Revelation (Blood of Angels Book 1)

by Paula Arwen Owen

  “Well,” Adrian said, “maybe you have some psychic or witchy abilities, and you’re subconsciously associating it with the Devil, even if you don’t really believe in him. You could also be attaching bigger meanings to smaller things, like superstition.”

  “Okay.” Des nodded. Maybe she was making a big deal out of small coincidences. Or perhaps someone was playing an elaborate trick on her. Someone who had managed to rig objects to burn and make it appear that she was causing impossible things to happen? They would have to be pretty sneaky and sadistic.

  “After all,” he said, “most people still think witches are evil and worship the Devil.”

  “Most people are evil.” Des glared at a woman walking by too close with her stroller, nearly running over her foot. The kid in the stroller stared at her with wide eyes.

  “Or maybe you really are the Antichrist.”

  She looked at him in surprise and saw he was grinning at her, his full lips curled up at one corner in a half smile.

  “Shut up.” She pushed at his arm.

  “You just scared that little kid.”

  “Am I that scary?”

  “Well, God seems to think so.”

  “What?”

  “I mean,” he laughed, realizing what he had said. “I mean God thinks most people are evil. Only 144,000 of them are to be saved before the world ends. They call that the Rapture.”

  “I guess we’re probably not included.”

  He grinned. “Who wants to go to heaven? I bet it’s filled with uptight white guys in suits.” He took her hand in his. “As long as we’re together, I don’t care where I am when the end comes.”

  She leaned against his shoulder. “I think that’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

  He rested his head against hers and she imagined them bravely facing the end together, but her dream filled her mind again and she shuddered. They had done exactly that, facing the fiery dragon on the bridge, but it had torn Adrian from her helpless grip. Was her subconscious mind afraid of losing him, afraid that something this good could never last? She curled her fingers around his, determined to make that one dream that would never come true.

  The Perfect Murder

  Des made it through the rest of the day only because she had promised Adrian she wouldn’t skip class again. Between classes, she hid in the bathroom so no one could corner her. She hid from Rachel, from Layla, from the guidance counselor she had never gone to see. Just before her last class, she heard the familiar stomp of Rachel’s boots and pulled her own boots up onto the toilet seat so she wouldn’t notice them.

  “I’m ready,” said a quiet voice next to Rachel, “I know the perfect place.”

  “Shh,” said Rachel, her head bobbing low to check for anyone in the stalls. “Ok, once it’s dark, we’ll meet at the entrance, at 94th street.” Rachel giggled. “This is so exciting!”

  Entrance to what? Des wondered. The only thing there was a bunch of tall apartments and… the park. Were they going to find some poor soul who stayed in Central Park after dark by themselves? The perfect murder. A senseless crime perpetrated on a total stranger. The last people suspected would be a bunch of high school kids. Des curled her fist and kept herself from hitting the stall door until they left. She couldn’t believe they would actually go through with it. Did her efforts to dissuade May only make her more determined? She had to find out.

  ◆◆◆

  Des stood inside the stone wall of the park as dusk fell and the shadows lengthened beneath hazy yellow streetlights. She leaned flat against the wall, trying to blend in and not look conspicuous. Most of the visitors were leaving the park to its darkened walkways and whispering trees. Night visitors were often best left alone.

  Her feet were turning numb in the chill air, and she began to feel silly as she waited. A diabolical sacrifice was a grand idea to Rachel, but to perform it was another thing altogether. She felt her phone buzz again, and checked to see if it was Adrian, but it was only her mother’s third text of the night. She sighed and silenced the phone. There would be plenty of time for an argument when she got home. She moved from the wall to stretch her legs, but fell back against it as she heard whispered voices.

  “Don’t be a baby,” someone hissed. “Here, carry the book.”

