by Emery Skye
“You're right,” she mumbled staring down at the ground.
I stopped her in her tracks, grabbing a hold of her bony shoulder. She has to step up the strength training.
“I am sorry. It’s just that I won’t always be here to protect you.” My heart dropped at the thought. “I need to know you fully understand your duty.” Being a big sister is hard sometimes.
She frowned.
We separated in the middle of the courtyard, both fighting our way through the crowds of noviates.
The Powers had found this little patch of land in the middle of Hope, Alaska, eighty-seven miles south of Anchorage, and constructed a little piece of Heaven on earth.
Every building at the Academy possessed a Renaissance beauty, placing emphasis on symmetrical balance, unity, and a formal grandeur that conferred peace upon us.
Gabriel’s citadel was no different. On top of the citadel, the inscription read, "For He will give His angels charge of you, to guard you in all your ways. On their hands they will bear you up, lest you dash your foot upon a stone.” They taught us that God wanted us to protect the humans, and so we did.
When I walked through the massive double doors the light spilling into the lobby reflected off the luminescent, snowy marble floors creating a stunning brilliance that made my eyes hurt.
The vaulted ceiling had a picture of Gabriel. Gabriel was the first Harbinger. Harbingers chose or were chosen to teach rather than fight.
All I wanted was to be the greatest Warrior. I knew fighting on the front lines was my vocation. Not everyone has the desire to face demons head on. I couldn’t imagine anything else.
I headed to my first class, 'Meditations of the Soul,’ taught by Dr. Propentinger. My whole body felt sunken. Everyone was flippant. Too flippant.
My mother wasn’t sociable and constantly reminded me (when she spoke to me) that friends were disposable and were often disposed of in our line of work. Dr. Propentinger spoke too slowly
Next class would be better: Demonology 300 with Dr. Briathos. He was a Harbinger I thought should have been a Warrior.
As I walked into the classroom, I scanned the room for a familiar face.
Alyosha.
Alyosha had medium-length hair and olive eyes. He was scrawnier than the rest. The best part about Alyosha was that he always succeeded and exceeded the requirements in his classes. Like me. The other part I appreciated was he didn’t talk much. Also, like me.
Sitting by him would be fine with me, even though he was dating Am, which was officially prohibited.
“Hey, Alyosha. Looks like we have Demonology together,” I said, wishing he would at least feign fear of me. I could break him. And he knew it.
The relationship started last year. It happened fast—too fast—quickly becoming a full-blown, boyfriend, girlfriend thing with hugging and kissing and way more PDA than accepted.
I liked Alyosha, or so I kept telling myself. Even though (or because?) he wouldn't back down.
“Yep,” he responded dejectedly and shifted away from me while putting his arm up in an effort to conceal his face.
My shoulders tightened.
The rest of the class we sat silently next to each other and listened to Dr. Briathos. He tall like a pro basketball player, had features like a shark, and looked far younger than he could be.
Angels are not immortal, and we age, but at a much slower rate than humans. Aging rates differ between Pures or pure-breeds and Hybrids. Created angels, the first in existence do not die of old age, but they can be killed.
Born angels roughly live for a quarter of a millennium, but at the age of twenty-five their exterior ages slowly. Hybrids, the half-breeds, the result of a human and an angel, have a life-span of about 125 years, and their aging seems to slow at twenty-five as well.
Sleeping with a human is a crime, punishable by death and usually the baby, the abominable offspring, is killed as well. Still, some Hybrids exist despite the Legions best effort to eliminate them.
Warriors have been, occasionally, commanded to eliminate Hybrid clans.
I listened closely as he introduced us to the Dark Order. I hung on his words like they were salvation.
“Class dismissed. Read up on the Dark Order.” Dr. Briathos commanded.
As we exited the room, I couldn’t stop staring at Alyosha. He had a faraway look in his eyes that gave them a glassy quality, like a lifeless doll.
