Vortigern was at his side before Imorean could blink. The flat of the demon’s weapon snapped into his wrist. Imorean cried out and dropped his sword. His sweater sleeve had been seared through. The skin on his wrist was blistered and bleeding. The first few layers of skin were burned away, blood already rushing to the area, spilling into his hand and onto the inside of his arm. Imorean looked at his wrist in horror.
“Pick it up,” snapped Vortigern.
Imorean looked up at him. He already knew. His face was betraying his fear. He was no soldier. He was nothing compared to this master swordsman. Imorean turned, grabbed his sword from the ground. Vortigern had vanished. In the center of their circle, Imorean turned. A dark blur. A searing line of pain. It tore through the front of his jacket, shirt and to his skin below. He folded to his knees, screaming. His entire body shook. His shirt was already getting slick with his own blood. Was Vortigern planning on bleeding him to death?
“So, you’re really Michael’s little apprentice?”
Imorean looked up, barely able to move. The demon commander stood not far away, leaning on his sword. The teenager cleared his brown eyes of tears sparked by pain. The movement did not go unnoticed. Vortigern tipped his head back and laughed. Flames around them grew higher. Demon dogs howled. Bethany and the others screamed obscenities. Imorean burned in shame. He was weak and his opponents knew it.
“Cry if you want, Imorean. Nice to see that one of you cretins knows their place,” said Vortigern, approaching.
Imorean raised his head to look at the commander and a glob of spit landed on his face.
“You disgust me.”
Humiliation burned by fury ignited in Imorean. He grabbed hold of the small sword. He rose to his feet, wings flaring at his sides. Vortigern’s eyes lit up in delight.
Imorean locked his jaw and lowered his chin. If Vortigern wanted to kill him, he refused to go out on his knees. Vortigern moved toward him. Little more than a dark flash. Imorean leaped to the side. Instinct took hold. Imorean’s sword snapped up to block Vortigern’s attack. Vortigern nipped to the side. Immediately, he came again, his attack sweeping in low and fast. Imorean jumped backwards, narrowly avoiding getting his ankle sliced in two. He stumbled as he landed, his back crashing to the ground. His weapon flew from his hand. In a heartbeat, Vortigern was above him, sword poised to plunge through his downed adversary’s chest. Imorean closed his eyes and braced himself for the end. Vortigern was surely bringing it. At least he had tried. He heard the demon commander’s sword thud into the ground and lay very still. Dying by being stabbed in the chest with a sword had to be a painful experience, but Imorean felt no pain. Terrified of what he might see, he opened his eyes. Vortigern was stood over him, leaning on the pommel of his sword. The tip was not buried in the center of Imorean’s chest. Warily, Imorean looked to his right. The point of Vortigern’s sword was in the ground, setting perfectly between two of Imorean’s primary flight feathers. Imorean’s jaw dropped as he saw the feather vanes near Vortigern’s sword tip redden, blacken, then char like a burn mark. He pulled his wings close to his back, away from Vortigern’s sword, and scrambled away as far as he could. A line of burned feather came alight and crumbled from his wing.
“Pathetic,” sneered Vortigern. The demon commander pulled his sword from the ground and stepped backwards, turning to his platoon. “See? Michael’s little protégé, for all his gifts, history and abilities, is just as incapable of anything spectacular as any of the other hybrids.”
Shakily, Imorean got to his feet leaving the sword Bethany had given him lying in the dirt. He stiffened in fear as Vortigern turned to him.
“You may have defeated me in the past, but not this time. You will never defeat me again and I’m going to make sure you know it. This time, I’m going to watch you bleed. But do you know what I’m going to do tonight, Imorean?”
Imorean tore his horrified eyes away from his damaged wing and looked up at the demon.
“I’ve enjoyed playing with you tonight, so I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to let you go. It’s more fun this way.”
Imorean’s nerve quailed in a way it never had before and he felt panic overtake him. He snapped his wings out and leaped upward into the sky. Above the wind rushing in his ears and the tang of panic in his mouth, he heard Vortigern shout.