  Des gasped and held a hand to her mouth, shrinking against the cold stone. Rachel appeared, a wide hood covering her bright hair, Kyle dragging his feet behind her, cradling the big grimoire in his arms. The silver studs in his jacket gleamed like tiny shifting eyes. May paused at the entrance, her long black hair blending into the darkness and leaving her smooth face glowing under the curved iron lamp ahead.

  “Which way?” Rachel whispered, and May pointed to the right, where the path curved around a huge rock and under some tall oak trees. Des let them walk ahead and then followed, keeping to the shadows of bushes and rocks. They walked farther into the park along the winding trail until they reached a small bridge spanning another walkway below. They veered off the path and down the slope towards the short curved tunnel beneath the bridge.

  Des waited for a moment behind a big holly bush, then slid down the hill into impenetrable darkness. The street lights here were out, creating a black patch of midnight in the rounded tunnel under the bridge, and she could just make out three silhouettes back-lit from a lamp farther down the path. They were gathered around a lumpy shape on the ground, their mumbled voices echoing loudly against the concrete walls. This was their unsuspecting stranger, a homeless man, bundled against the creeping chill.

  “Do it,” Rachel urged. “He’s still sleeping, now’s our chance.”

  Kyle opened the heavy grimoire in his hands and began reading in a shaky voice. It was some sort of incantation in another language, and he stumbled over the unfamiliar words. Rachel pulled a small goblet from her bag as May edged closer to the sleeping form, a gleam of silver in her hand.

  “Idiots,” Des muttered. She could make out their ragged breaths rising in plumes in the frigid air. Small spots of light reflected off the metal goblet as it shook in Rachel’s grip. Was it fear, or the cold that made her fingers tremble? She heard a different voice now, a man’s raspy voice, slurred with either sleep or wine. The lumpy blankets suddenly stirred and an arm lanced out at them.

  Several screams erupted as the man slowly rose, towering unsteadily over them. Multiple layers of clothing made his tall body seem even larger, and his unkempt hair splayed out in every direction. He flung his arms out from his sides and uttered something like a growl.

  Kyle stumbled backwards, losing his grip on the book. “Rachel,” he hissed, pulling at her arm. “Come on, let’s get out of here!”

  “Don’t be a sissy.” She yanked her arm away, but still took a few steps backward, pausing to pick up the book he had dropped. “There’s three of us and one of him.”

  “And he’s three times as big as us!”

  They both looked over at little May who stood rigid and staring, a thin silver knife in her fist. The man let out an eerie, reverberating moan and took a long step towards her.

  “May!” Rachel cried. “May watch out!”

  Des jumped out of the bushes and ran at May, hoping to push her out of the way. The man peered at her and his eyes widened, bloodshot and frightened, strangely white in the dim light.

  “Blasphemer!” He shrieked, pointing a finger at her. “Why are you here!”

  Des motioned at May to run, but she seemed immobile. “Kyle!” She spun to implore for his help, but he was already scrambling back up the hill with Rachel. “Now who’s a sissy,” she muttered.

  The homeless man was also muttering in a strange language, clasping his hands together as if in prayer. He paused to grin at her, showing a mouth only half full of teeth, then continued his prayer. Panic fluttered in her chest, and she felt the urgent need to stop him.

  “Shut up,” she blurted. “We’re leaving, no one is going to hurt you.”

  He chuckled lightly. “But they will h
urt you.”

  She backed away. “I said shut up!”

  May suddenly broke her stance and screamed, a feral, unearthly scream, amplified by the surrounding acoustics. The man clasped his palms over his ears, and May jumped for him like a wild cat.

  “May!” cried Des, and she rushed forward as the two of them tumbled to the ground. Des grabbed for her shoulder, but they were struggling ferociously. May straddled the man’s chest, his large hands closed around her raised, knife-wielding wrist.

  Des managed to grab May’s hand and put her effort into trying to pry the weapon out of her fingers.