“See ya,” I said.
He looked at me disdainfully and marched out of the room. His look was unnerving; the thinness of his eyes and the muscles jumping near his chin told me he was angry.
My next classes seemed to lag on. It was the same class on repeat, different lecture, different professor, and different students.
Dr. Helfrich taught History of Angels with arms crossed against his chest and head tipped at an odd angle. He followed up every sentence with an exaggerated sigh, pregnant with annoyance, as he discussed the homework. His eyebrows were like little caterpillars doing push-ups lifting up and down repeatedly through his entire lecture.
“You’re Angel Noviates,” he said. Up. “You all should be looking at the syllabus,” Pause. Down. One. “It’s really not that difficult…,” blah, blah, blah. I looked at the clock and propped my elbow on the desk. The whispering around the room was like a soft buzz.
The female noviate next to me with a purple book bag, purple boots, and purple pants—she looked like an eggplant—clicked and unclicked her pen.
I tried to listen to the rest of the lesson with an open mind. Open mind. Open mind. Open mind. Click. Unclick. Click. He spoke about the distribution of power to the Powers and the Archangels. While politics weren’t my thing, I found this bit intriguing.
We were taught to follow the Powers. To do their bidding. We were taught that they were the rulers, but it seemed odd. The angel’s only representation was the Archangels and we knew nothing of them. How did they know anything of us? We’d never seen them. At least, I never had. We’d never even heard them speak before. We knew ultimately nothing other than what the Powers wanted us to know.
I rested my chin on my closed fist and counted push-ups while the second hand ticked slowly by. Sixteen push-ups in thirty seconds. Can eyebrows have a heart attack? Can moving them too much give you a heart attack? I smiled. Angels don't have heart attacks.
I shuffled forward to the last of my general education classes. Healing Rituals taught by Dr. Cloves. She was under five feet and wore all black and grey that matched her salt and pepper hair. Her frizzy mane was separated into two piggy-tails and ballooned out to the sides past her shoulders, making her v-shaped face look tiny and disproportionate.
I once heard Dr. Cloves and another professor arguing that noviates were too young to decide their calling. I didn’t understand.
We were fashioned into the most disciplined Warriors from a young age, much like a blacksmith fashions our daggers to perfection before the molten metal has a chance to dry.
The sound of chairs scraping and backpacks unzipping pulled me back to class.
Taylor stood and walked to the desk in front of me.
“Hey, Anna.”
Oh boy.
“What?”
“There’s a party out back Thursday.”
“Out back” was code for behind the gym, in the maintenance building. If a noviate got caught there, it would be sudden death.
“Uh-huh. That’s nice,” I replied with a “back off now” edge and started scribbling in my notebook, hoping she would take the hint.
“You’re invited.”
“That’s nice,” I repeated gazing into those guarded, green eyes of hers. I tried to see past the lies, albeit Taylor was too good at acting “bitch.” No matter how hard I looked for the redeemable quality, she hid it deeper and usually behind an explosive device that went up in my face.
She was up to something.
“Will you come?” she asked with an ear-to-ear grin plastered on her thin face. The smile
looked unnatural—like a freaky clown in a horror movie.
I couldn’t help but raise my eyebrows. Taylor threw notorious parties.
Parties that I didn’t go to. Her smile widened.
Oh for Power’s sake.
“We’ll see.”
“Great! See you there.” Her eyes gleamed superficially; it was like OCD with eye shadow.
Luckily, Sara Lee walked in and took the seat next to me. She was a well-rounded girl in every sense of the word.
“Is it just me, or does it smell in here?” Taylor asked like clockwork.
There was a small batch of kids that Taylor antagonized regularly. They were the Sara Lee’s of the school. The ones who were a little different and did not have the combat skills to kick her butt.
I shook my head at Taylor.
“Get lost,” I told her.
Taylor didn’t stick around to fight with me. I’d grow tired of words, and when that happened she knew she’d lose.