“Run, Imorean! Know that we play on my terms!”
Chapter 32
Imorean narrowed his eyes, beating back tears of horror, as he raced through the air just above the trees. He had no idea if Bethany or any of the other demons were behind him and he didn’t want to know. If he had left them behind, then that was for the best. His chest still hurt but the pain had dulled into numbness. The black, charred stains on his white feathers stood out like shadowy scars. How long and how far had he flown now? For a long time, the only thought in his mind had been to get away from the demons and from Vortigern. What had Vortigern meant? Why had he wanted to kill him so desperately, then doubled back on his decision? Why was it that the demon seemed to know him? All of a sudden, Imorean noticed the presence of someone else next to him. Fear spiked in him and he snapped his wings down, shooting up into the sky. He looked down and prepared to flee, terrified if the one following him was Bethany or Vortigern. No, instead he saw Michael.
Relief washed over Imorean at the sight of the Archangel and he faltered for one wingbeat. He lost altitude and yelped as Michael caught him by his upper arm.
Imorean looked away as Michael’s eyes flashed and he knew the Chief Archangel had spotted the blood on his shirt and the charred line on his wing. He wanted to hide it away, as though it was something unseemly.
“Are you all right?”
Imorean nodded mutely. His perception of Michael had shifted. He was still horribly rattled by what Vortigern had said to him. Was there really something that the Archangel wasn’t telling him? Or had Vortigern just been lying? No. The overwhelming hate he had seen in Vortigern’s eyes couldn’t have been forged. And what he had said at the end of their skirmish… the evil promise in those words felt as though it was tattooed onto Imorean’s very bones. He didn’t know what to think of his commander now.
He looked away as Michael’s eyes swept over him. Wordlessly, the Archangel pulled him down and guided him to the nearest tree branch large enough for both of them to stand on. Imorean hadn’t realized until then that he was trembling.
“You are afraid.”
Imorean looked up, shocked. Had the Archangel expected something other than fear? Brown eyes burned as tears threatened to well up once again.
Michael did not relax his grip. If anything, it tightened. “What happened?”
“V – Vortigern.” Imorean gritted his teeth as he stuttered. He closed his eyes and looked away again. Even a deep breath did not stop his lower lip trembling. An alien sense of shame was filling him from bottom to top. Looking away wasn’t enough and he could still feel Michael’s eyes on him. There was something horribly piercing about the weight of the Archangel’s green gaze. Without verbal prompting, Imorean continued, turning his gaze out toward the rolling mountaintops. “He forced me into sparring with him. He acted like he knew me, Michael. Why me? What does he want with me?”
Michael sighed heavily and Imorean finally looked at him. There was a horrified realization in his pale eyes, but it was gone with the next blink. The Archangel shook his head.
“Because that is what demons are like. They prey on fear.”
“Michael!”
Finally, there was irritation in Michael’s tone. “Imorean, I will tell you, but the conversation we must have is not one that is suited to these premises. Let me see your arm and your chest. Raphael will see to your wing.”
Imorean turned awkwardly on the tree limb and showed Michael the cut Vortigern had left on his chest. He watched in silence as Michael raised his hand and held it a few inches away from the shredded clothes. Imorean nearly jumped back as an ethereal green glow appeared, and filled the space betwe
en his chest and Michael’s hand. A rush of cold air landed in the wound on Imorean’s chest and cooled the sting of burning skin.
“Wrist.”
Stiffly, Imorean extended his arm at Michael’s command. A flicker of green light washed over his arm, and the skin there mended quickly, as though it was sewing itself back together. The heat of the burns subsided, and the blisters became less livid.
“I do not have the talent that Raphael does, but you may find that that helps.”
“Can we go back home now?” asked Imorean, wrenching his arm out of Michael’s hold. He didn’t want contact any more with Michael or anyone else. Being in contact with people somehow made him feel even more isolated. It was as though Vortigern had placed him on an island that no one else could reach.
“Yes, of course.”
