Revelation (Blood of Angels Book 1)

by Paula Arwen Owen

  She lashed out at herself, and the two of them tumbled into the trampled snow. Des grappled with her twin’s arms as she pulled on her hair, banging the girl’s head into the ground. This mockery of herself was strong, she thought, as she struggled futilely. The savage girl raised Des by the hair and brought her skull down on a rock, plunging her into darkness.

  Des woke up with her head resting on the bench and a pounding headache. Staring down at her was a woman with a toothless grin and one long fingernail that poked at her bag.

  “Hey,” Des tried to yell, but it came out as more of a croak. “Leave that alone!” She grabbed her bag and the woman snatched her hand back, then started waving a finger at her.

  “They all think they’re such pretty birds, but they’ll clip your wings too.” She clicked her tongue and shook her head. “You’ll see.”

  Des noticed the feather Layla had given her in the open pocket of her bag. Layla had said it would help her out. Why not try it? The woman hissed as Des raised the feather, wrapping her threadbare shawl tighter as if to shield herself.

  “They told me it was you, but I said no, not such a little bird.”

  The woman shrieked as someone placed a hand on her shoulder. She whirled around to face a man with spiky hair in a familiar green jacket.

  “I believe your chariot is waiting for you over there.” Cyrus winked at Des and his eyes seemed to glow in the low light of the setting sun. She must have slept for several hours.

  “Aah, it awaits.” The woman shuffled off and Cyrus sat down next to Des, offering her a brown paper bag.

  “I was about to sit and eat my bagel, but you look like you might need some sustenance.”

  Des rubbed her temples and peered at the bagel. The bloody image from her dream had left her stomach sour, but her head might feel better with some food. He produced a raspberry iced tea from the bag, her favorite. She took it, checking to see that the top was still sealed.

  “So, what are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Walking by the water. What are you doing sleeping on public benches?”

  “I just…” images rattled through her head of fire and wolves and Rachel’s grimoire, and she put her face in her hands. She felt Cyrus put a hand gently on her back and she bit her lip to keep from crying or blurting out everything. Instead, she shoved the feather back in her bag and pulled out his coin.

  “Here’s a question for you,” she said, holding the coin up in her fingers. “What’s a Domitian?”

  Cyrus grinned. “Been doing some homework, I see.” He tapped a finger on the face imprinted on the coin. “Emperor Domitian. A roman Emperor, hero to some, tyrant to others. The Christians he persecuted were sure he was actually the Antichrist.”

  “The Antichrist.” She narrowed her eyes at him. Layla had said Domitians as if there were a group of them. “Are you in a cult or something?”

  Cyrus laughed. “One could call all of Christianity a cult.”

  “Not really the same.”

  “No, well where do you draw the line?”

  His green eyes caught the lights from the skyline as he gazed at her. She turned to look at the buildings silhouetted against the vivid blue sky, their lights shining brighter as dusk settled in. It was never dark enough for stars here, nothing like the wintry sky she had seen with Adrian. Here the stars were replaced by the multicolored firmament of man’s creation.

  “What do you, or your cult, want from me?”

  “Well, you must be wondering about the things you’ve seen.”

  Des closed her eyes. Did he mean the demons in the subway, the monsters in her dreams, or the way her hands had a weird relationship with fire? She felt his hand brush a strand of hair from her face and then trail lightly down her cheek. Her back stiffened, but she didn’t move away. His touch was gentle and almost soothing.

  She opened her eyes and turned to him. “You said you had answers.”

  He nodded and brought a finger down to the top of her lip. Now she pushed it away and frowned. “But what, you want something in return?”

  He looked surprised. “No, I didn’t mean…”

  “How would I even know what you tell me is true?”

  Cyrus tilted his head as if considering her question and she was reminded of the Jack wolf in her dream.

  “I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”

  Des snorted a laugh. “Ok, first tell me how you know Adrian. He doesn’t remember you.”

