Rebel Angels: The Complete Series

by Rosemary A Johns

  My way to measure his worth and his own?

  After hearing the Mage’s public disrespect for his son — and declaration of just how unworthy he considered him to be — no wonder Drake had been, quite literally, risking his wings.

  I brushed my fingers over Drake’s hand, before easing his death grip off my arm. “We’re done, bro. You’ve passed. Full score and bonus points.”

  He slumped. “Thank you, princess,” he murmured, before turning to me again. “Now help me with my secret: The prisoner who I visited whilst you did likewise with your vampire whore.” I pushed Ash behind me, as he snarled. “This distraction is the best chance that I shall have to save him. I know you’re escaping. Do not protest because I’d do the same, and your wits are almost as bright as my own. I ask only that you take him with you.”

  “Ash doesn’t trust you, but I do. This prisoner on the other hand, how many bodies did he bury under the mountain to be stuck in the dark so long? I’m not up for unleashing a killer.”

  “Be calm, Barakiel was not shut away for such crimes but because he’s Tainted.”

  Like Gwyn and Dillon.

  I nodded. “Crack on, we’ve a jail break’s arse to kick.”

  Drake slung his arm around my shoulders. “As long as family may lean on family.”

  Ash huffed but allowed Drake to lead me into the rank freeze of his jail.

  Drake and I tottered past the bowed backs of the other prisoners; their wings flamed in the murk. Our breaths mingled, as we wound towards the lowest cells: and our mystery prisoner.

  At last, Drake stopped, pressing on a raised section of wall.

  Scrape — the rock slid back to reveal Ash’s folded clothes: his eighteenth-century red army coat with silver buttons gleamed on top of his black jeans and shirt.

  His boots had been buffed to army standard next to them. I had to shake the image of Drake shining the boots because the clear care in which it’d been done contrasted so sharply with the bruises that he’d slapped over Ash.

  “Be clothed.” Drake waved a delicate wrist. “You are necessary to the princess, and so I find I must suffer your company. I should prefer to suffer it dressed.”

  Ash wriggled into his jeans. “You know that you can’t get enough of this arse, sexy.”

  Drake pinked, pulling away from me. “This is the vampire you would choose over…?” He caught himself, spinning on his heel and slamming his hand against the bars behind him.

  The bars melted under the power of Drake’s magic. He hunkered down inside next to the emaciated…beautiful…prisoner, who was curled asleep with his wings bound by straps: Barakiel.

  Drake stroked a strand of Barakiel’s hair behind his ear. “Wake, at long last the nightmare will be over.”

  Barakiel startled, before clutching Drake with a sigh. His large eyes opened: they were the lightest violet I’d yet seen, as if being in the dark so long had faded them. “Please, you risk too much seeing me again, cherub.”

  “Cherub?” Ash sniggered.

  Barakiel’s glare lasered onto Ash: famine starved, the bitch was still dangerous. “I remember you, the one who jokes to hide his pain.”

  Ash gaped, before tucking his gun, which had been hidden underneath his clothes, into the holster around his waist. “Shooting angels eases it too.”

  Drake lifted Barakiel into his arms bridal style: one pulverized groom, and one skeletal bride.

  How little did Barakiel weigh that even thrashed Drake could carry him?

  “Hush now, these are your rescuers.” Drake admonished. “They’re escaping, and so are you.”

  Barakiel struggled. “Nay, you must not put yourself in such reckless danger. How could I survive if you were caught?”

  “And how can I live with your suffering?”

  Barakiel caressed Drake’s cheek with his thin finger. “You’re so much better than you believe. If one of us needs rescuing, it’s always been you, cherub.”

  The air shimmered with the unspoken: my head throbbed too much with the danger to untangle it.

  Drake looked away. His mask had shattered, and his vulnerability shook me. “For a long time, it’s been easier to believe that I am nothing. For when you’re treated as such, pride is what will break you.”

  He carefully stood with Barakiel, stepping out of the cell.

  Footsteps… The whirl of violet… Hoots and howls…

  I backed up, staring out into the black.

  Flaming violet, as hundreds of wings flocked ghostly down the cells towards us.

  I drew Flight, and she moaned in battle-mode.

