"Now," he said, "I sense an EVIL presence!"
Nothing happened. Adam's smile turned into a nervous grin. In the growing silence, he blushed.
"Look! THERE!" he said to the camera and pointed at the window.
Younger Max pointed the camcorder at the window, where there was nothing but a sunny view of his gardens. In the background, Adam's loud whisper could be heard.
"When I say 'EVIL' it's your cue, Harry!"
"Oh!" Harry said, also whispering. "I'm sorry! I thought it was when you said, 'Die!'"
"No, no! That's the part when you die. Duh! Now, put your mask on!"
"'Kay!"
Holding the camera, Max pretended not to hear as the actors repaired their scene. When both boys yelled for him to turn back around, he did, and the television was once more filled with Adam's smiling face.
"Now," Adam said with more confidence than ever, "I feel an EVIL presence!"
Harry came crawling through the Lego buildings like Godzilla, dinosaur mask and all. He roared like a tyrannosaurus, his squeaky, prepubescent voice providing a comically innocent moment. Adam gave a battle cry and pounced on him, knocking the chair over as he leapt. Young Max cried out in half alarm, half laughter. Adam brought his fist in slow motion to Harry's face.
"Die!" he cried, making a missile sound effect as his hand approached.
Harry moved his mouth in slow motion, yelling, "Nnnnnnoooooooooo!"
About four inches before making contact with Harry's face, Adam stopped his fist, and Harry flew backwards as if he had received a mighty blow. Lying near fake death on his back, the monster gave a final cough, and then died. Adam stood up with his fist to the skies. He turned to the camera and gave his final words.
"So THAT, fair city, is the Stealth Fist's final battle. You are saved! I—Harry, quit touching my leg—That is the—Harry, quit! What?"
The camera went down to Harry, who had taken off his mask, and was rubbing his back in pain.
"I landed on a Lego," he said, looking at Adam for guidance.
"Oh, shoot, are you bleeding?" Adam asked, lowering to his knees. "Lemme see!"
"Hang on, boys," Max said. "Let me look at it."
He turned the camera off and the TV screen went blue.
The present Max sat on his floor with a smile on his distant face. Gidyon had secretly watched him more than the movie and felt a great pang of sorrow for the man. He felt a strong wave of desire pressuring him to go out and find Harry that very instant and bring him back to the loving home from which he had run away. Max reached down to the remote control at his side and switched off the TV.
"You didn't sleep," Gidyon said softly. "Did you?"
"Too much to do."
"I don't need sleep. You should have let me—"
"Harry and Adam actually got pretty good at movie making." Max gazed at the blank screen. "Some of their later movies actually had a plot. Not to say that the dinosaur attacking the city wasn't a plot; it was. But I'm talking about real stories, more than just a few scenes. Costume changes. Adam got to really loving the camera. Soon, he took over as cinematographer and had Harry starring in all of his films. And Harry. Oh, Harry." He smiled deep, his eyes starting to mist over. "Harry would just follow him around like the big brother he never had. He did whatever Adam wanted him to do without a second thought." He looked at Gidyon. "Now, do you see? Do you see how I don't understand why he left?"
Gidyon crossed his arms. "He was a wonderful child. I don't understand why he would want to leave you either, Max. There has to be a reason, though. There's a reason for everything, despite what people may think."
"I know."
"I'm sure he's still okay, if that's what you're wondering."
"I certainly hope so."
A soft knocking averted their attention to a figure standing in the doorway. It was Noam, who crossed his bronze, muscular arms over his chest, his face deadpan. He nodded to Gidyon and Max, not seeming to care why they were sitting on the floor.
"Hi, Noam," Gidyon said, nudging Max in joy that Noam was finally communicating. "You missed the movie. It was great."
"Oh, I'm sure he can watch it later," Max said. "He can watch it whenever he wants, no hurry."
My clothes, Noam said to Gidyon's mind. Where are they. And my weapons?
"Max washed your clothes," Gidyon said. "Wasn't that nice of him?"
"Oh, but I didn't touch your coat, Noam," Max said. "I didn't want to misarrange the sai and such, but I did have your boots polished, which were in need, and Miss Fimmel, who helps with the watering and gardening, mended your pants. They're in the living room on the couch. You passed them just after you came downstairs."
Gidyon hoped that Noam would reply with an audible "Thanks," but instead he nodded again and turned to fetch his garments. Gidyon saw that his white T-shirt was torn and knew what it meant. He looked away and tried not to hate himself for being the cause of the traumatized angel's violent recurring nightmares.
A small cuckoo clock on the mahogany bookshelf behind Max's desk struck seven. Gidyon cocked his head to the side and watched as a white-robed angel followed a red-horned devil around a little track at the base of the clock, the figures programmed to do their chase on the hour. As the little porcelain clock chimed, he got lost in the appearance of the tiny devil, in how inaccurate that appearance really was. Max, however, gasped at hearing the first chime. He quickly rose to his feet and straightened the wrinkles from his white button-down shirt.
"This late, already?" he cried. "I'm having a friend over for dinner! Where's my tie? Oh, no! She'll be here any minute!" He shoved pieces of paper and mail around his desk. "I suppose it's off to the restaurants. I keep promising her that I'm going to cook for her. Where is that bloody tie?"
"I can cook," Gidyon said, standing.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure you can," said Max, searching for his tie on his leather chair, then looked behind his computer. "But I'm afraid we have no time. Tell me, will you and Noam be all right here for a few hours?"
