Wings of the Divided: The Divided Book 1

by C. J. Sullivan

  Kiazmo wondered what she meant. He sifted through her memories until he found what he was looking for and felt his face flush, curiosity calling him to investigate this notion further.

  "Hell, I don't know," Ally spat. "Shut up and stop ruining the moment."

  They watched the dance with sparkling eyes.

  Suddenly Kiazmo froze. Janie and Marcy, the other two hookers Ally had fetched, were facing his way. They had noticed him!

  Or wait—they had noticed Laphelle.

  And Laphelle seemed to have seen them as well. The blond rogue stared at their saucy approach. Calmly stared. Why the uncharacteristically placid face, he wondered? But he didn't dare voice his question to Laphelle, didn't want to risk angering him. He'd heard too many stories.

  While many of the angels of darkness had their weaknesses, be it sex or drugs or bloodlust or any other perverted addiction, Laphelle was slave to nothing. And he never lost a fight. The reason he was not a member of the Elite was not just because angels of First Rank were forbidden to rise to higher status. Rumor had it that Lucifer especially didn't trust him. There must have been something in the way Laphelle carried himself during the parades after winning battle after battle on all those distant worlds. Something in the way he refused the pleas of women begging to bed him during those victory celebrations. Something in the way his eyes searched for more than just dark victory that made even the Devil himself uneasy.

  ***

  Laphelle

  "Great," Laphelle mumbled.

  "You gotta be kiddin' me," Janie said to Marcy. "Blondie over there looks like a model!" She let out a string of obscenities.

  "Go talk to 'im!" said Marcy with a nudge.

  "Hnnoo problem."

  Janie grinned, putting on a catwalk as she approached Laphelle. The First Rank leaned against the brick wall in the back of some classy club. His messy hair, parted to the side, carelessly fell over an eye. Both icy orbs closed halfway in displeasure as they took in the woman who dared to come close to him. His nose caught a whiff of her heavily worn cologne, and he snorted, turning his face away from her. He hoped she would get the message. She didn't.

  "Hey there, sexy," she said, smacking her chewing gum.

  That particularly irritated Laphelle. Not only was she an idiot; she had no manners. He ignored her, keeping his eyes as far from her gaze as possible. She looked him up and down, placing her hands on her thick hips.

  "You look like you could use a good time, suga," said Janie. "Maybe—relax a little. I can help you out. Rate's twenty bucks a blow, thirty bucks a lay. But I might lower the prices for ya, since you're so friendly. Whadya say, baby?"

  Before he could answer, she looked down at Kiazmo.

  "This yer little girl?" she asked Laphelle, pointing at the small cloaked angel.

  Laphelle didn't respond. He was too busy hating his life. The hooker's black dress rode up her bare thighs as she knelt down by Kiazmo.

  "Hiya, kid," she said. "What's yer name?"

  "Kiazmo," he replied, staring at her painted mouth.

  "Oh, you're a boy!" She pointed to Laphelle. "Is this guy your dad or your brother?"

  "Not father. Nor brother. We—we don't have brothers anymore, ever—ever since we fell to darkness. Lucifer wanted it that way."

  She gave him a blank stare then cleared her throat and stood back up. Pulling a little rolled smoke from her underwear, she grabbed a lighter from her bra and lit the drug. Inhaling and holding it in, she smiled then let the smoke out with a couple coughs. She approached Laphelle once again, but this time brought her body a little too close to his. He flinched and looked down at her.

  "The kid's kinda freaky," she said, each word bringing with it a bit of smoke that landed in Laphelle's face, "but that's all right, baby. We can do the weird shit if you want."

  "Your breath reeks," he said, curling his lip.

  "He talks!" She clapped her hands then took another drag and cough/giggled. "Good boy!"

  "What am I, a dog?"

  "If you like."

  "Huh. Well, I bite."

  Janie smiled a vivacious, excited smile. She ran her fingers up the strange, silky material of Laphelle's jacket, feeling his lean, solid torso underneath.

  That's enough.

  He grabbed her by the throat. She dropped her weed on the ground.