  With the weight of her fists clasped over May’s, she abruptly felt the man’s arm give out, and with a sickening rush they fell forward onto his chest. Shadows whirled around her as time stopped and all she could see was the bright steel of the blade disappearing into his body. Their white-knuckled hands pressed down against the hilt of the knife, their elbows pressed into the man’s flannel covered stomach. Something dark oozed out onto their arms, and the man twitched beneath them.

  “Oh god.” Des slid to the ground, frantically wiping at her arms. It was no use. The blood was smeared everywhere.

  May sat frozen, staring at the man’s face in fascination. The light bathed her face like some beautiful but horrific sculpture, and Des realized the glow was getting brighter, as if something was coming at them through the trees. She heard the ghostly call of an owl off in the distance, soft and mournful, and then a high-pitched whine that grew louder with the approaching light.

  The police were coming, she thought, and a hysterical sob wrenched at her throat. What had they done? Her breath came in gasps and her vision grew hazy. She wanted to run but couldn’t move. She closed her eyes against the encroaching light and let darkness overwhelm her mind.

  Daddy Dearest

  Des could tell the creak of the bed was unfamiliar even before she opened her eyes. The faint glow of moonlight illuminated the room, and she could make out old-fashioned wooden bed posts holding up a sheer fabric canopy. Outside, the thin bare branches of a tree shuddered in the breeze that blew right through the gaps in the peeling windowpane.

  She heard the slight shift of footsteps on the floorboards and turned to see the moonlight catch on a mass of blonde curls and the shimmering fabric of a long satin dress.

  Layla sat down slowly in a chair next to the bed, placing a cool hand against her forehead.

  “You’re awake,” she said brightly. “How do you feel?”

  Des stared at her in bewilderment and pushed her hand aside. She sat up and brushed at her clothes, looking for the blood that should be there. Was it just another dream? She raised her fingers in the pale light but they were clean too, except for a thin dark line caught in the crease of her nails, blending with the purple nail polish. A sordid line of darkness that would never come clean.

  “Oh god.” She pressed her palms to her eyelids as if to cover the images flooding in. May’s frenzied cry as that man came towards them, the weird blinding light, and blood, so much blood, warm and wet between her fingers. It’s not your blood, the dragon’s voice from her dream echoed in her skull. What did that mean? What had they done?

  Layla’s laugh was incongruously cheerful in the face of her despair. “We don’t call on God in here, sweetie.”

  Des glanced at her through her fingers. “You were there,” she whispered. She had a hazy recollection of someone lifting her in their arms as that light approached and she slipped into unconsciousness. It must have been Layla and Sam, escorting her away from the scene of the crime, although why and how they had found her, she had no idea. “You saw… I’m a murderer.”

  Layla shook her head as if she was being silly. “You stabbed him, you didn’t murder him. You only put him in the hospital. And he wasn’t exactly innocent.”

  “He’s not dead?”

  “Unfortunately. He almost called the hosts down on you. Luckily I always keep an eye on you, although sometimes you make it so hard. Even with all my children watching you in the places I don’t like to go. Underground tunnels feel so,” she shuddered, “confining.”

  Des was starting to doubt both Layla’s sanity and her own. This was not the way to react to an almost murder, and she wasn’t even making sense. This was as weird as any of her dreams, but she felt very much awake, and more panicked each moment. She began compulsively picking at her fingernails, trying to get the thin line of blood off.

  Layla leaned forward and held a hand over hers to stop her. She smoothed back her tangled hair and smiled tenderly.

  “I know you have questions, my dear.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “You are very special to me,” she continued. “In fact, very special to the world. And now that you’ve drawn first blood, it is time.”

  Drawn first blood? Now she was talking like some lurid vampire novel. Time for what?

  “To meet your father,” she replied, answering her silent question.

  Des gaped at her, the panic rising to her throat and making her voice squeak. “You called my father? I haven’t seen him in years, and he doesn’t need to learn about this.” She supposed he would find out once it was on the news, once they arrested her and May.

  “Where’s May?” She scanned the room as if she would appear from the shadows.

