“He’s yours.” Rahab swooped into the air above us.
“And the deal is…?”
“We’re not in the Under World. There are no deals, only rewards and punishments. Not everyone in the Legion believes that you have a place here with us, but I have faith in you. The Matriarch saw you as no more than a weapon to take part in her twisted sports. Lucifer is a brat who never knew how to use his freedom or spark. But you…? With the right training, direction, and motivation could take us all into the light.”
The ancient powers inside me stirred, roused by Rahab’s fervor. My cheeks reddened; I ducked my head. Hell, only Rebel had ever spoken with such belief. Why couldn’t Rahab get with the program of wing breaking and snake ducking, at least then I didn’t get the charismatic leader tingles that made me want to start marching in his deluded army.
Suddenly, there was a tug at the velvet scarf around my neck. I blinked, glancing down into Mischief’s concerned gaze.
“There may not be deals, you senseless ingenue, but there are balances,” Mischief said. “If you receive rewards, then they must be earned. Why, I ask, would you wish to receive anything from…?"
“Because I’m his apprentice.” I looked up, battling to meet Rahab’s scrutiny. I’d learned enough from J about scheming to know that I had to play the part, even though it hurt that Mischief might believe my act as well. “So, let’s get with the rewarding.”
The gust from Rahab’s wings hit my face. “Three wishes then, if I was a genie. What would you ask for if you could have your deepest desires?”
I ignored the frantic shaking of Mischief’s head, as I held up my hand and counted, “One: Mischief, he’s mine.”
Rahab snapped his fingers. “It doesn’t work like that, but I like the effect. Now you’ve chosen him, your second two wishes can’t include your other Wing or the vampire.”
I froze. “No way—"
“Do you wish me to change this to punishment, rather than reward?”
I smacked my fist against my thigh, only for Mischief to catch my hand and cradle it. “Two: my brother. I want to see him.” When Mischief sighed and shook his head, I panicked. “What? Did I say it wrong?”
Before I’d been brought to this castle, I hadn’t even known that I’d had a half-brother. But as soon as Rahab had told me that I had a blood sibling, I’d been desperate to see him and be certain that he wasn’t a prisoner or tortured like Mischief.
Rahab had told me that he wouldn’t place me in the barracks with my blokes. Instead, because I was royalty, I’d be lodged with my brother. But I still hadn’t seen him, and it clawed at my insides.
Rahab grinned, snapping his fingers. “And three?”
I lifted my chin. “I want to prove myself to you.”
Because it was the only way to raise through the Legion and save all the worlds.
Rahab’s grin faded. “You will rise above us all, I’m certain of it.” Was that pride or fear? Then he snapped his fingers again. I jumped, as he swooped, crushing me in a hard embrace. “Wishes granted. You’ll prove yourself in a Battle of the Bailey against my son, Duma. It’s a longstanding tradition in the legion. If you’re victorious, you’ll win the reward of Zophia as your personal Undeserving and the chance to see your brother. You’ll fight before the entire Legion.”
He hauled me to my feet. I staggered, trying to balance myself with broken wings.
How the hell could I fight the Commander of the angelic army like this?
“Of course, if you don’t win,” Rahab ran his hand through his curls, “perhaps if you imagine I’d asked your three worst nightmares, rather than your three wishes…? Because that’s how I choose my punishments.”
No wonder J had turned scaredy-cat and demanded that I hide him.
Now I had to fight Drake, whilst my wings were injured, and either receive my three deepest desires or face my three personal nightmares.
3
In Angel World, I was the Monster Princess. I’d been crowned Queen of Chaos in the Under World. Here in Drake’s Castle…? I was the freaky black-and-violet eyed female apprentice in the sea of the Brotherhood.
And sometimes the only way to win was to lose.
Silver sparks shocked, then lips were kissing mine: desire and magic. I pulled away from its wildness, before its thread of loneliness and pain called to mine, and I dived into the touch like Mischief and I were meant to rule together.
Like we already were.
Then Mischief finally drew away. “You are fighting for me.” He forced himself to take a step back. “What kind of damsel would I be if I didn’t grant you my favor?”