  “Put me back,” Barakiel begged, pawing at Drake’s chest. “Don’t let them see.”

  “Don’t let me see what, Tainted?” Nathanael’s sneer broke through the gloom. “Your treachery? The Legion have experience with the persuasion of bad royalty. There are ways of altering minds, as well as punishing the body.”

  I tilted up my chin, meeting Nathanael’s eye, even as I shrank inside: altering my mind? No way were they day tripping inside my head.

  Had Rebel made it to Broken Hollow?

  Nathanael and his Legion gang stalked closer with their Assassin Knives hovering in the air, cutting us off and trapping us in the dark.

  27

  Every choice has a risk. A danger. I once lived only to save my own arse but now I had family.

  And something bigger.

  Yeah, even than my bootylicious arse.

  When Nathanael prowled all dark elf in the caverns, spinning his blade like a Doberman between us in the gloom of the jail, I was pissed because the Legion had trapped us. But I didn’t regret helping Drake or the trembling angel clasped in his arms.

  My breath mist-ghosted. I jiggled my sweaty grip on Flight’s hilt. Behind me, Ash drew his shooter.

  Nathanael grinned, kid in the sweetshop gleeful. “Worthless traitor,” he eyed Drake. “Your father cannot protect you from the Matriarch over this. I shall personally volunteer to punish you back to perfection.” The knife shot to Drake’s throat, forcing his head up with a yelp. “This time, I shall gut you of your foulness.”

  “Cowards, you’re not worthy to touch a single feather on his wings,” Barakiel panted.

  Nathanael bent down as he mocked, “Have I made you weep again, spoiled Tainted? Save your tears, you shall need them for our next session.”

  I tensed. “You’ll know all about weeping, brat. When the Commander had you by the ear, you sniveled apologies like you’d pissed your pants.”

  Sniggers.

  Nathanael hissed, glancing around at his audience of Legion members with narrowed eyes.

  Silence.

  Nothing but the shuffling of bare feet on rock.

  Then I noticed something with a jolt: Barakiel’s eyes gleamed but not with tears. The pupils sparkled kaleidoscopic; the faded irises flickered.

  A sweet zing scented the air like just before a storm…

  “Behind me,” Drake gasped.

  Whatever X-men freakery was about to kick ass, Drake knew the score: Barakiel wasn’t the defenseless kitten that he seemed.

  I hauled Ash behind me, gripping Drake by the hips. Ash curled his wings around me, as a lightning bolt flashed jagged through the gaol.

  Eerie violet, it blinded me.

  Crack.

  I jumped at the thunderclap, which was deafening as a shot to the head.

  The specter of the lightning endlessly repeated in front of my eyes, whilst the deep roll of the thunder echoed.

  And when I could see again…?

  Nathanael — and the entire Legion gang — were sprawled in scorched piles. The heads were blistered with crimson feathered patterns; their wings were blackened at the tips. Their blades lay as lifeless as their masters: silver flashes amongst the dead.

  The burned stench, like autumn bonfires, hung in a fog.

  Just like I’d killed the vampires in the battle.

  I let go of Drake, pulling away from Ash, and staggered back.
>
  Barakiel hung unmoving in Drake’s arms. His unnerving eyes were closed.

  I wet my lips. “Is he still with us in the land of the living?”

  “He needs time to rest. Rescuing us,” Drake glanced at me significantly, “took more energy than he has long been allowed.”

  “Did he fry the other prisoners too?”

  “Bite your tongue. Barakiel would never harm an innocent. And the Wings the Matriarch locks up are not guilty by any measure of righteousness.”

  My brow furrowed. “Sticking with this brand of righteousness: why did we have to shield behind yours?”

  Drake glanced between Ash and me. “Extraordinary. Even now, important, special, and powerful as you are, you still believe yourself to be counted amongst the innocent?”

  I booted the wall. Why the hell did it matter what Drake thought of me?

  I’d been messing with Drake since the moment I’d been held captive: tormenting, punishing, and humiliating. Because he’d lied about my sister. Because he was Rebel’s jailer. And because my mum had given him to me as my guard.

  Yet we’d both joined in the game with each other. Except, along the way it’d become something more…and now it did matter whether he respected me because I respected him.