  “May is quite well, Sam is taking excellent care of her. And you don’t have to worry about any of that, I’m not calling anyone to come after you. Your human father need not get involved.”

  Des tried to form coherent thoughts around that last statement and failed.

  “Human father?” she repeated slowly.

  “The only one you know, and you’re not very fond of him are you? Well, your real father shall be very different.”

  Very different as in not human? Des thought of her conversation with Adrian, of the cryptic explanations Cyrus had never completed. She thought of the dream of herself as a wolf, wild and ferocious, of her hands covered in gore. She wasn’t sure she was ready to know.

  “Come,” Layla stood, still holding her hand, and motioned towards the door.

  Des hesitated, but there was nowhere else to go. She followed her out of the room into a long carpeted hallway. Ornate metal sconces held dainty round lamps spaced between an endless row of faded wooden doors. The light from the lamps was nearly useless, illuminating only the small patch of pale striped wallpaper near it. Des peered into the gloom behind her, contemplating if there was an exit that way, but Layla’s hand gripped hers tightly. She wondered if Layla was involved in some sort of cult, and if she had only saved her from the police in order to use her in a sordid ritual. Maybe all these doors held unsuspecting victims, including May.

  “He will be so pleased to see you.” Layla interrupted her macabre thoughts as they neared a massive door looming in the shadows at the end of the hallway. As they grew closer, she could make out strange sculptures carved into the solid grey stone. Leering stone faces peered down on her, gargoyles and demons intertwined with grooved serpentine bodies, both human and animal. The creatures were twisted in unimaginable contortions, their faces filled with fierce agony, their arms and claws and wings stretched out as if searching for something, calling for someone to free them from their torture. Fascinated, she reached out to touch the stone.

  She is here, several voices murmured in her head. She shrank back from the door and looked around for the source of the words.

  She has come, our savior.

  The door swung inward with an ominous groan, and shadows slid across the carvings, making them seem almost alive. Layla crossed the threshold into a spacious, round chamber, and the voices faded as the monolithic door shut behind them. Tall, shallow alcoves were chiseled into the walls, and the ceiling disappeared into darkness high above. Their footprints marked the dust covering the solid marble floor. In the center of the floor was a wide circular depression filled with dirt, with some words scratched into the soil.

  Definitel
y a cult, she thought, as Layla pulled a single chair to the front of the circle.

  “Now,” Layla said, pushing her gently down into the chair. “All we have to do is call him.” She gave a small clap of excitement, then began to straighten Des’s rumpled coat and smooth out her hair.

  “Can’t you just tell me what’s going on,” Des said, slapping Layla’s hands away in irritation. “Who exactly am I meeting?”

  “It makes more sense to show you.” Layla walked over to the dirt circle and moved gracefully around it, murmuring as she went.

  Des frowned at her, fed up with her vague explanations and senseless demands. She felt like going over there and kicking the dirt all over the perfect marble floor and her expensive looking dress. She had almost convinced herself to get up from her chair when the dirt in front of them moved. A depression formed in the middle and began to grow, as dirt slid down towards the center and disappeared. Then abruptly, it started coming the other way, as if something was pushing through it.

  Suddenly dirt was spraying everywhere as something exploded through the center, rising into the room. Something red and fiery with several heads that writhed and twisted like massive serpents.

  Seven. Seven fiery heads. It was the dragon from her dreams, here, alive, staring right at her with its piercing yellow and blue eyes.

  It’s body shimmered as it moved, it’s heads rising toward the ceiling and letting out a roar that filled the chamber like a caged animal. The heat it brought with it rushed at her, overwhelming her, and she fell off her chair and crawled backward along the floor, shutting her eyes tight.

  She was dreaming, she told herself frantically. Dreaming, and now she would wake up. This whole crazy night was just a dream. Her body shook uncontrollably.

  “Desdemona,” a calm voice entered her dream. “Darling, open your eyes.”

  “Go away,” Des squeaked. “Get out of my dream.”