He rubbed his eyes then blinked to dispel his blurry vision and took a sip of his black coffee. Amy had begged him to go to bed hours ago, told him that his casework could wait, but he had to get it done. He wasn't like her, didn't like putting things off until the last minute. The trial was in two weeks and he was already lagging behind.
He scratched the back of his neck and ran tired hands through his short hair.
Then the doorbell sounded again.
Okay, so it wasn't his imagination. John stood from his seat and walked around his desk, his robe flying behind him. He quickly pulled the belt around his waist, hiding his stomach and flannel boxers. Walking out of his study, he glanced up the stairs to see if Amy had come out from the bedroom. No. He grumbled about her being able to sleep during a hurricane then cleared his throat and reached to the wall, flipping on a light switch. On the high ceiling above him, a sparkling chandelier with glass candle bulbs illuminated the room. It was a splendid house, one where at least four symphony after-parties were held each year. Guests never failed to comment on how lovely the Rococo furniture was, how the hint of modern glassware against the cherry wood made the place wonderfully unique.
John walked over a circular hooked rug to the fireplace on the wall, where he grabbed an iron poker. Then he made his way to the front hallway. Fighting a cloud of sleepiness, he stubbed his toe on the old Victorian grandfather clock. Through clenched teeth he inhaled, the jolt of pain rocketing up the nerves in his leg. He gripped the poker, his knuckles going white, and he limped forward.
Twisting the deadbolts, he unlocked the door and opened it.
A wicked grin greeted him.
"John!" the stranger cried, grabbing John by the shoulders. "How have you been, old boy? It's Laphelle, remember me?"
John's face twisted into a look of uncertainty and fear. "I'm sorry." He held the poker with both hands. "Do I know you?"
"I'm sure you do to some extent. Deep down, you all do." Laphelle lifted the man by the shoulders, without an ounce of apparent effort, and carried him out of the narrow hallway. "Ahh, that's better. Quite a place you've got here!"
To his left, an unlit chandelier hung above the dining area. A set of swinging wooden doors led to the kitchen, and a grand staircase covered in a deep red run cut down through the middle of the room. Paintings decorated the walls—a Van Gogh theme—and sparkling china sat within closed cabinets. Yes, it was quite a place.
"Excuse me," John said, standing behind him, "but what did you say your name was?"
When he got no answer, he looked down to the rogue's bare feet. And the sheathed weapon on his back.
Wonderful.
Adrenaline flowing, he lifted the iron poker. He swung for Laphelle's head.
But the stranger's arm shot back and his hand clamped around John's tight grip. The man's eyes went wide. Laphelle turned around, not moving his hold of steel.
"John," he said with a sigh, "this is no way to treat your elders."
He took the poker with his free hand and pulled it free then dropped it onto the carpet. Tightly, he held the man's wrist in his long, pale fingers and gave it a hard slap. When Laphelle let go, John pulled his hand to his chest, the skin beet red. It was going to bruise. Laphelle smiled at him.
"Elders?" John said. "I'm old enough to be your father!"
"No, you're not."
Eying the poker on the floor with animalistic craving, John felt his heart palpitate. "Just what the hell do you want from me?"
Laphelle patted his shoulders and gave a cheesy grin. "Well, your house, for one."
"If you're one of the men upset about the Henderson trial, I'm sorry, but my client was innocent despite what the media had everyone believe. I'm not a bad man and neither is he. Don't trust the television—"
Laphelle laughed. "What in Lucifer's name are you talking about?"
John jumped when another person strode past him. This one was taller, more intimidating, and didn't say a word. He just ran his hand along the slick wooden balustrade as he climbed the stairs with a slow sensuality that had the man completely mesmerized. Then, like a snapshot flash, Amy's sleeping image came to John's mind. He broke out of his trance, stepping forward to protest the intruder's ascent.
Laphelle's hard hand hit against his chest, stopping him. John looked back and saw yet another stranger, this one a child, creeping in through the front door, hiding beside the grandfather clock, watching the scene. Facing the stairs again, John began to tremble.