  Damn, girl, that pretty boy psycho raised some serious hell. Forget shaking your pussy at the Ice Commander, are you truly letting a cuckoo into the nest?

  Barakiel got medieval on their arses. But his arse is now passed out.

  So? You unleashed it, you gank it. Surely that demonstration was enough to show you how dangerous he is?

  He’s used up his juice; you don’t have to fear the storm. Now’s the perfect moment.

  I’m not a killer.

  Feathery-blade, that’s what you’ve always been.

  I shuddered. J was tempting me to kill Barakiel, and I could already feel the violet pulling me higher. Yet hadn’t Ash said that I couldn’t risk the lives of so many…and this prisoner was as deadly as me.

  “I’ve never been innocent.” Steeling myself, I raised Flight, stalking towards Drake. He backed away, gripping Barakiel to his chest. “I’m the Bitch of Utopia.”

  I raised the tip of Flight’s blade to Barakiel’s neck, just as Nathanael’s shank had earlier nicked Drake’s throat. I half-expected Barakiel’s ghostly eyes to open, followed by a flash of lightning, but he didn’t move.

  I pressed harder; blood beaded.

  Tears matted Drake’s eyelashes. “I have thought many things of you,” he whispered, his voice catching, “but never that you were dishonorable.” Shame: it burst through me, blossoming. “Please…”

  Am I being played? If I don’t kill Barakiel, am I freeing the Big Bad?

  You only have Drake’s word why the bitch’s ass was locked away.

  But he went boom to save us.

  To save cherub.

  How about this realness: has our cherub’s game from the start been to protect and free his Angel of Lightning?

  I bit my lip. Maybe I was being played and maybe Barakiel was a Big Bad…but I couldn’t hurt Drake like this.

  When I lowered Flight, Drake staggered.

  Ash darted to Drake, catching Barakiel. To my surprise, he cradled him, before shooting me a glare.

  “Go.” Drake crossed his arms over his chest to hide their shaking. “You propose to escape whilst the fighting is at its height, do you not?”

  “We, bro.”

  Drake shook his head. “I’m still Commander of the army and my trainees.” I remembered his kid army: the weakness the Matriarch held over him. He sighed. “And my father is still, despite all, my father.”

  My hands curled into fists. “And my mum will gank you.”

  “Unlikely. The Matriarch has trained me for too long to break me. She rejoices too much in the punishing. I propose you burn me, however, so at least the illusion is created that I was forced to help. Promise first that you’ll protect Barakiel, as I cannot.”

  Reluctantly, I sheathed Flight, before tracing down Drake’s cool cheek with the tips of my fingers. “I promise. Although that Storm God should be my bodyguard.”

  It ached: the thought of abandoning Drake.

  Inside, the ancient powers rumbled in a hurricane, as if they could break out and catch him in their twisting winds, dragging him back with them.

  With me.

  Instead, I murmured, as my fingers wound around his throat, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Drake’s eyes glistened. “Lie.”

  I swallowed a sob, as the powers flickered; flames sparked around Drake’s neck. He hissed but held motionless. I traced my fiery fingers over his Mark, blistering the initials MD. For a thrilling moment, I erased my mum’s brand.

  Then I repeated, hoping that this time he’d believe me, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  I kissed Drake, even as I burned him: gently, tenderly, and chastely. He panted through the pain, opening his lips and pressing back. At last, he shuddered and slumped against the bars.

  When I glanced at Ash, he was studying me speculatively with Barakiel in his arms.

  I laid Drake’s still body on the chilly floor.

  “Let’s not miss the blood party.” I made myself swagger over Nathanael’s lightning-singed corpse away from Drake.

  My blood thrummed. My cells exploded with electrical bursts. My pulse pounded.

  Thud — thud — thud.

  Drake had forced power through the kiss: a parting gift.

  My skin had knit, and the gash between my shoulder blades no longer throbbed.

  Yet Drake was lost, Barakiel was dead to the world, and before we could escape, we had to fight an army of vampires.

  Rebel battled back-to-back with his brother in the midst of a feathered sea of gray, a dervish of red-and-black. Eclipse flamed arcs through the dark. Lost in the buzz, Rebel grinned like he’d finally awoken to the most epic game.

