Iladrul understood, in his repugnance, that, no matter which of the battling figures won their hand to hand combat, his life was forfeit.
He threw away his blankets and flung himself to the floor. As swiftly as possible, he crawled under the bed and reached for the nearest blanket to pull it down as a shield that he could hide behind. He forced himself to lie as still as he could and he prayed to whatever God would listen that, no matter which of the two demons won their fight, they would not hear the pathetic sound of his fearful breathing.
Die proud, Iladrul, Wisterian and the other warriors always counseled him, or don’t bother to die at all. An elf who cannot die proud deserves to be damned to live with his cowardice.
There was a final screech. It seemed to stretch into antiquity.
When the shrill cry ended, there was deafening silence.
Iladrul’s heart was beating wildly and his shoulder length, copper hair became damp with sweat. He swallowed and curled into a ball as he listened to the silence echoing like thunder around him. He wished desperately that he had, for once in his pathetic young life, actually listened to his father and done as he had been told.
The sound of booted feet upon the marble tile almost made him cry out, but he swallowed his scream lest the demon who had won the argument hear him. He listened as the steps came closer, stopping at the patio door and then resuming themselves as the creature walked with purpose to his bed.
Iladrul laid his head on the side so he could see through the small crevice between the blanket and floor. Swallowing another scream, he looked upon the victor.
The demon’s face, though its lines were shadowed and its features difficult to make out, was streaked with blood. His long blonde hair was matted with gore. His nostrils were flared wide and his eyes—wild, cobalt blue eyes that seemed to glow in the dark against his preternaturally pale skin—were darting angrily around the room.
The demon took a long, deep breath, his nostrils widening further. Smelling Iladrul, his head bent downward as his full, red lips parted in a crazed grin which exposed two long, gruesome fangs.
In a flash the monster bent forward and flung the blanket to the corner of the room.
Now, for all the good that it would do him, Iladrul did scream as the demon grabbed him by the wrist, pulled him out of his hiding place and flung him like a limp rag doll onto his bed.
The demon advanced on him, covering him and grabbing him by the shoulders. He began to shake Iladrul angrily as his wild blue eyes traced every inch of the young elf’s face. What Iladrul could make out of his gruesome smile grew wider.
“What is wrong with you, you Gods be damned boy?!” The demon’s voice was like ice, cutting through the room and chilling Iladrul to the bone. “I know that you were not born stupid! Can you not use the good sense that the Gods have given you?”
Iladrul, openly weeping now, tried to scream. This time it caught in his throat without his intent.
“You could have been killed, you idiot!” The demon raged at him, his face still shadowed. “And what would have become of your race then?”
Iladrul was unable to speak. He could only look up at the demon in horror. He was unable to comprehend the demon’s words given his intent. If the monster meant to kill him, why didn’t he just do so and have that be the end of it?
The demon let go of his shoulders in a final heave, throwing Iladrul violently against the headboard of the bed. He flung himself to his feet and stormed to the balcony doors. His great black wings were thrust wide on either side behind him. He grabbed each door with his blood soaked hands and looked angrily over his shoulder.
“Lock this Gods be damned door behind me.” He warned through gritted teeth. “Lest I come back here and put an end to you myself.”
The doors slammed shut with a great thud.
Iladrul, still frozen with fear, watched through the glass as the demon jumped, landed in a crouch on the patio railing, looked around himself and then leapt upward. His wings stretched wide as he took flight and disappeared into the darkness of the night.
The demon now gone, Iladrul’s sense of self-preservation returned.
He flew to the door and locked it, turning swiftly on his feet so he could return to his bed, grabbing the blanket that the demon had discarded as he went so he could bury himself beneath it.
Crying, Iladrul thought that it would have been better for him to have died. It would seem that he was damned to live his life out with his cowardice after all.
-2-
In the grey of the early morning, Na’amah stood at the mouth of the cave she had been living in as she searched this particular time and plane for her mother.
Long ago, Sappharon had come to her and told her that she would be engaging in war. She had warned Na’amah not to worry about her; Sappharon would contact her when the conflict between The King of Lords and the Lord Regent was resolved.
She never had.
Na’amah was uncertain if this was because she was imprisoned or because her soul had expired.
The ancient dathanorna travelled through the thin places, which connect the worlds to one another, to the point where she was certain she would never find her mother. Though she knew there were many more worlds and times to go, she was growing weary and afraid.
Sappharon had not told Na’amah who her father was. She knew that if Na’amah had this information she would seek him out. The demon didn’t want to put any of the three of them in greater danger than they already were. So, instead, she told her daughter that if there ever came a time when Na’amah couldn’t find her, she was to wait an appropriate number of years and then seek out Apprentice Lord Loki.
Loki, Sappharon promised her, would take Na’amah into his protection if she but asked him to.
“Perhaps it’s time.” She shivered.
This was a cautious thought, however. In order to find Loki, Na’amah would have to breach the gates which separated the Heavens and Hells from the mortal worlds. The risk was great that she would be seen and recognized for what she was.