“Hi,” I said, as Taylor walked back to her seat.
“Hi, Anna. How was your break?” She flashed me an awkward, closed-mouth smile revealing no white.
“It was fine. How was yours?” I continued, shoving my negativity away.
“It was—” she began and was interrupted by Dr. Cloves.
“Can anyone tell me who the angel of protection is?”
For such a small woman her voice was loud, like she spoke through a megaphone. I stared at Dr. Cloves.
The pants she wore were cut short a few inches above her ankles and the suspenders passé. Who wore rope suspenders nowadays? Or ever? Her tucked-in, checkered blouse fit her like a parachute. From head to toe, Dr. Cloves could have been a refugee from a human circus freak show.
In our world, a world of strict uniformity, the individual faded away as it blended into the whole, but nothing about Dr. Cloves blended in.
I liked that.
“Taylor, how about you? Who is the angel of protection?”
Taylor glanced at the professor.
“Angel Bablo.”
“You are incorrect.” Dr. Cloves’ eyes were a deep grey with tiny specs of gold. Those eyes were dark, a tornado spiraling, the gold fading in and out. “That would be Angel Sablo,” she snapped.
I hoped Amalie did her homework.
She was the petal of the rose, and I was the thorny stem.
The bell went off.
Finally.
Lunch.
Chapter 3
It wasn’t until the bell rang that I realized how hungry I was.
I scanned the cafeteria, milling with too many noviates to count, for Amalie. There were waves of striking glares, tight-lipped smiles, and throwback laughter.
Many different faces filled the room. Some of those faces were dull like stones and some sharp like swords.
I spotted Amalie standing in line, tapping her boot-clad foot against the grainy floor.
The stench of garbage made me gag and distracted me as I walked toward her. In a world of bleach and ammonia, garbage stuck out like a sore thumb. I bumped into something… no, someone. Hard.
He was built like a rock, and I rebounded off him like a rubber ball nearly falling on my butt in front of everyone. That would have been spectacular. Not. I would have done just that if he hadn’t snatched me up by my arm. His grip on my bicep was tight. His touch was warm. When we connected, heat radiated through my body, and my blood pulsated. Adrenaline, maybe?
I looked from his large hand to his face taking a deep breath. The fluorescent lighting above blinded me and made his face indiscernible; only his strong jawline was clearly visible.
“Sorry,” was all I could muster.
He pulled me to my feet like I was nothing more than a sack of potatoes. I came a foot off the ground before my shoes safely met the comfort of the white floor. Even with my feet firmly planted, my equilibrium felt slightly unequal. My stomach swished irritably.
“You might want to be more cautious in the future.”
His voice was majestic and polished like a seasoned general. It demanded my absolute attention.
I went to say something, but it never made it off my tongue. He vanished like fog into thin air.
I tried to focus on anything other than the weird sensations the guy caused me. No luck.
The noviates’ laughter swam around me as I walked through the lines of tables, weaving in and out of groups of people.
I went by mostly unnoticed. The kids that knew of me were the geeks. They were the old-fashioned ones that still cared about honor, dignity, and sportsmanship. Virtues had become unpopular, and so had the people that still held to them. It was expected, but not cultivated. It had never been modeled, so it couldn't be emulated. Not even here.
Winning, even at nearly any cost, had become the highest virtue. Winning was instinctual. Primal. Spiritual and carnal. Everybody gets winning.
We needed to be focused, determined to win.
It only made sense that each loss brought humiliation in combat classes that were known to make students harbor suicidal thoughts. And each win brought us closer to a near death match. Victory meant graduation and freedom to choose. It wasn't free will, but it was as close as we got.
I stood in line for some slop.
Right then, someone nudged me. I tensed, anticipating attack. My arms tightened by my sides, protecting my rib cage, my left toe dug into the nose of my shoe as I placed my body weight onto my left side, reflexively gearing up for spinning hook kick that was entirely unnecessary. I turned around to find Amalie holding an edible arrangement of fruit in one hand and some of the slop in the other.