"Don't touch her!" he cried, more than a little afraid of Laphelle's strength—and mental state. "Whatever you want from me take it! Just don't hurt her. She's my wife. I'd give anything for her safety—I'd die for her!"
"Now, now," Laphelle said, giving another grin. "It's all right. You're probably going to die anyway." He took the man's shoulders, blinking long, dark lashes. "At least if I get my way."
John's face paled.
***
Amy
Amy opened her eyes. She brushed back tangles of dark hair as she sat up in her four-poster bed. Blinking away sleep, she listened. And sure enough, she hadn't dreamed it: there were voices downstairs. So she hadn't imagined the doorbell. Not bothering for the light, she let her legs slip out from under the satin sheets and slid into her house shoes on the floor. Who could be visiting John at this hour of the night? Normally a heavy sleeper, she found it odd that the noises had stirred her from slumber. Odd and a bit frightening. She grabbed for a robe at the end of the bed, her full figure chilled under her sheer nightgown.
Before she reached the open bedroom door, it slowly shut. Amy froze, her heart leaping into her throat. There was a figure in the shadows, his arm extending to a palm that pressed against the door, elegant white fingers spreading apart like a fan. After lowering the hand, he removed his other black glove and let the garment slip from his glassy fingernails to meet its twin on the carpet.
Amy gazed at his unbuttoned military jacket, the open white shirt under it, the lines of his brawny, sculpted chest. She felt her skin flush as he let the outer shells of clothing over his top drop to the floor, his long bluish-black hair falling in tempting tendrils over his torso. Terrified but shamefully thrilled at this incubus standing before her, she was drawn like a magnet to his wantonly smiling mouth. His penetrating eyes met hers and sent invisible pulses of pleasure down her body.
"Who are you?" she whispered, forgetting all about John, seeing only the one before her.
Her guest smiled, walking closer to her.
"I am your every desire," he said.
***
John
John felt he was going to be sick.
"You didn't tell me you had one of these!" Laphelle said.
He shrieked with glee as he rushed to a black baby grand piano and knocked a Greek krater vase from atop the instrument.
Thinking about the price of that vase gave John the urge to throw up. He could feel the little one watching him and he turned around, sweat pouring down his face. Their eyes locked for a moment, and then the child scurried as far behind the clock as he physically could.
This wasn't happening.
This couldn't be happening.
Laphelle lifted the lid of the piano and observed the ivory keys.
In a moment of pure faith, John tried sneaking to the kitchen while the angel was distracted. He had to call the police. But before he reached the swinging doors, Laphelle said:
"Come and sit down."
John turned around, his heart beating against his ribs.
"You like the piano," he said. "It's worth plenty of money, I—I assure you. I'll give it to you, no questions asked, if you will leave right now."
"But John, you don't know what an opportunity this is." Laphelle slid the sheathed weapon off his back and leaned it against the side of the instrument. "In all my years, can you believe that I've never been to the symphony?"
"Well, it isn't too hard to believe." He smiled. This had to be progress. "You're so young�
�"
"I always seem to get missions right before I attend. I swear to you, I think it's a conspiracy."
"Right." He laughed. "Well, the piano's yours, all yours to play for however long you want."
"I don't want the damned thing, John."
"You—you don't?" His mouth went dry.
"No. I only want you to play it for me."
His ego taking a beating from being bossed around by this young punk, John begrudgingly walked up to the bench and sat down. "Whatever you wish. If I play something, then will you leave?"
"Hmm, we'll see. Depends on how well you do." He rapidly snapped his fingers. "Well, go on! Don't be shy!"
Glancing upstairs, the clutches of fear squeezed him. Please let Amy be all right. Perhaps that fiend hadn't found her yet. Perhaps she'd already called the police. Yes, maybe the cops were on their way right now. With optimism in his breast, he placed his fingers on the keys and played the first thing that came to his mind: Beethoven's "Fur Elise." Laphelle looked to the enormous framed copy of The Starry Night hanging on the wall over the piano. Gazing into the swirls of light in Van Gogh's nighttime sky, he crossed his arms and started to meander away from the instrument as he listened.