Never mind that she didn’t know, exactly, where Apprentice Lord Loki lived and would be forced to navigate the Halls of the Hells until she found his apartment. If she were lucky enough to actually make it through the gate, the chances of her reaching Apprentice Lord Loki were slim to none.
Yet, what other options were available to her? Was she to travel from world to world to the end of antiquity? Perhaps, even then, never learning what had become of her mother?
“No.” She muttered to herself. “I cannot bear it. Not even a single world more.”
Knowing the cost should she be discovered, Na’amah retreated into the cave to pack her trikla.
-3-
Wisterian awoke to the sound of screaming.
He flew from his bed, his white wings fluttering behind him, and ran to the doors leading to the balcony. Though they had been closed and locked when he had gone to bed the night before, they now stood wide open as the morning sun rose over the mountain on the other side of the great ravine.
He ran through the doors, stopping abruptly in horror as he turned toward the cries, his eyes landing upon a screaming, writhing mass of fire.
He had time to think, Oh my Gods, someone put that poor creature out of its misery, before the mass of fire exploded and was, then, simply gone.
In its place, at the foot of a stake mired with silver chains, was a pile of ashes. Surrounding them were scorch marks, which had been burned into the marble tiles.
He heard the footfalls coming from the opposite direction of the balcony. Whichever one of his warriors it was let out a horrified, inarticulate cry of despair. This was followed by, “What in the name of Loki’s beard—?”
Wisterian looked upward, over the scorched outline of the pile of ashes, and met the gaze of the second in command of his Kinsgard, an angel by the name of Balean. He swallowed as he turned his attention to the closed glass doors that belonged to his son’s apartment. Leaning against
the marble blocks that make up the castle were two great black wings, carefully propped so they would draw attention.
“Oh my Gods . . .” Balean’s horror was palpable as he ran over the scorch marks, kicking the ashes and scattering them, to grasp at the wings. In an unconscious gesture he thrust them toward Wisterian.
As If I can’t see them with my own two glams.
“My Lord . . . ?”
Wisterian shook his head and darted forward. When he reached the doors to his son’s bedchamber he began pulling on them violently. Relieved to find that he could not open them, and to see the curve of Iladrul’s back upon the bed, the angel rolled his eyes closed and swallowed.
“Find Titheron.” He barked to Balean. “Have him scour our borders. I must know how a demon has breached our walls.”
Balean bowed. “Yes, my Lord.”
Swallowing his distaste, Wisterian reached for the wings and touched them. They were as soft as his own, but that didn’t surprise him. His best friend was a demon.
Or someone who used to be my best friend.
He shivered at the next thought that filled his mind.
He didn’t know which demon these wings belonged to. They could belong to Jamiason as easily as they could belong to any of the others who had been exiled.
What if . . . ?
He couldn’t believe that, but there was only one way to tell. He lifted one of the wings to his nose and breathed in the scent of them.
Not oranges.
His relief at the thought was momentary.
A demon had broached his borders. It could very well have been on Jamiason’s orders.
He shivered again.
It was no secret that the demons, who were now cursed to live only in the darkness of the night, were jealous of the angels.
The demons’ plight was anything but fair. Wisterian was the first to agree with them. Yet, fair or not, Wisterian and his people had not been the ones to decide the angels’ or the demons’ fates.
He looked upward and realized that Iladrul was standing behind his glass doors, watching his father with wide, frightened eyes. Frowning, Wisterian threw the wings to the ground. He hadn’t realized that he was still holding them to his face.
He forced a smile and raised his hand to his son. Iladrul, reluctantly, raised a hand in response.
Thank the Gods, Wisterian thought as his eyes trailed over Iladrul’s small face, that for once in your damn life you actually listened to me and did as I commanded.
-4-
Sappharon frowned as the violent knock on the front door reverberated through the cottage. Lucias hadn’t been expecting any one today. Loki, who generally only visited once in a silver moon, had come by yesterday and the stupid wolf bitch that he was mating with was sleeping comfortably in the bed that Loki used on the rare occasions when he stayed the night.
Ignoring the knock, she returned her gaze to the book in her hands.
Lucias, annoyed by this, whistled through her teeth.
“Are you going to answer the door?” She asked, her tone one of clear irritation.
“Why should I?” Sappharon used her hands to sign the words. She and Lady Lucias had long ago developed this language so that they could communicate. “We aren’t expecting any guests.”
“All the more reason that you should open the door.” Lucias, who was sitting behind her desk, lowered her quill and assessed Sappharon quizzically. “If someone has come unexpectedly¸ then perhaps he or she has news.”
“No one ever visits us with news.”
“Perhaps today they have.” There was a bite to her tone that Sappharon didn’t care for. She raised her eyes and met those of her Mistress. “Why must every request that I make of you be a bark or a bite?”
Sappharon shrugged her slender shoulders, ran her hand through her greasy black hair and threw her book aside as she stood. She wasn’t in the mood to argue with Lady Lucias this morning.
She left the library and made her way through the cottage to the front door. When she opened it, the irritation that she had earlier felt suddenly seemed all nymphs and pixies.
Here was a face that Sappharon hadn’t seen since her exile. It wasn’t a face that she had any desire to ever see again, given the pain that had been wrought between them.