“Does your favor come with a side order of healed wings?” I rolled my shoulders: no way was I flying today.
I shifted awkwardly in the center of the Bailey: the vast courtyard of the castle. Swaying, I caught myself on the bronze cannon; Mischief rested his hand on the whipping post above my head, blocking me from the view of the entire Brotherhood, who’d been put on parade to watch the battle: either my victory or humiliation.
Apprentices in bronze harem pants stood sweating at attention in the heat: angels no older than me, teenagers, and kids. The apprentices didn’t move a bastard muscle: a clay army. I didn’t blame them; last week an angel with the graceful wings and poise of a ballerina had fainted on parade, and I’d drifted to sleep that night with the swish — crack of his flogging, at the same whipping post that I now huddled under, shuddering through me.
Kunel, First Reformer and Bastard Number One, who was in charge of the apprentices, glowed like a Captain America impersonator: slicked blond hair and not a feather out of place.
Mages in gold harem pants — the Alpha top boys — lounged against a wall in the shade, whilst servants in silver scurried between them with cool drinks: The Underserving, like Mischief.
Rahab’s refuge was as hierarchical as Angel World. The only difference was how you rose or fell between the ranks and who was in charge.
Mischief leaned closer, murmuring, “The rules are not the same anymore. I can no longer take your pain for mere brownie points.” I winced. Mischief could heal but he did it by taking the pain onto himself. Had I been using him? He’d always offered his Angelic Power as if his own pain was nothing. “I may only share my talent with Mage Drake’s permission, or when I choose to and he has no chance of discovering it. Do you believe that you still have the power on this island?”
I squirmed but shrugged. “Screw having power. How about getting through without being phoenix whomped, cult brainwashed, or turned into chunky salsa?”
“Well, someone’s certainly not a realist.” I bumped Mischief’s shoulder, and he grinned. “How about we both strive towards those lofty goals?”
I dragged Mischief towards me, kissing his forehead.
Sniggers and jeers.
Mischief wriggled away from me with a glare, rubbing at his forehead like a kid wiping away his mum’s kiss.
“We were swapping saliva a moment ago, but now you’re playing the virgin?” Black and violet roared, outraged at his rejection and hissing to drag him down and teach him in front of everyone just how much I could touch him…
Shocked, I stumbled away, huddling my arms around myself. I would never be the same Glory as my mum…or the same woman that I’d been in Angel World.
Mischief glared at me. “I am not your pet.”
I blanched. Hell, I remembered how my dad had called Mischief his pet, and how Rahab controlled him. I’d never intended to make him feel like that… Yet wasn’t it how I’d just ached to treat him? “I didn’t—"
“I’m quite certain you did,” Mischief bit out, before shoving me into the fighting arena. “You have a battle to win.”
I stumbled, catching my toe between the amber cobblestones.
Sniggers again.
Shadows danced behind my eyes. I drew myself up, twisting to the mages. They shrank back, looking anywhere but my furious glare.
Then I turned to Rahab.<
br />
He stood in the grand archway to the gatehouse with his majestic — unbroken — wings out. Their pulsing wingtips rested loosely on the two angels who knelt either side of him: his son, Drake, and Rebel.
My head jerked back, as my skin tingled: Rebel, my Irish bondage punk angel. Not false or an illusion but real for the first time in a month of only being able to feel his emotions of fear, pain, and shame through the bond and soothing him through it, whilst not knowing if I was breaking his trust by forcing my emotions into him. Because he hadn’t willingly become my Marked or my Bonded: I’d taken both from him.
Did I even deserve to comfort him?
What the hell: I loved Rebel, and the bastard loved me.
Fam was fam.
Rahab caressed his fingers along Rebel’s shoulder, and I shuddered. I scanned Rebel for injuries: he was unmarked. Yet when Rahab could turn phobias into torture devices and all he needed with Rebel was the dark to torment him…?
