“No matter,” Mischief continued briskly with a wave of his hand — hell, it so did matter — as he glanced at Ceri. “We both love those children as well. They’re worth any sacrifice. Did you believe that I wouldn’t understand? Someone has to be the true champion of both the Broken and Phoenix slaves, and it’d never be the mages. I’d come to believe that it’d be me.” He avoided my eye as he bit out, “Yet if you imagine that you’ll survive the Initiation fighting with the Legion’s Code and their mental powers…?”
Mischief and Ceri exchanged a knowing glance. Then they dived on me. I eeped, falling back amongst the shifting ghost crabs and seaweed bed of the pool.
Feathers, warm skin, and mingled hair.
Their bodies pressed against mine, just as their lips tongued my mouth, throat, and wings…
I arched, lost in the tingling sensation, until I jolted because something was passing through them to me, as they held me down on the boulder.
Magic: It popcorn crackled from their wings and kisses. It sparked in silvery waves down my bowed spine, bubbling the cold Legion magic…taking over.
I rode the thrill because if this was possession, I belonged to the silver magic already.
Wake your sailor doll arse up, Violet-pea. Alarm bells are ringing, and you only have minutes until the real bell will toll.
I’m a Violet filling in a feathery sandwich right now. Let me dream that I’m licking the silvery cream, yeah?
While I gag on that image, you’re gagging on a magic that was never meant for you.
I told you there was danger out here.
Battling through the glimmering tide that whispered…home, home, home…I shoved at two angelic shoulders.
At last, Mischief raised his head. “Tasted enough true magic?”
Hell, no…
Ceri held my hand to his mouth, nibbling at each finger, whilst he sucked. The sparking inside didn’t fade: it sank tendrils even deeper.
I forced myself to nod. “Why…?”
Mischief raised his hands. “Some of us don’t fear sharing power: we embrace it.”
Silver spun out into disks flickering between his hands.
Bang — he flexed his fingers, and the disks soared across the cave, crashing into the wall in a shower of smoldering rock.
I hollered, covering my face.
Was that power — magic — now inside me?
“Why would you hide that type of talent?” When Mischief flinched, I drew his still glowing hands between mine, shuddering at the way that the magic between our skin reached for each other. I loved that they both had such astounding strength and wanted to share it with me. “If Ceri has magic too, why’s he a Broken?”
Mischief tried to pull away, but I held onto him, as his cheeks pinked. When he cast a glance at me, his gaze was clouded with shame. “The Lower Vault is the fun punishment for captured witches: for women. My magic shouldn’t be silver, despite how powerful it is. It’s wrong. A mage’s magic is gold, whilst mine is…” I shook with rage at the cruel judgment on Mischief just because his magic had been assigned feminine. “I’m sorry. Have I sullied your queenly image by touching you with my womanly—”
“Bastard stop it,” I snapped. “Your balls are bigger than any blokes, and no, I don’t need to feel them, we’re talking in metaphors. The whole Legion and Angel World gender divide is screwed. Do all Broken have this silver magic?”
“Not like Mischief.” Ceri slid a hand to Mischief’s neck, massaging. “And he hides because there’s nowhere safer than the shadows. But we all have something wired differently in us that makes our magic wicked—”
“Is kissing you the only way to silence your tongue?” Mischief hissed. “There’s not a wicked feather in you. You’re more courageous, devoted—"
“Sexier?” Ceri smirked.
“More powerful than my brother who beats you.” Mischief’s eyes blazed. “You’re right, both of you. Now is the time to take apart this Legion from the inside.” He narrowed his gaze at me. “You’ve been granted our special magic to help you do so. No one can complain that a Glory is too feminine to use it.”
Too late, Violet-sweets, it’s dawn…
I scrambled around: golden light flooded the entrance cave, as the molten sun gleamed over the ocean.
Bong, bong, bong.
I gasped at the deep ringing of the bell, which echoed through my head.
Morning breaks and the bell tolls…at my victory or my funeral.