John saw his distracted drift and suddenly realized what an opportunity he had. He lifted his right hand from the keys, still playing with his left, and reached for Laphelle's sheathed sword. John eyed the child intruder, who was watching him with his big violet eyes, not making a sound as he stood in the shadow of the clock. Then the man grabbed hold of the weapon and jumped from his seat. The music came to an awkward halt, an unfinished chord still hanging in the air.
Laphelle turned around, his brow furrowed. John barely backed three steps away when he dropped the sword, his hands burning as if they were in flames. The angel stared blankly at the man, then the sword, and a shadow crossed his face.
"John," he said. The lights of the chandelier overhead started to flicker. "Nobody touches that sword but me."
"I'm—I'm so sorry. I won't do it again."
"No." He walked towards the now-trembling man. "You won't."
John made no sudden moves, only watched in abject terror as Laphelle placed his bare toes underneath the weapon and kicked it upwards to his hands. He pulled the sleek black blade from its sheath, the snake around the grip slowly coming to life and winding up his arm. He spun around, brought the sword over his head, and sliced through the guts of the piano.
John flinched from the resounding smash, not believing the witchcraft taking place before his eyes. The black sword's presence sent waves of anxiety through his body, and he felt cool perspiration on his back, his brow, and under his arms.
"Maybe someday I'll see you again, John," Laphelle said, turning his attention to the man. "Don't worry. Malynko will take good care of Amy. He's never used an Earth woman before. He's probably thrilled to death about it."
"You stay away from her!" John's clenched fists shook. "All of you! I don't care what sort of vendetta you have against me, you son of a bitch, but don't take it out on Amy!"
" 'Son of a bitch' is it now, John? And after I was so patient with you." The snake latched its fangs into his bicep. A cool, eerie wind blew through the room, though all windows and doors were closed. "You really don't have a clue who I am, do you?"
John looked up at the chandelier, the device jingling, its lights buzzing like dying hornets. The wind picked up, knocking over glass structures left and right. He didn't care about the price of the broken art or anything material anymore.
"You want to know!" Laphelle shouted over the howling gust as the child ducked away, deep into the hallway by the front door. "I can see it in your eyes, read it directly from that tiny closed mind of yours. Well, you're in luck tonight, for a universal celebrity stands before you!"
John's knees start to buckle. The contents of the room shattered all around him like punctuating cymbals of an orchestra. Laphelle smiled darkly.
"Laphelle's the name, but I've been given the universal title of The Barefoot Assassin, or more casually they call me The Blond Rogue." The snake's black-scaled body pulsed now, apparently with Laphelle's blood. "And a lot of ingrates have the audacity to call me First Rank, but you, my dear man, may call me Death."
Two massive black wings appeared behind him, as if suddenly uncloaked from some invisibility gift, and he spread the feathered appendages, sending another gust through the room. The flashing lights streaked ominously across his body, creating grim shadows on his grinning face.
John's heart slammed with rapid, desperate beats. But its palpitations suddenly stopped when Laphelle flapped his wings and plunged the sword through his chest.
Blackness.
It clouded John's vision, filling his ears with the deafening cries of a thousand damned souls. Laphelle grinned and thrust his evil sword deeper until the hilt pressed against the man's skin, which now dripped with crimson.
So much pain.
"Bow down to the night," he said.
The lights made their final flicker, casting the house into darkness.
***
Gidyon
"Don't know how to return home?" Max asked. "What do you mean?"
Gidyon chose his phrasing carefully. "We've never been to Earth before. It's all very new to us. Don't worry, though. It's nothing you need to worry about."
He waited for Max to smile, and when he did, the angel took a moment to observe it. It was a nice smile, warm and welcoming with deep dimples, perfect for someone who was in the public eye. Max's face had the lines to show he smiled much in life. In a way, Gidyon envied that face. Years of living as a mortal had etched deep character into it. The angel's face, on the other hand, would never grow old. It would remain the same, as it had always been, long since the beginning of time.