Imorean didn’t even have time to cry out as he was turned over and over in what felt like midair. He knew what was happening this time. He had felt this sensation enough times before.
A horrible shockwave ran up Imorean’s legs as he crashed down onto his hands and knees in the gravel driveway in front of his house. The teenager groaned and sat up on his knees, wiping his hands on his jeans. There was very little feeling left in his legs.
“How are you feeling?” asked Michael. Imorean heard gravel crunching under the Archangel’s feet as he approached and sat back as far as he could.
“Horrible,” replied Imorean, trying and not succeeding to fold his wings. They felt like awkward, feathery noodles. He felt Michael’s eyes land again on the charred area and pulled his wing up so it was hidden from sight. It was a sharp, awkward movement, but he felt better once the mark was out from under Michael’s gaze.
“That is normal after such a day. Can you stand?”
“… No. No, I don’t think so,” replied Imorean. His entire body was exhausted. He couldn’t have moved if he had wanted to. That was until Michael grabbed hold of his uninjured wrist.
“What are you doing?” cried Imorean. His question was cut off abruptly as Michael knelt down and jammed his shoulder into Imorean’s groin. The teenager couldn’t hold back a low groan as Michael placed his other hand on the back of his thigh and heaved him up onto his shoulders in a fireman’s lift.
“Michael. Put me down.”
“I am trying to help you. Stay still until I get you to your front door.”
“You really know how to put a guy in an awkward position, don’t you,” replied Imorean. He didn’t know whether to feel honored or embarrassed that the Chief Archangel was carrying him. In an odd way, Imorean found himself feeling grateful as well. The dim humor of the moment detracted slightly from the fear he had already endured. Before Imorean could decide on an emotion, Michael had ascended the steps and was waiting for the door to Imorean’s house to be opened.
As they waited, Imorean was tempted to bring up what Vortigern had said to him, but due to the unfortunate position of Michael’s shoulder, he decided not to.
“Finally,” said Gabriel, opening the door to Imorean’s house. “We were starting to get very worried. Imorean, are you all right?”
“Yeah I’m just tired. Michael, please, for the love of my dignity, put me down now.”
Imorean yelped as he was unceremoniously dumped onto one of the couches.
“Are you content now?”
“Better here than on your shoulders,” replied Imorean. “Where’s my mom?”
Imorean sat up as he heard a loud, horrified gasp. His mother was standing at the threshold of the hallway to her bedroom. Her face was white, her eyes filled with sheer terror. Then she was there. At his side. Cold hands rested on either side of his face. He could feel her fingers twitching very slightly, trembles tearing through them.
“Imorean! Are you all right?” Her eyes flicked to his chest and Imorean knew she had seen the huge tear in the fabric of his clothes. “What happened?”
Imorean couldn’t stop his face from flushing. He couldn’t tell his mother about what had happened. He just couldn’t. It wasn’t right. She didn’t need to know. Deep down, he knew that it was more than not being able to tell her. He didn’t want to tell her. He felt a horrible combination of shame and lingering terror.
“Just – just a small skirmish. I’m fine.”
“You’re covered in blood!”
The lie stuck in Imorean’s throat as he replied. “It’s not mine. I’m fine, Mom. I swear.”
He looked around the living room. His mother was gazing at him in white-faced dismay, Gabriel was standing close to the hallway to the bedrooms, Raphael was in the kitchen and Michael was now leaning on the back of the couch. Imorean squirmed. Almost all eyes in the room were on him. The atmosphere was heavy, like the tense air before a storm.
Desperate to break the tension, Imorean turned his head, his mother’s hands dropping away from his face, and asked Raphael, “How’s Roxy?” While he wanted to talk about what had happened with Vortigern, it wasn’t the right time yet.
“She’s in your bedroom,” said Raphael, emerging from the kitchen. Imorean didn’t miss Raphael’s blue eyes flicking to his chest, his wrist, and the seared line of feathers on his wing. “It’s a good thing you found her. She was in a bad way. Michael, what happened to her? Who did it?”