  "Listen to me, baby, and listen close," he said, moving her curious fingers away from his flesh. "Don't touch me. Ever. That's the only warning you get."

  Her eyes widened, and he let her go. But then she started to laugh.

  "Oh," she said, "you're definitely the sadistic type. Cute. Well, I've got a number of tricks that like it rough. And they pay good money for it. You pay good money?" She tapped her foot, and he said nothing. "I'll take that as a maybe. So what are you gonna do if I do touch you again?"

  Laphelle smiled and released a mocking, breathy laugh. "Well! You'll just have to wait and see!"

  Giggling, she called to Marcy, "Hey, we got a rough one over here."

  Laphelle rolled his eyes. He really didn't want to waste his strength on a filthy, stinking whore. But they were asking for it.

  ***

  Gidyon

  The two angels of light landed seven stories up on the roof of the First National Bank.

  "We should split up," Gidyon said, cloaking his wings.

  Noam turned to him and nodded, his eyes fiery green. He was tense.

  "We need to keep our minds closed so they can't read them and find us, which will be easy for you." Gidyon was more than a bit irritated at this whole thing. Noam angrily looked at his partner. Now was not the time for infighting. Gidyon changed the subject: "If I find them first I'll call to you, so keep your ears listening. If you find them first—well, you can handle them."

  Noam smirked and cloaked his wings. He reached into a pocket on his brown coat and brought out an elastic band. After he pulled his soft hair into a ponytail, he nodded to Gidyon. Then they split up and began their hunt.

  ***

  Malynko

  It was clear that Laphelle was quickly getting fed up. Despite his cool exterior, the two prostitutes standing before the First Rank were without a doubt making his blood boil with each catty remark. Still dancing with his prey, the Elitist hoped that just for once the rogue would be able to hold his temper.

  "Hey, you wanna wild ride, hun?" they taunted. "We can give it to ya."

  "Oh, yeah, baby. Name the price. It's yours tonight."

  "Any price for either of us!"

  Laphelle looked up to the sky. Malynko sensed his volatile nature was just about provoked to its limit. He heard the First Rank's thoughts loud and clear:

  If these wingless whores cross one more line…

  Calmness, Malynko warned him mentally.

  "I'm calm, Malynko," Laphelle said.

  Then, he winked. The Elitist couldn't have trusted the gesture less.

  "What's a Malynko, hun?" Janie asked the rogue. Elbowing her accomplice, she laughed. "Is it sexy as you?"

  And the First Rank's boundaries were officially breached.

  "I guess that all depends on your taste," he said. "Tell me, do you have a certain type of man you like to please?"

  His glowing grin unnerved them worse than the blatant sarcasm in his voice—Malynko felt the invisible fear radiating off their bodies, could almost smell the spicy tension.

  "Well, heh, yeah," Marcy said. "He's standin' right in fronta me."

  "Hmm," Laphelle continued. "There is a certain kind of woman that just excites me to the brim. You think we could make some adjustments?"

  The hookers forced their laughter.

  "Sure," Janie said. "Anything you want, baby."

  "We've got costumes, wigs, you name it," added Marcy.

  "Wonderful! But, you know, it's not really the looks. I have a teensy little problem with your height." He casually reached over his shoulder.

  Malynko saw the move. He'd seen it a thousand times. And on each
occasion, the person never knew what was coming.

  "Laphelle!" he shouted, turning from Mindy. "Stop!"

  He didn't stop.

  With one swift and fluid motion, he grabbed his black sword. The snake on the grip made a metallic hiss as it wound around his arm as if by magic and latched onto his bicep with its fangs. And with one swipe, he decapitated both women. Their heads thudded to the ground, the bodies crumpling, releasing splashes of dark blood. Mindy let out a deafening scream before passing out cold. Ally fainted too, and Bette lost her lunch.

  "Laphelle, you fool," Malynko growled, looking around to make sure no one else saw what had been done.

  The streets were empty.

  They were lucky.

  Finding Bette as the only one left conscious, he said to her, "You." She looked up, wiping her mouth, her eyes wide and horrified. "Don't move."