Outside, the first bits of daylight were creeping over the horizon like beams of fiery magic. The first songs of the birds echoed in the crisp morning air. A bright prism of colors sparkled in through the pointed stained-glass windows of the church. Gidyon breathed in the light, its magic greater than any angel could ever hope to conjure. He turned to find Noam, who had found a seat on the back pew and let his wings hang over the back of it like two feathery waterfalls. Noam stretched his arms out and rested them idly across the top of the cushioned bench.
"Noam and I need a place to stay while we're here," Gidyon said. "Would it be too much trouble if we resided in this church?"
"No trouble at all," Max said. "There are several smaller rooms in the back where you can sleep. This church is practically a museum. Quite sad, really. It was built in the old Gothic style. My great-grandfather decided to keep it when he started building this town. Actually, I think this building may have been one of the reasons he decided to build Edenton here. It's a nice church, isn't it? Somewhat of a mystery, out in the middle of the woods. But I digress. Nobody works here in the day. The only reason Evan was here earlier is because I asked him to come and pray with me. He's a good man—comes every few months to keep the place clean. He actually pastors another church downtown—"
"Wonderful," said Gidyon, stifling a laugh. He mentally noted Max loved talking about local history. "Then we'll be out of the way and no trouble for anyone."
He looked to Noam, who gazed at the bright blues, sharp reds, and rich yellows that streamed in through the window to his left. The dark-haired angel held out a copper hand and let the light cast a prism of diamonds and triangles in his palm. As he tilted his hand back and forth, the rainbow shapes skipped across his flesh.
"Why doesn't he talk?" Max whispered, nodding to Noam.
"Well," said Gidyon, "he can talk, but he doesn't talk much lately. He's talked before. Maybe he just needs some fresh air." Noam shot him a disgusted look. Gidyon grinned and said, "How 'bout it, soldier? Would you like to take a walk?"
Noam glanced at Max, whose worry was genuine, and let out a quiet sigh, rising to his feet. Pleased, Gidyon approached Noam. He put a strong arm around his shou
lders and squeezed, he knew, just a little too tight for Noam, who flinched. Looking deep into his eyes with his piercing blue orbs, Gidyon spoke telepathically:
Whatever quarrel you have with me, don't make Max suffer for it. Will you just say something? Noam stared at him defiantly. Gidyon's patience thinned, but he was a master of keeping the mood calm. Fine then. Don't talk. I'll talk for you.
"So, let me tell you our official titles," Gidyon said to Max who smiled big, ready to hear. "I am Gidyon of the Order of Raphael. My traveling companion and good friend here is Noam. He belongs to the Order of Michael."
Max rushed over to the two and shook hands with Gidyon. He extended a hand to Noam who was reluctant at first, then gave in and shook it.
Suddenly sounding regal, the man said, "Pleased to meet you. I am Max Edenton the Fourth."
"Great to meet you too, Max," said Gidyon. "Are we all ready to go then?"
Max's smile dropped into an abrupt frown.
"Gentlemen," he said, "what about your wings? I can't take you into town unless you want the people to see what you really are. It might cause a ruckus!"
"A ruckus?" said Gidyon, chuckling. "I've been on worlds where our discovery caused full-scale wars to break out. It's amazing how fear of the unknown can cause such chaos. But don't worry. We've learned from those lessons."
He elbowed Noam's arm, and the silent angel nodded. The feathers of their wings began to glow then faded to a chameleon-like transparency. Max's jaw dropped. He strode past the angels and opened the massive doors of the church. Walking out into the morning, the sunlight bathing him from the east, he said:
"Welcome to Earth, gentlemen. Allow me to show you the wonders of my city. First off, is this fabulous, old road, Mannsway. It's been here since the city was built." He glanced back at the two angels and shook his head. "You'll have to forgive me today. I'm still in a state of—well, shock. I just can't believe this is happening."
He walked over to a sleek silver BMW vehicle parked on the side of Mannsway. It looked barely big enough to hold two people. Reaching in his pocket for the keys, he glanced back. Gidyon laughed.
Wings of the Divided: The Divided Book 1 Page 3