“Hey,” she hedged, probably noticing my tenseness. “How were your morning classes? I got you a fruit bowl,” she smiled, but it was forced.
If I’d been paying better attention I would’ve noticed the scent of lilies in the air that was so Amalie.
I tried to relax, but it was like unwinding a rusty coil.
“Thanks, they were good; I have Dr. Cloves for Healing Rituals.”
“Ew. Tough Break.”
She didn’t have my affection for Dr. Cloves. No one did.
A little smirk built on her face.
“What’s got you smiling like an idiot?” she asked suddenly. I hadn’t realized that my cheeks were, indeed, hurting.
In response, I pinched my features together in what I’m sure was a most ugly scowl.
“Please,” Amalie placed the weight of her body on one side, leaning into her knee-high boot. “You’re not fooling anyone.”
Ugh. How did she always know? What was I supposed to say? Anxiety caused my face to heat up, and her smile only deepened. My mouth suddenly felt dry.
“I just ran into someone. It was embarrassing.” It had been. That wasn’t a lie—not really.
“Who?” she pried like a detective.
“No one,” I snapped reaching for the bowl like it was my lifeline.
I turned away fast and scanned the room for an empty table.
She stayed on my heels as I walked. I was trying to avert my eyes and keep them focused on the circles of white dotting the area. Rivers of light streamed in through the larger than life windows, stretching from the floor to the tip-top of the vaulted ceiling.
“Who?” she asked again. She enthusiastically skipped through the chaos toward an empty table.
“Someone I’ve never seen before,” I told her with an air of indifference.
“Would this someone happen to be a male?” Her lips pinched together.
I glared at her, my facial muscles tensing.
“Yes,” I took a bite of the green apple. She continued to stare at me.
“Was he a fourth year?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t get a good look at his face,” I said as I rolled my neck that felt tighter than before.
“Did you get his name?” her eyes widened and her brows shot up. It was a death glare.
I swallowed.
“He sort of disappea
red, but there was something,” I paused. She was teetering at the edge of her seat. There were a lot of somethings about him. Most of them were cheesy and fan girl status. So, I said, “Something older about him. I don’t think he’s a student here.”
Her jaw dropped and shut again. She sighed dramatically. The air rattling her lips as it escaped her mouth. Her whole body dropped inches with the exhale.
“How does someone just disappear?” her words filled the air around me.
“What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t run after him screaming, ‘Sir, who are you?’ Come on, Am. Let’s be serious,” I told her, not making any attempt to hide my irritation with this conversation. Plus, maybe it was just my imagination. Maybe he had never been here to begin with.
Yet, I did want to know who he was.
I sighed. Sometimes I wished we could expedite the Q and A process that had nothing to do with training, but the look of questioning in her eyes softened my frustration.
“What is it?”
“Did you see Alyosha?” She beamed brightly with a twinkle in her eyes as she changed the topic. Ah, the spark of young love.
Gag me.
“Yes, I saw him,” I told her wishing she would talk about the newest defensive maneuvers she’d learned.
“Did he talk about me?”
Two noviates passed by. Amalie stopped the female by tapping on her wrist lightly with two fingers. The male stopped walking, as well. I watched as she complemented the girl on her bracelet. It was twisted like a fishtail and the colored with warm blues, reds, and purples.
The girl colored at the sweet words and looked at the boy in an amorous way. They sure were smitten, but the girl never thanked him outright.
Sometimes, I wondered how Amalie could be so different than the other noviates. Sure there was drama and the appearance of superficial, but most all noviates were actually focused on the angel life and each year the new class was more mechanical than the last. Every piece of individuality plucked from them, like I plucked lent from my shirts.
Amalie loved life. It was as if nothing the metal smith did had worked; she still somehow managed to make her own shape.