  Cyrus pursed his lips as if he found something distasteful. “You are destined for great things, but he will only hold you back. He isn’t right for you.”

  “Hmm, you sound a little jealous. What great things can I look forward to?”

  “So cynical. I imagine you must take after your father that way.”

  Des flinched in surprise and stared at him wide eyed. “You know my father too?”

  “Well,” he opened his hands as if to negate his statement. “We haven’t actually met. I don’t suppose you have either.”

  “It’s not like I was a baby when he left, I remember him.”

  Cyrus smiled in his secretive way and bent towards the ground.

  “What?” Des felt the urge to grab him and shake off that smile. “I thought you were giving me answers, not more puzzles.”

  He sat up again with her discarded notebook in his hand, the charred handprint scarring its purple cover. She reflexively pulled her hands close to her as if they couldn’t be trusted. Cyrus ran a finger over the handprint and some flakes of paper came off.

  “This,” he said softly, “is a gift. Don’t fear it.”

  “I don’t know what it is,” Des hissed. “It just happened, and I don’t know how to control it or anything!”

  Control yourself, Jack whispered in her head.

  “Hey,” Cyrus put the book down and reached for her hand. “You don’t have to figure it all out yourself. I can help. If you let me.” He leaned in closer and she felt herself tremble with frustration, the tears threatening to leak from her eyes again. He brushed her cheek as one began to fall. “Will you?”

  She nodded and leaned against his shoulder as he placed one arm around her, his other hand warming hers. She listened to the calming sound of the water lapping against the piers and the seagulls calling overhead as they settled in for the night. She thought back to when she first told Adrian she didn’t believe in magic, and to Rachel’s excitement over the grimoire.

  Whatever was happening to her was more terrifying than exciting. If Cyrus knew something about it, she needed his help. She wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted, but his arm around her felt comforting and safe. She rested against him as they watched the sky darken until the moon glowed nearly as bright as the city lights.

  Cross Examined

  “So how was your visit with Rachel Saturday? Did you make up?”

  Des had her head in the refrigerator, looking for leftover lasagna. Cyrus had offered to buy her dinner, but she had declined, afraid of where that might lead. And she didn’t want to have to explain where she was on a school night to her mom. Or Adrian.

  “Yeah I guess,” she mumbled, heading to the microwave with a plate.

  “Well, that’s interesting, because I happened to run into Rachel’s mom this morning, and apparently Rachel was home alone that day.”

  “Um…” The microwave beeped as she tried to think of a reply.

  “Were you with that boy you met on the subway?”

  Des chewed her lip and sat at the table, picking at the chipped linoleum. Her mom stared her down, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, like an older version of her own angry self.

  “Stop destroying the table, unless you want to pay for a new one.”

  Des rolled her eyes and decided to go with the truth. “So what if I was?”

  “Well why do you have to lie about it! Is there something wrong with this boy? How old is he?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with him.”

  “I don’t know what’s going
on Des, you’re skipping school, lying to me, and pushing away all your friends…”

  “I told you about Rachel. You think it’s my fault now?” She picked off a jagged piece of linoleum and flicked it onto the floor as a wisp of rage flared up in her stomach, making her appetite disappear.

  “I want you to go see Father Tate, or someone you can talk to.”

  Des glared at her mother and stood up, slamming her hands down on the table.

  “Damn Father Tate!” she shouted. “He doesn’t understand a single thing about me, and neither do you. I didn’t ask for any of this!”

  “How can I understand if you don’t tell me!” her mother shouted back. Her cheeks flushed and a deep crease appeared in her forehead.

  Des felt a searing pain on her palm and jerked back from the pile of papers she had slapped her hand onto. Sitting on top was the small Bible, the gold cross on its cover reflecting the flickering overhead light. She turned her palm over to see a red mark in the shape of a cross.

  “What is it, are you hurt?”

  Des curled her hand into a fist, hiding the mark and attempting to hide her bewilderment.