  I dashed down the steps, skidding on the encrusted filth. The earthy stink of Broken Hollow blasted across my cheeks. I was at the bottom of the mountain: Lowest Level. I ran my hand over the packed russet dirt of the cavern’s walls. My palm came back sticky and stained rusty.

  It could’ve been blood.

  Talk about omens kicking me in the arse to get on with it.

  I glanced over the clanking chaos to catch a glimpse of Gwyn’s white hair beneath a row of shafts at the back of the cavern. The shafts broke through the russet dirt roof high above; the sparkle of stars shone through.

  What a hell of a cruelty to the angels who already had their wings stolen: you feed them but also show them the sky every day, which they couldn’t fly in. An escape route that they could never take.

  But they had a Blood Princess in their yard now: I’d make them fly.

  Dillon lunged, pulling a Broken kid behind him and away from a vampire’s fangs. The Broken kids huddled on scarlet blankets on the floor behind Gwyn.

  Hell, was this where they slept? Was this how all the Broken lived?

  Ash tucked Barakiel into a gap in the mud wall, snatching up a blanket to hide him under. He pulled out his gun, nudging my shoulder, before leaping onto the back of a vampire in retro denim jacket.

  Bang — Ash twisted his gun, shooting the vampire through the temple and spraying the blood away from him against the wall.

  He leapt off the fallen body. “Blood’s a nightmare to wash out.”

  I giggled: hysteria’s a bitch.

  The wave of gray surged towards us at the gunshot.

  Ash shrugged his shoulder. “Sorry. Wasn’t that 007 stealthy?”

  “Enough with the bang, bang. I’m getting why these bitches go Old School with medieval weapons.”

  Harahel hollered from the corner to distract the gray wave.

  Behind him battled a ragtag gang of Imperfect: amputees or angels with only a single wing.

  But they kicked ass.

  I threw myself into the rush of snarling vampires, booting and clouting, until I
drew Flight.

  In the gloom, Flight glowed, feathering out in one crackling sweep to a pair of wings that beat through the vampires, leaving them in howling confusion.

  The Broken, who’d huddled behind sheets that hung in rags from the walls, or wailed as they crouched in quivering knots, rose up. Grasping nothing more than bowls, platters, or leather straps, they advanced on the vampire army.

  For the first time in their lives, they were fighting back.

  I laughed, as the vampires glanced at each other in confusion. They’d trapped the wingless Broken here expecting a massacre and were now caught up in a slave rebellion.

  Thwack — when the first Broken tentatively walloped a vampire (a graceful bloke with blond side-parting and spectacular wings), around the head with a tray, Gwyn whooped.

  I shot a winged bolt at the same vampire, until he broke into howls.

  Then the Broken swept over the vampires in a sea of red.

  If I bastard died, this was the something bigger that mattered. The risk worth taking. The battle to ensure the Broken and Imperfect had a right to their wings and freedom.

  This was the type of princess I’d be: a warrior amongst warriors.

  And now it was time to share my blood.

  I cut a route through the anarchy of bodies to Rebel. I caught his arm, as he spun round from a kick. “Where’s my royal blood?”

  Rebel jerked his chin towards a high niche with a ledge. “Didn’t want to spill it, Lady Muck.”

  I touched my forehead to his. “If I’d designed this in a game, it’d work. But this is real life. Am I a…?”

  “Dope?” Rebel’s smile was gentle. “Not a chance. You saved me because you saw me. You’re the reason that we’ll soar together into the heavens.”

  I shivered. Through the bond, Rebel’s love shadow-kissed down my neck. I took a deep breath, before turning and diving towards the niche.

  The mud crumbled between my fingers, as I struggled to pull myself up; my feet slipped on the damp outcrops. Dizzy, I lost my footing, holding on by my fingertips. I swung, leaping onto the ledge in front of the niche.

  The bowl rested like the centerpiece to an Aztec ritual; my blood had congealed.

  Sun God style, I lifted out the bowl and held it above my head — I needed a feather headdress to pull off the look — and hollered above the din, “Broken, I’m your Blood Princess. Not the Matriarch’s and not Angel World’s. Press one drop of my blood onto each other’s shoulder blades to free yourself.”