and panic attack, there was also something dark, painful, and right about the way it felt: this screwed up step-family.

  Our royal family and the Drakes.

  The Glories swarmed around the circle; night spirits, they hovered, silent and judging.

  “Well met in flight,” the Matriarch’s call echoed across the valley. I guess the tequila shots weren’t up next. “Soon, like the best before her, my daughter will prove her worth through the Trials. She swore that she’d never take her place, except as a Warrior Princess.” And how’s that for working a lie? “I take pride today in my daughter and will cut down tomorrow all those who do not.”

  “Father,” Drake pulled on the Mage’s sleeve.

  Hell, no…

  I shook my head again, but still Drake wasn’t looking at me.

  He was sweating; his curls were damp. “Why did you abandon me? Did you give me away to the Matriarch because…” he hesitated, “my birthing killed mother?”