  He left the women and quickly walked over to Laphelle, who leaned on his weapon, the tip of the blade resting on the ground next to his bare feet. The snake calmly recoiled back around the grip. Grinning at his leader, he lifted the sword, shook the blood off of it with two firm flicks of his wrist, and sheathed it. Malynko narrowed his eyes. He had to remain composed for all their sakes.

  "What in Hell's name did you do that for?" he asked.

  Laphelle gave a nonchalant shrug. The blood on his clothes dripped off like beads of rain from an umbrella, the resistant material self-cleaning. Malynko crossed his arms. He drew forth his massive sword and touched the corpses at his feet with the silver blade's tip. A bright blue and yellow flame trickled down from the hilt and incinerated the dead bodies. The remaining ashes blew away with the night breeze, mingling with the dirt and grime of the sidewalk.

  "You have become nearly impossible to deal with," Malynko said.

  "I don't like humans!"

  "You don't like anyone."

  "You're right." Laphelle's eyes blazed amid his darkened countenance. "And I especially don't like you."

  Malynko's face went blank. "That is unfortunate." His voice dripped with angry disappointment. "Perhaps it was a mistake that Lucifer chose you to join me on this mission—"

  "Speaking of the mission, did you forget about it in your quest for kisses?"

  "Earth has proven to be a place where you do not belong. Perhaps there is good reason why the gate is kept locked."

  "Perhaps. Or perhaps not. You're not in authority to judge it."

  "Stop this rebellious behavior, my apprentice."

  "EX-apprentice."

  All preceding tensions between Malynko and his former student grew small in comparison to the new level of animosity reached this night. The two eyed one another, each feeling he was in the right. There would be no point in even attempting to compromise. Malynko took in a deep breath and slowly let it out.

  "Since you're worried about the mission," he said, "you will go to the group of witches, the ones I have watched, who will be taught the new religion. Their house is located north of the river on Barry Street. 3125 East Barry Street. You can reach it by following Mannsway. You may simply observe them tonight. Watch their practice, notice their need for a god on which they can depend. You will not speak to them or in any way announce your presence. I will await your return at our headquarters. You will arrive before dawn."

  Laphelle looked away. Malynko knew that the First Rank was every bit as powerful as he, with or without that evil sword, but there were long-term consequences when anyone of lower rank crossed an Elitist. It was his duty to keep the angel in his place. He waited, his practiced patience unbeatable. Laphelle finally gathered his hands into fists at his sides and said through clenched teeth:

  "Fine."

  Then he brushed past the Elitist and walked away. Malynko, secretly vexed, watched him leave and turned his eyes to Kiazmo. The little angel held his hands in front of him, trembling. Blood had splashed onto his body during the murder. He breathed quick, short breaths, his lips swollen with color.

  "So," Malynko said with a sigh, "you like blood, do you?"

  Kiazmo blinked rapidly and licked the crimson off of his hands.

  "Some do," the Elitist continued, "but not a great number. You'll be a very dangerous demon, Kiazmo. You've found your hunger. I will inform Lucifer when he comes for us."

  He curved his attention to the women and met Bette's teary eyes. She was on the ground, huddled, trembling in the fetal position. His face vacant of pity, he approached her, ignoring her sobbing pleas.

  Swipe!

  She was dead in an instant. He finished off the other two and reduced the three bodies to ashes. There was no emotion. It was as if he were merely disposing of garbage. Crouching down by the gray mound of powdery cinders, he blew a gentle breath and dispersed the remains down the dimly lit street and into the shadowed alleyways until all traces of the crime had vanished.

  He had no sympathy for the whores.

  He knew their kind.

  They would not be missed.

  Standing up, he sheathed his sword and positioned his cloaked wing over the weapon. Then, he returned to Kiazmo with fresh purpose. The nightclubs were calling his name. He knew that he held an incredible, envied sexual power over women and men alike. And he wasn't about to put that power to waste tonight.

  So the angels of darkness abandoned Scott Street.