  “No, I’m fine.” She backed away from her uneaten lasagna and the offending Bible, watching as her mother picked up the book and examined as if it held some clue. The kitchen light flickered again and then went out, and Des ran upstairs, leaving her mother standing alone in the dark.

  She held her hand under cold running water but it didn’t help, so she wrapped a piece of gauze around it and went in her room, slamming the door behind her. Misery was sleeping on the bed and Des flopped down next to him, resting her cheek against his soft fur. He started purring and she let the sound vibrate through her, calming the knot of anger and frustration in her belly, turning her blood from lava to liquid, like the warm tears that slid from her eyes and into his fur. Misery turned his head to lick at her cheek with his rasping tongue, catching her hair in his mouth, which he promptly began to chew on.

  Des pulled her hair away and peeked at her hand. It throbbed with pain but didn’t look swollen beyond the slightly puffy red mark. Was she allergic to the metal the cross was made of? It made no sense. If she could scorch things with her hands, how could they get burned? The heat of the wood stove hadn’t even affected her.

  She would have to ask Cyrus about it. She felt a bit of relief that she could ask him these things, but a pang of guilt that she had confided in him and not Adrian. She didn’t want to doubt Adrian after all they had shared, but she also didn’t want to lose him. What would he think if she told him she carried fire in her hands and heard voices in her head? Would he be as understanding as Cyrus?

  Not that she completely trusted Cyrus either. Her first instinct was always to mistrust people. While her mother believed that people were generally good, Des felt the opposite. Evil resided in the heart of every man, woman and child, just waiting to rise to the surface. Some resisted its call more than others. Christians believed it was the Devil who called to them, but Des didn’t think people needed his help. They were wicked enough on their own.

  Was she herself evil, is that what the Bible was trying to tell her? She had read enough of the Old Testament to know that God abhorred witches and women who didn’t follow the rules. He was fond of punishing and smiting people, as if that act wasn’t wrong in itself. Entire cities were demolished just for worshipping the wrong god. Even the whole world was destroyed in Noah’s flood.

  Des flexed her hand, imagining what it would be like to have the power to smite someone and set them on fire with only a thought. Would that make her like God? She flicked her wrist, picturing Josh and Allie cowering in fear, Rachel on her knees pleading for mercy. It felt pretty good. Did that make her a god or a monster?

  She sighed. She was neither of those things, only a girl with too much imagination, as powerless as anyone else against the cruel tide of the world.

  “Right Misery? You know all about that.” Misery gave a tiny meow and rubbed his face against hers. She had rescued the cat as a defenseless and abused kitten, and although he grew up rather vicious, she still saw his hidden fragility. Des wondered if her own mother still viewed her that way, as a helpless little child. Des couldn’t believe she was turning to some weirdo priest as if he had all the answers. If she told her mother everything that was really going on, that priest might go and try an exorcism or recommend burning her at the stake! She chuckled at the thought. No, she definitely couldn’t talk to her mother about it.

  Des rolled over on her bed, the stress of the day taking its toll and making her body sink towards a deep and hopefully dreamless sleep. She was too tired to run around all night in her dreams fighting wolves and chasing dragons. She drifted off with thoughts of Adrian, his midnight eyes and wavy hair changing unbidden to a captivating green and spiky red. She slept fitfully, tossing and turning as if being tugged between the two.

  A Light on the Past

  That went well. Shirley flipped the light switch on and off, but nothing happened. She lit one of the tapered candles she had saved for Sabbath and placed it on the table near the Bible, running her hands over the delicate gold cross on the cover. Did Des cut her hand on it? There were no sharp edges. Maybe she got a paper cut. She passed a finger through the thin candle flame and yanked it back as her skin began to burn. She recalled how she had surreptitiously watched Des play with a candle flame the other night as if it were a living thing, reacting to her touch. James used to say she had wildfire in her eyes, the way they looked so yellow and bright when she got mad.