10
Dawn’s golden light flooded over the Bailey, but scarlet pooled on its amber cobbles.
Numb, I stared at the whipping post: if I only focused on the fisted hands bruised in the shackles, then I didn’t have to admit that the bloke hanging from them was…
Swish — thud.
Rebel screamed, as the corded cat o-nine tails sliced through the morning silence, then clawed red down his back.
“Ninety-five,” Och intoned, combing through the bloody tails to stop them sticking together.
This time, both mages and apprentices alike stood at attention to witness Rebel’s shameful punishment.
Except, the punishment and shame were mine: Rebel was simply taking my lashes. If Rahab wanted to break me, flogging Rebel, whilst I could do nothing but stand on and watch, ticked the Tame Violet box.
Yet the grim twist to Rahab’s mouth and the way that he clasped his hands behind his back as he glowered over proceedings from the archway, told me that I hadn’t been imagining the fondness with which he’d drawn his thumb over Rebel’s lips.
It’s just that controlling me mattered more. And wasn’t that bastard terrifying?
Swish — thud.
When the little metal balls at the end of the whip caught in Rebel’s back, ripping away the skin, Rebel shrieked. Blood sprayed across the Bailey; I jumped, when it teared down my cheek.
Never before had the blood’s candy sweetness made me gag.
“Ninety-six.”
Please, just be over…
Rebel’s agony and terror struck me across the bond. I paled, swallowing hard as I swayed.
Two hands clutched mine: Mischief held me up on one side, Drake on the other. Their grips were crushing.
Rebel wasn’t my whipping boy alone. He might be my lover but he was also Mischief’s mate and something to Drake that I didn’t yet understand.
I glanced sideways at Drake. He was as ashen as me; his jaw was clenched as tightly as mine. But it was the tears glinting in his eyes that booted me in the gut.
How could the Ice Commander be melted by Rebel’s suffering?
I nudged Drake with my boot, forcing him to look away from the whipping post. He shuddered, straightening his shoulders. I fell back on our secret body language, shrugging:
What?
He rolled his eyes:
Have you been hit with the crazy stick, bitch? The angel having his punk ass whipped, duh.
I shrugged again:
What’s it to you, bro?
Drake raised a shaky finger to his chest:
My fault.
My eyes widened. In the freakery of the tolling bells, Rebel’s punishment, and the nightmare start to this Day of Initiation, I’d never stopped to think what Drake would believe about it.
Or maybe even what his dad had told him.
I shook my head frantically, steeling myself to ignore Rebel’s wailing and the fall of the lash again, as I pointed at myself.
Not your fault: mine.
Och shook out the tangled tails, casting a concerned gaze over his shoulder at Mischief. Something unreadable passed between them, as secret as my special way of communicating with Drake. It only truly hit me then that they were brothers: like my half-brother was mine, except we were strangers.
Would we ever be like true siblings?
Yet when it was Rebel who was being flogged like a midshipman, why was Och shooting the Apology Eyes at his brother? The prick wasn’t going easy now either, not in the way he had when he’d st
ruck Mischief’s palm with the whip. Instead, he swung the rope above his head, bending his body to give it full force, before bringing it down, carving deep enough to show white slivered bone beneath.
Rebel arched and writhed, before his head lolled forward.
Bastard, no…
Panting, I shuddered between relief and horror. For ninety-nine strokes I’d hoped that Rebel would pass out and for once discover that the dark could be an escape from pain.
The Legion, however, had a cute little trick to stop the mages hiding in unconsciousness. The whip already cut open the disciplined angel’s sensitive shoulder blades and lower wings (and my own feathers cringed in sympathy to imagine that), but throughout the flogging the disciplined had to stretch out their wings as if about to take flight: Rise. If their wings fell, then the cat would mangle their most sensitive angel parts.
Wake up.
I blasted the thought through my Blood Bond with Rebel, even as my guts roiled that I was violating him, by forcing him to obey my commands.
That I was compelling him to suffer for love.
I’d once thought that I craved my blokes to be my puppets but after enduring Rahab’s false world where everyone in it became his toy, I knew that it wasn’t real control.