When I took a storming step towards Rahab, Drake pushed himself up from his knees and stalked towards me, blocking my path. Unlike the False Drake that Mischief had shifted into, my Goldilocks had been reduced from his Commander gold trousers, to bronze Apprentice, just like me. He rubbed at them absentmindedly, revealing his creamy thighs, as if the trousers bothered him.
When Drake met me in the middle of the arena, he jerked his head at the ranks of the apprentices and Kunel with a sharp tap of his bare foot against the cobbles.
Forbidden from talking to each other since we’d been brought under Kunel’s loving care, Drake and I had developed the art of whole conversations via body language. Drake’s meant:
What’s up with you in the land of crazy cats, bitch? Why’d you call down this conflict on me to humiliate me in front of the gang?
Although, that’s a loose translation.
I nodded towards Rahab.
No choice, bro.
Drake clenched his jaw, casting me an anxious, searching glance.
I sighed, as brilliant white threads that tasted of candy floss, quested into my mind, spinning me in their softness. They stroked me, soothing. This was our secret: The way that Drake had reached out to me, risking punishment throughout this month to connect without words.
To bond.
“Our new apprentice has asked to prove herself in the Battle of the Bailey.” Rahab stepped forward from the archway. Drake snapped back the white from my mind. His gaze blanked, but not before I’d missed the sudden cold rage. “My son may not have the same honor to ask for the chance…” Hoots. Drake paled, and I tensed: please don’t bastard do this…not because of my three wishes… “But I’m a kind father. So, Duma, do you wish for the opportunity to prove that you have at least some worth before your peers?”
“Yes, sir,” Drake forced out, whilst his hands fisted at his sides.
Yet Drake didn’t turn around. His gaze was still locked with mine. His hand twitched: See, what an epic ball busting you’ve called down on me?
“How mortifying to hold a fondness for our royal apprentice and yet know that she loves Addicts and vampires more than you.” Titters from the mages as they slouched closer, circling the arena. Drake hunched, avoiding my eye. “Don’t you wish — just once — to win against her? Show her your true worth, whatever that may be? Or are you nothing but her sacrifice: burned, abandoned, and disposable?” Drake flinched at each word: assassin’s blades, wrapped in the trickery of fatherly concern. I fidgeted, reaching for Drake’s hand, but he recoiled. “Will she ever be able to see you as more than her lovers’ jailer?” He stroked Rebel’s hair, and Drake’s eyes narrowed at my growl. “Win, Duma, and demonstrate that you can be something other than a disappointment.”
For the first time, Drake’s eyes glinted with tears.
Rahab was going down Hackney style.
Except, Drake’s expression had cooled to predatory ice-cold fire. With a flick of his wrist, an invisible blast knocked me backwards.
I howled, as my wings scraped along the floor. When Drake wrenched me up by my scarf, his eyes clouded with concern. He shook his head, however, and his gaze once again smoothed out to the deadly. He shot out a second blast to paralyze me. This time, however, I was prepared; I deflected Drake’s shot with the cold magic, which slunk through my neck like chains. Then I whipped him across the face with the coils, tumbling him onto his arse.
Guffaws from the angel pricks.
How dare they laugh at my beautiful Commander? Eyes tarring, I sprayed out a hurricane of shadows at the mages.
Shrieks and hollers.
I grinned: not so much with the Alpha swag now.
The mages scrabbled at themselves, smacked each other on the back, or reached into their pants, hopping on one leg to kick out the wiggling shadows.
When I turned to Mischief at the side of the arena, he quirked an unimpressed eyebrow, before singing, “Behind you.”
Drake lifted me off the ground. Rich frankincense caught in my nostrils, as his pale violet wings trapped me. I struggled, but he pinned my arms to my sides, ramming me against the whipping post; the iron manacles bit into my back, and I groaned.
“I’m winning this fight,” I whispered.
Drake stared at me as his grip tightened. “Be silent. I apologize for my roughness, but we’re breaking the Code by speaking.”
“Stick the Code.”
Drake flinched. He peeked down at Kunel and then at his dad, before murmuring, “Hit me.”
“Kinky,” I smirked. Then I backhanded him, twisting him around in the dance of battle, as he soared high above the arena.