“Vortigern,” sighed Michael. Raphael and Gabriel glanced at each other. Was that apprehension or maybe even fear Imorean could see in their eyes? He felt as though his heart slowed as he looked back at the Chief Archangel. Michael’s shoulders had dropped. There was a horrible defeat in his voice. His wings had fallen from the tight fold he normally carried them in and now hung limp and lifeless at his sides. Even his gaze had been lowered to the floor. Michael suddenly seemed old and very tired.
“How?” asked Raphael.
“We have been betrayed. By one of the students no less,” replied Michael.
“Who?” asked Gabriel.
“Bethany Voran. She released the known locations of some students to Vortigern. It is possible he knows where all of the North and South Carolina and Virginia students are now. As soon as possible, we must return them to Gracepointe for their own protection.”
“No!” cried Amelia. “Surely you can defend them from their homes?”
“It is not that easy, Amelia,” replied Michael, turning to face her. “Gracepointe is built on an ancient Enochian site. The very ground is sacred. Because of this, no demon can walk upon our grounds without being harmed or weakened in some way. In the case of Bethany, as with any other supernatural creature, if you invite them into your domain, then preventative or protective measures are weakened. Since there are so many students in so many difference places, their locations are harder to protect. The highest degree of protection I can give is a barrier. If Vortigern is already here, he will soon begin to push at the boundary we have set up. It is likely that after Christmas and the New Year, I will have to recall the students.”
“That’s only a few weeks from now!”
“I am being generous!”
“Michael,” said Imorean, a sudden idea blossoming in his head.
“Yes?” asked the Archangel, turning around.
“What if just I went back? Vortigern … Vortigern said he wanted me. If I were out of the picture, the rest of the students could stay until the end of their break. Right?”
Michael exchanged a quick glance with Gabriel and Raphael. There was an expression in his eyes, almost as though he was pleading with his brothers. The other two Archangels remained silent and seemed very slightly confused.
“He was lying,” said Michael. The answer had come much, much too slowly.
“No, he wasn’t,” snapped Imorean, standing quickly and crossing the room to stand toe to toe with Michael. “But you are.”
Nearby, Imorean heard Gabriel suck in a breath through his teeth.
“Are you going to be honest with me for a change? Or am I going to have to go back out and find Vortigern, and get him to tell me what the hell is going on here?”
“If you did so, you would be a bigger fool than you look,” growled Michael.
Imorean couldn’t help but furrow his brow in confusion as Michael’s posture did not change, nor did the troubled, tired look leave his eyes. The aggression was quite obviously false.
“You are correct though. You and I do need to talk. We have needed to talk for some time. I had hoped to put off the conversation for a little while longer, though. At least until we returned to Gracepointe.”
“What’s going on?” asked Amelia, standing and stepping closer to the Archangels. Michael gave Gabriel a poignant glance.
“Amelia,” said Gabriel. “I’m sorry, but this is angel business. I think it would be best if Imorean heard this news, whatever that may be, first.”
“I’m his mother!”
“I am aware. But just for now, Raphael, Michael and I need to talk with Imorean. Alone.”
“Imorean?” asked Amelia, turning.
Imorean turned away from Michael and met his mother’s gaze. She looked horribly concerned. Imorean couldn’t say he blamed her. He had been gone all day and had had to be carried in the door by an Archangel. He was injured and parts of his clothes were still stained with his own blood. Of course, she had a right to be concerned and upset. Despite all that though, he felt he should know what Michael had to say first. He didn’t want her to worry. He didn’t want her to know just how dangerous of a position he might be in. She would be better off not knowing. She would be better off hearing it from him afterward.
“It’s okay, Mom. I’m sure this won’t take long.”
Imorean knew immediately he had said the wrong thing. His mother’s face darkened, and the glare she sent him was so cold it seemed to freeze Imorean to the spot. She turned on her heel, storming out of the living room. He flinched as he heard the door to her bedroom slam shut.
Angels Soaring (Angels Rising Book 2) Page 30