It was an illusion. A kid singing to itself to drive away the monsters.
And this monster was coming for Rahab.
Rebel’s head snapped back up on a howl, and I winced. Rebel swept out his wings.
Swish — thud.
When Rebel convulsed, Och hurled away the cat, hurrying to unshackle Rebel from the post. “One hundred. Punishment complete.” Then he shot a look at Mischief. “Zophia, your services are required.”
Then I understood: Och’s concerned gaze, as well as Mischief’s talent to heal being used with Rahab’s permission.
Rahab beat his favorite toys, only to have their pain taken by his least favorite. And Mischief survived — was allowed to live — because he took the pain of Rahab’s golden children.
When Mischief reluctantly let go of my hand, avoiding my gaze as he darted to kneel next to Rebel’s broken body, which Och was cradling with unexpected gentleness, I hated that I didn’t know whether I wished Mischief would heal Rebel because that meant them both suffering.
When Rahab soared above the Bailey, Drake also let go of my hand.
How could the Bitch of Utopia miss something as simple as an angel’s fingers between mine? Yet I bastard did.
“I should similarly lash every one of you for not stopping the escape…excuse the Freudian slip…kidnap of our royal guest.” If they gave medals for terrified silences, the entire Legion would’ve been awarded one. Rahab tossed his curls. “But I believe the example has been made. If the queen were to be kidnapped again, Och’s arm would tire as much as the skin on your backs.” I shrank from the scowls. Way to make yourself popular. “Yet now the Day of Initiation begins to judge who shall be your new brother or sister. Let them walk in the way of the Phoenix!”
The Brotherhood stamped their feet on the hard floor of the Bailey, as I backed away from Drake.
My breath hitched. Show time.
Lazarus rises! Rises! Rises! And we will rise!
Drake snatched me by the hair hurling me into the center of the arena, before kicking out my knees.
Oomph — I fell flat on my face in the copper candy of Rebel’s blood.
I smeared it wildly off my cheeks, choking as it caught on the tip of my tongue and exploded through me; I juddered, lost in the joy of our Blood Bond and yet drowning in the pain, pain, pain that sang through it.
I wiped the back of my hand across my lips.
Rebel had been dragged to the side of the Bailey, with Mischief suffering the agony of the flogging alongside him, and I was battling to save the world.
Drake knew how to distract a bitch.
Had I expected him to puppy rollover and wiggle his belly? If he didn’t win, Drake would lose his only chance to become a Lazarus Mage and gain the respect that his own dad had always denied him, returning instead to the status of slave.
But then, if I lost, so would I.
I snarled, struggling to turn over, but Drake rammed my head against the cobbles. I yelped, booting my leg backwards, but he caught it and twisted. Then I howled.
Hell, every time that I’d fought Drake, he’d been holding back. No matter that his dad treated him like a reject, he was still a Commander in the angelic army, as well as the badass who’d fought the vampiric Supreme Commander in a duel and won.
I had swag but I was a newbie to this supernatural world, without Drake’s centuries of combat experience.
Death: charred corpses in circles, torching corrupted courts, attempting to murder my own dad…
Now that I had down.
I didn’t want to harm Drake, however, only defeat him. And if the cost of entry into the Legion of the Phoenix was his death…?
It was too high.
When Drake seized me by the back of my neck, I stiffened. He flung me against the whipping post, and my feathers caught sticky against the congealed blood: Rebel’s blood.
Spiked metal balls carving into Rebel’s skin, slicing it away from the bone and spraying it across my cheeks…
I froze, catching Drake’s haunted expression, before his face became carefully blank. The memory of Rebel’s pain hurt him as much as it did me. Drake was playing mind games: he didn’t want to harm me either. So, if I had a freak out over Rebel’s punishment, then he’d win.
Two could play at that game.
I smirked. “What’s wrong? Don’t want to get Rebel’s blood in your girlie hair, brat?”
I snatched Drake’s curls in my gory hands and rubbed.