  Malynko heard a variety of new music as he passed the different dance clubs. Kiazmo covered his ears at the one called Lektriks. It blasted a mixture of heavy metal and underground techno. Malynko smiled as he observed the black bricks of the three-story building. It promised a delightful dinner of decadence. Down several roads and past a dozen less interesting clubs, the two walked, Malynko still in a military style but slowly picking up the way of the men of Earth. He watched the humans and soon had his new stride. Sauntering like a rock star, the Elitist stopped briefly and looked down at Kiazmo to make sure he was still at his side.

  The little angel looked up. "What do we do now?"

  "Now," Malynko said, "we go back to Lektriks. I like the music there."

  Kiazmo obediently followed the Elitist to the club. Malynko reached into his back pocket and pulled out his thick wad of counterfeit cash. Flipping through several twenties, he handed one to Kiazmo.

  "If anyone gives you trouble, present this as a gift," he said. "I don't want you to have to kill anyone this evening. You don't know how to do it with any stealth yet. I'd like to get through the night without gathering attention. I'm hungry."

  A dark, lustful glint entered his eyes. Hungry he was. But not for food. His hands itched to touch the flesh of some unsuspecting girl, particularly a virgin. A virgin of Earth. Oh, yes. That would be nice. It had been years since he had someone intact, someone pure. Someone whom he could quite personally teach the wonders of erotica and give her something completely new to worship. He always loved being the first. The first time held the most power. And this game was all about the power.

  He walked around to the back of Lektriks. A stocky security guard with a rude face and handlebar moustache stood post beside a metal door under a dim yellow light.

  "Here," Malynko said to Kiazmo, handing over his sword. "Hide it."

  Kiazmo obediently wrapped his long cloak around the giant blade. Then the brawny warrior walked up to the guard, and without making eye contact offered him a couple bills he held between his pointer and middle finger. The beefy man took it and opened the door for the hunter.

  ***

  Laphelle

  Out of pure rebellion, Laphelle took the cloak off his wings. Fantasies of murder dashed through his ancient mind, the sword in his imagination slicing through fool after fool who challenged him—they all happened to have Malynko's face.

  He hated, hated, hated being labeled a flimsy rotten First Rank. And he knew that the only reason he hadn't been promoted to Elite status those thousands of years ago was because he didn't have the "patience" to be taught. Whatever. He didn't need teaching; that's what they didn't realize. But th
e Elitists were proud students of the ways of Lucifer, a special group of dark angels who were allowed to converse with him any time they liked. And what made Lucifer so special? It wasn't like he ever showed his face on the battlefield. It was all up to angels like Laphelle. He hissed a sigh through clenched teeth. The system made him weary.

  He craved respect for being the unstoppable warrior that he was.

  He desired to be looked up to, not down upon by those of higher status, those who were jealous of his ruthless power.

  He wanted to be calling the shots.

  He wanted it—because he rightfully deserved it.

  But he knew such thoughts were in vain. The system had never been broken. And it would remain the same until the war ended. If it ended.

  He abandoned the party district, searching for Mannsway, ignoring anyone who made any sort of comment about his wings or his bare feet or his dashing looks. The farther away from downtown he went, the quieter it was, and soon he was cleared of all human company. Hair whipping back in the wind of his walk, he found the road he was looking for.

  It was then that Laphelle heard the sound of the violin.

  He stopped, the soles of his bare white feet pressed against the cool stones of Mannsway. An odd sensation crept through his toes and up his legs and further until his entire body surged with the most intense feeling of déjà vu. Without truly comprehending what it meant, deep inside his soul, he knew that it could only be explained by one word:

  …Destiny…

  Carried by the traveling night air, the violin's melody touched his ears and gently caressed away the tension of his body. The sudden sound was a light kiss to his senses, and he slowly closed his eyes, the beast in him tenderly tamed by the invisible delight.

  He concentrated on the sound and it grew louder.

  A bright happiness, long suppressed, immediately lit up in his soul, and strong, sparkling sunrays of peace pierced through the shield of clouds hovering around his heart. He could not recall ever having heard such a blessed sound; yet it was still familiar—that unmistakable entrancement that engulfs the listener when bow and strings come together in a union so beautiful and so magical that no one, not even he, as stubborn and cold as he was, could turn away his ear.