Hell, if he dropped me…
“Why do you insist on this win, my Queen?” Drake asked.
“Didn’t your dad put on the musical? I want to prove myself.”
Drake stiffened. “Lie.”
Why did he have to see me? I’d been invisible for so much of my life, it was freaky now to finally be understood.
“Trust me,” I murmured.
Drake’s gaze was assessing but then it hardened. “No matter what my father believes, I’m a Commander. And I shall win this battle honorably for you.”
Hell, he meant it.
“If you love me,” I caught myself because — screw it to Unicorn City — that was the first time I’d said it out loud, and Drake’s expression had slipped into the vulnerable and raw…and I’d done that, “you won’t win to prove any of that medieval mind control by your NOT Dad of the Year. Your honor, worth, and place by my side…you already have that.” Drake was trembling; his mouth pressed into a thin line. “You’ll lose because my blokes sacrifice.”
“And have I not sacrificed enough?”
“Have you?”
I didn’t understand the way that Drake clutched me closer, as he pretended that we were struggling, resting his forehead against mine. “I drown in it. In you. Just once…I’ll win.”
I squealed, as Drake hurtled us towards the floor of the arena. At the last moment, he twisted, bellowing like I’d winded him, and landed in an agonizing crunch beneath me.
I lay in confusion on top of him like a hunter on her felled lion, stroking a stray curl behind his ear, whilst a snaking trail of scarlet matted his hair.
“Truth,” Drake wheezed. “I was always going to lose for you.”
How could he see me, when he was still so hidden to me?
Suddenly, I was yanked backwards by my top and hung in Rahab’s grip. He glowered at Drake. “I believe that you’ve shown us all, including our little apprentice here, your worth.”
Drake reddened, as he scrambled to his knees. He held out his arms in front of him.
It was only then that I saw the welts: faded bruises criss-crossed from wrist to shoulder.
“We’re all closed today for flogging,” I snarled. “I win the three rewards, not punishments.”
Rahab threw a cat o’nine tails between us: a rope whip with nine fierce tails of knotted cord, spiked with little metal balls. “You win the overal
l battle, but my son lost. Did you imagine that it would be without punishment?” Did hoping on wishing stars count? “And I’ve judged sparring for centuries. You’ve both been the terror of armies. That was like kids wrestling. Whip him and be done with it.”
I scowled. “That’ll be a no way, Sauron.”
Silence.
Even the mages were standing to sweating attention now. Maybe I’d better tone down the cult leader baiting.
“Pick it up.” Rahab’s irises flickered.
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Not even if it was the One Ring.”
Rahab booted the whip towards Drake. “Then it’s our Queen Apprentice’s turn.”
I bit my lip. Don’t pick it up…
When Drake gingerly lifted the rope handle, dangling the cords between his fingers like hair, I trembled from the hot betrayal flooding me.
“How many lashes do you think our little apprentice earned, Duma?” Rahab asked casually.
I knew a trick question when I heard it.
Drake’s pink lips pursed. “I do not believe that she has earned any, father. She bested me; I’m the failure. If lashes are owed, then they’re owed to me alone.”
The brave bastard.
Yet, wasn’t that the true meaning of the Brotherhood? Defending each other, loyalty, and sacrificing… Drake was my family. He loved me, and I’d mourned him when I hadn’t known whether he’d been alive or dead.
Rahab nodded. “As you wish.” Prick. “I shall deal with your chastisement this evening.” Drake dropped the whip, as if it’d sunk its fangs into him. “And you…?” He twirled around to the mages. “Shall the Queen of Apprentices rise?”
Lazarus rises! Rises! Rises! And we will rise!
The Lazarus Mages, like golden butterflies, shot into the air, beaten into a fervor by their own chanting: ecstatic, rapturous, and thunderous. They spiraled on flaming wings, whilst my own remained mutilated.
Lazarus rises…?
I tremored: Eden, the psycho leader of the vampire fanatics had shouted that at me. And when two fanatics on either side in a war chant the same riddle, it’s never a candy cartload of fun. Also, hadn’t the second line been that everyone would then say all our goodbyes?
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