Drake let out a squeal. His eyes widened, as he drew in desperate gasps. He yanked backwards, scrambling away. I was left holding golden clumps.
It also left one pissed off pretty boy.
Messing with an angel’s hair: who knew that it tapped into their inner rage?
Drake caught me by the shoulder, twisting. I struggled, but the beautiful bully was powerful.
Slam — Drake cracked me down across the cannon.
I groaned; my wings were trapped beneath me, taking most of the impact. Fire shot straight to the wingtips, searing. The ancient powers inside bellowed at the indignity: the threat to my newly knitted wing bones.
And to my chances at flight: to Rise.
The shadows stirred, restless. I fought to hold them inside.
Slam — Drake hauled me up from the cannon, only to smash me down across it again.
He knew.
The Ice Commander was deliberately targeting my wings because of course he had a strategy. He didn’t fight on emotion and rage like me, with the beauty of a dance like Rebel, or the instinct of his squirming magic like Mischief. If he couldn’t take out my mind, Drake would take out my wings — shank my weakness.
The cold bastard.
Yet he’d grown up with Rahab as a daddy and been gifted as a kid to my mummy as a bed slave… I’d have been astounded if Drake didn’t know how to hurt.
Except, I was a Jerusalem Children’s Home kid. I’d been raised with hurt in my soul too.
Rebel had once told me that if I didn’t kill only to save, then when I hunted vampires, we’d become only two monsters in the snow.
Well, watch out bitches, because now there’d be two monsters in the blood.
Mischief’s magic glinted in a gushing wave through me: popcorn and power. I wove it in winding braids with my violet fire that surged, fizzing in fury at Drake’s attack, until they became silvery violet disks.
The disks exploded from my palms, launching Drake in a howl of fried feathers and shocked pain through the air and slamming into the pool of blood beneath the whipping post.
Shocked whispers.
Even the apprentices risked their own lashing to break their military silence.
I eased off the cannon, wincing at the smart in my wings, bef
ore prowling to Drake, who sprawled in the crater where he’d landed.
Hell, this magic was juiced.
Drake moaned, forcing his head up to glare at me.
Nope, that wasn’t guilt icy-balled in my stomach at the anguish in his eyes.
I pulled my hands further apart, and the disks whirled together into a single pulsing sun. Drake swallowed, staring up at the lightening sky.
Why was it so hard to draw back my arm and shoot him with the final fire bolt?
Victory: it throbbed through me to a tribal beat. My enemy crushed at my feet. Except, I desired Drake at my side. This felt…wrong…even as I pulled back my arm to strike.
Then Drake roared, rolling to the side. I blinked, confused.
Three Drakes hovered in the air before me: bleeding, bruised, and annoyingly smug.
Bastard clones.
“What’s wrong?” Drake One smirked. “Are you having difficulty deciding which one of us to make bleed, brat?”
I flinched, before forcing my sore wings to flap, rising to meet him in the air. “Why limit myself to only one angel toy, when there’s three up for grabs?”
The Drakes growled, but all my powers were ready. It didn’t matter which one was the real Drake, he’d just shown me his belly and begged me to slip in the shank.
When Drake Two dived towards me, I fired a burst of flames sizzling across his wings. He howled, and as I’d hoped, an echo of the wound vibrated through the other clones and the real Drake. He tumbled down onto the arena floor with a bang.
Simultaneously, I cast a shadow net over Drake One, sticky over his creamy skin, swinging him crashing next to his clone brother, as well as shooting a disk at Drake Three and blasting him in a spray of singed feathers onto his back.
Multiple Drakes? Multiple ways to hurt him at the same time.
Each Drake reached out towards the other, whimpering and holding each other’s hands in comfort. I realized that he was attempting to wrench them back inside himself again. He’d been too weakened to manage it, however, and now his clones were stuck outside to suffer with him.
As I landed, prowling towards the three Drakes, it was easy to spot the original: it was the one who pushed himself up onto his elbows, as if he could even now protect his clones.
Rebel Angels: The Complete Series Page 86