  Could her daughter truly affect light bulbs and even fire? She always had a box of extra bulbs upstairs because they went out so often, but it was an old house, with old wiring. She had read an article recently about pyrokinesis and something called sliders, people who can alter electricity. But if Des had some weird abilities, she certainly wasn’t malicious like James used to suggest, and even Father Tate seemed to hint. Angry, yes. Stubborn. Occasionally irritating. But she would never hurt anyone on purpose, not her little girl.

  That time in kindergarten when she set her friend’s hair on fire was an accident. Young kids were always fascinated with fire. And it was a coincidence that the little boy who constantly pushed her off the swing sets ended up being attacked by a stray dog and nearly losing an eye. She didn’t think Des even remembered those incidents, but James definitely did. And then there was her eighth birthday party, where the candles singed a greedy girl’s eyebrows and the cake ended up on the floor and in the hair of several children.

  Des didn’t get invited to many parties after that, but who could blame her? Her dad had just left and she was upset.

  Soon after that she had found Misery, the scrawny kitten with signs of abuse on her matted fur. Nursing the creature back to health seemed to be good for Des, giving her something to focus on and care about. Then when she met Rachel in Junior High, she was glad Des had discovered a kindred spirit to spend time with. They used to be so close, and she couldn’t believe how cruel Rachel was being now. Although from what she knew of Rachel’s mother, it shouldn’t be a big surprise. And people changed sometimes. Look at her and James.

  She supposed a lot of their problems began with those dreams, the ones where she called out someone else’s name in her sleep. She never remembered them, only a hazy image of a darkly seductive man whispering in her ear, a lingering sensation when she awoke that made her reach for James, who always gave her that accusing stare. When Des was conceived, he dared to suggest she was not his daughter. How ridiculous! Shirley had never even been with another man before him, and certainly not after they married. A dream didn’t count, but he was never convinced her infidelities were only contained to her dreams. He was also convinced the feverish nightmares that plagued Des since she was an infant were more than simply a child’s fears, but signs of something diabolically wrong.

  Shirley glanced upstairs, wondering if Des still had those nightmares. She rarely cried out in her sleep anymore, but
she carried around dark circles beneath her eyes and sometimes trudged through the house like a zombie. She wished Des would talk to her more, let her in to whatever was eating away at her happiness. Although she had always had her moods, Shirley missed the younger Des who would at least be happy to see her mother after a long day, who would sit in the kitchen and play Scrabble and sing songs together. She knew Des had to grow up and become independent, but she wished she could make the transition easier for them both.

  She sighed. If she wouldn’t talk to her or Father Tate, she hoped Des had found a confidante in this new boyfriend of hers. When she mentioned him it brought a rare smile to her somber lips, and Shirley couldn’t be mad at that. James used to make her smile like that once.

  It was no use wallowing in the past. She might as well fix the things she could in the present, like the blown out light bulb and the dirty dishes in the sink. A drop of wax fell onto the Bible, and Shirley pushed it aside and snuffed out the candle.

  A Rabbi’s Touch

  Des tucked her bag between her feet as people filed into the train car at Grand Street. She was running a finger compulsively along the mark on her palm, which looked worse than it felt. The top of the cross lay at the bottom of her palm, making it upside down from her perspective.

  “Desdemona, how lovely to see you!”

  She glanced up in surprise, expecting to see Cyrus standing there, but instead saw a man with greying hair and a wide smile. He appeared slightly older than her mom and wore a grey overcoat with white tassels peeking out from the bottom. A Talit, meaning he was Jewish, maybe coming from morning services.

  “How is your mother doing? I haven’t seen you two at temple in a while.”

  Oh, a rabbi. Her rabbi, from her parents' temple. She grimaced. Her mom still went on the major holidays, but she had given up dragging Des along a few years ago.

  “Hi Rabbi Eisner,” Des replied. “She’s good, just been busy.”