Metatron was the fourth son born of Lady Regent Raziel. Lucias, when forced by Noliminan to live as a male rather than a female, had sired him and his eleven idiotic siblings.
She glared at him and asked with her hands, “What do you want?”
Metatron’s flaming lips turned down at the corners as his fiery eyes flicked over Sappharon’s face. His expression was drawn and full of nervous anticipation. Yet, when he spoke to her, he somehow managed a kind, if not guarded, tone. “Hello to you too, brat.”
Sappharon felt her teeth grind. “I asked you, what do you want?”
The corners of Metatron’s lips twitched again as he shook his head. His eyes darted over her, his expression becoming almost painful to gaze upon. She felt a minute bit of sympathy as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Is Lord . . .” He cleared his throat and lowered his gaze as he shook his head.
So he knows. Sappharon’s eyes narrowed.
“Is Lucias about?”
She nodded.
Metatron waited, but not for overly long. “May I come in and speak with her?”
Sappharon shook her head in reply, crossing her arms angrily over her chest before signing with her hands, “You abandoned us both when we needed you most. You don’t deserve to make yourself feel better about your stupid self—!”
“Metatron?” Lucias’ voice cracked slightly. Sappharon doubted that the Neanderthal standing in front of her had even marked it. She smirked at Metatron, wanting nothing more than that he mistook the depth of Lady Lucias’ tone for displeasure. “What in the name of my Thirty Hells are you doing here, boy?”
“I need to palaver with you.” Metatron replied. His eyes remained on Sappharon for a long moment before flicking up to meet Lucias’ gaze. His mournful expression hardened as he did so. “But your brat won’t let me sully your space.”
Sappharon heard that damn whistle and grimaced.
“Come.” Lady Lucias’ tone was low. Sappharon would pay for her insolence later. She would make no mistake in thinking otherwise. “I’m in the middle of my instructions to Loki, but we can talk while I finish them up if you’ll do me the favor of delivering them to him.”
“Of course, my Lady,” Metatron, always polite, always steadfast, replied with a thin, troubled smile. “It would be no bother to me.”
“Very well.” Lucias replied. Sappharon, who had yet to turn to face her Mistress, heard the smile in her Lady’s voice and winced. “Sappharon shall make us lunch.”
“I’m afraid that I am not here for pleasantries.”
Of course you aren’t. But do you have to say as much? Do you have to turn your Gods be damned sword deeper into her heart?
Sappharon would have destroyed him if she thought that she wouldn’t be punished for the mere thought alone. Who in the name of all of the Gods that are or ever were would have known if Metatron sullied his pristine reputation for the purpose of having tea and sandwiches with Lucias?
“Sappharon, move out of Metatron’s way.” Lucias flared. “For the love of the Gods. What is wrong with you today?”
Sappharon turned toward her Goddess, flashing an angry, irritated grin. “Just a bad day.”
“Very well, met paken.” Used to Sappharon’s moods, she assessed her demon with a dark, and doubtful, frown. “Put it aside for the nonce and allow Metatron to come in?”
Sappharon turned to the only man she had ever truly loved, raised her hands high, flew them to each side—looking nearly cartoonish, had she but known it—and forced herself to temper her madness.
Metatron slid past her and into her home.
She turned to follow the pair into the library. When they were nearly there,
Lucias looked over her shoulder and gave Sappharon an irritated smile. “I’m rather certain that Metatron means this to be a private conversation.”
“Who else would hear it?”
Metatron pursed his lips and lowered his gaze, appearing to be both amused and frustrated with her. As for Lucias, she let out that whistle again. “Go to your room. If I need to share what’s discussed with you then I shall.”
More irritated than ever, Sappharon wrinkled her nose and did as she was bid.
-5-
“Sit, child.” Lucias commanded as she slid around her massive desk and lowered herself into her seat.
Metatron shook his head. He had been able to stay his reaction to seeing her in her female form in front of Sappharon. Now, alone with her, he found that he could not force his gaze away from her perfectly made features.
“I know that you won’t stay.” Her dark eyes were dancing over his face, drinking him in. He wanted to reach for her, to comfort her. To show her the love that he felt for her that he had never been able to display when she had worn the face of his father. “But may we at least share a drink?”
“I’m sorry, my Lady.” He shook his head. “The King of Lords will be angry enough if he learns that I have come to speak with you. I dare not tarry overly long.”
She sighed, turning her face away from him as she did so. Even in this form she would not allow him to see her softer side. His smile, when she returned her gaze to him, was completely unguarded and without malice.
She found a smile for him as well and gave him an understanding nod.
“How is the carvetek mouk?” Her tone was silky. Her love for Noliminan was palpable despite her insult toward him.
“You know that he wouldn’t tell me one way or the other.” Metatron offered her another tight smile. “Though, from what I understand, he is well.”
She nodded, seemingly not surprised. “He truly can weather any storm.”
“Given the majority of the storms are wrought at his command, I suppose that he must.” Metatron shrugged. “I loathe to come right to the point, my Lo—” Irritated with himself, he shook his head. “My Lady. But, as I say, if it is learned that I have come to visit you, I shall be severely punished.”
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