"I think Noam will want to roam the city—just to be there in case Malynko and Laphelle try to make another scene."
"Oh. Right." Max stood up straight, fear evident in his eyes.
"They probably won't," Gidyon said, trying to sound reassuring. "Malynko likes working in secret."
"So, what will you do then?" Max asked.
Gidyon looked down, remembering the angel who had opened the portal and seeing that gleam in his eye. Noam was right. It wasn't who they thought it was. They needed to stop pretending.
"Tonight," he said, looking up, "I need to contact the head of my Order. Will anyone be present at that church downtown this evening?"
"No, it's Friday. Nobody should be there. How are you going to contact the head of your Order?"
Gidyon untied his robe, revealing the clear crystal that shone against his bare chest. As he stood with sheer poise, the robe cascading down his back and over silky dark blue pants, he looked like a pampered celebrity.
"Remember this?" he said, touching the crystal.
"How could I not?"
"There is a way we can contact one another through them." He flipped his crystal over and pointed to where a minuscule piece had been chipped from its polished surface. "After having worn them for some time, our life's energy fills them and we cut off a tiny shard. When the shards are removed, they contain the original crystals' energy." He lowered his hand. "The Archangels keep the shards in a safe place so that when they want to find us, or if we need to contact them, we can do so."
"How does that work?"
"It's sort of a channeling device. Magic, you could call it. We still have our powers without them, but it's a lot easier to read minds and such with them on our bodies. Otherwise we would use up all our energy." Gidyon smiled. "If I concentrate all my energy into this gem, it'll send out a signal to the missing shard, which is in the Crystal Room on Victus. There it will then tell the angels where we are and that we need their aid. It alway
s works. And I need to try to make contact tonight so that we can return home—and figure out what to do about those other three angels here."
"Oh," said Max. "Well, the church is all yours, it being Friday evening. Everyone else is downtown at the clubs or restaurants." He pressed his lips into a forced smile. "Feel free to come and go as you like."
"Max," Gidyon said, looking down at him, knowing what he was thinking. "I will do my best to find your son."
Max closed his eyes and nodded. His mouth trembled and warm drops streaked from his eyes and down his cheeks. Gidyon thought to console him, but then had another idea. He forcefully grabbed the man by the shoulders and led him out of his office.
"Max," he said, loud and brash, grabbing a black necktie that had become camouflaged on the dark arm of the couch, "Tomorrow, I need you to show me how to play that game that's sitting in your living room."
He draped the tie around Max's neck and then guided him toward the center of the house. European tapestries colored the walls; soft Aubusson rugs softened the ground beneath their feet. The man quickly removed his spectacles and wiped the tears from his face.
"And what game would that be?" he said.
"The game with the black and white squares."
"Oh! Chess?"
"Chess! Yes, Chess. The one with the little horses and towers."
"Yes. That's Chess." He tied his necktie.
"I would like to learn how to play," said Gidyon, his tone playfully challenging. "That is, if you're up for it."
Placing his glasses back on his face, Max smiled and took in a deep breath.
"Oh," he said. "I am definitely up for it!"
***
Melissa
Warm wisps of sweet cappuccino steam rose up out of Melissa's cup and into her face, relaxing her tense nerves. She browsed the crowded book sale outside of Jim's Coffee House, one of her favorite places to unwind on weekends. Normally, she would be readying herself to go clubbing, painting her face, frantically figuring out what to do with her brown hair that was at that uncomfortable length—not short, but not long. However, that night was different. She had no desire to go anywhere near Lektriks or the male sex.
She picked up each and every piece of literature having to deal with religion, mythology, and superstition. Her left arm was getting tired from the load of books it supported. She spotted a big book on angels sitting face up in the middle of a long table. As she reached for the glossy cover, another hand met hers. She looked up and into the eyes of a mischievous-looking male.
"Oh!" he said, putting on a flirtatious tone. "You go ahead."
Melissa eyed the tattooed man up and down, a bit intimidated by his tall frame. But not too intimidated. After all, she had just escaped the clutches of a relentless, erotic monster early that morning.
"Are you into angels?" she asked, hoping dearly the man would say yes. At least then she would have someone to talk to. "Demons? Anything like that?"
The guy looked at the book. A winged woman was on the front cover, draped in a long, flowing gown. Mystery boy seemed to be struggling with the answer.
"Nah," he said, stretching his back, his sleeveless black T-shirt pressing against his frame. "I don't believe in 'em."
"Why not? Don't you believe that something could be out there that we don't know about? Didn't you hear about the angel sighting last night?"
"Hah! I was there. I taped it. It was all part of a show. Didn't you see Max Edenton on the news?" He leaned his hand on the table and with it, covering the face of the angel on the book.
Melissa looked at the back of his hand. "You taped it?" She shifted her books to her right arm, relieving the slightly sore muscles of her left. "I was there that night. I—I saw the fight. Didn't you see that they were flying on their own? With no harness?"
He stared at her, his brow creased. Again, there was that slight hint of hesitance in his eyes. Just what was this guy trying to hide?
"We just couldn't see 'em," he said, sweetening his tone. "Hey—have we met before?"
"I dunno," she said, bitterly glaring at his hand that suffocated the book cover. "I go to Edenton High."
"Ahh. I went to Grant. Looks like we're old rivals."
"Guess so."
"You a freshman?"
"No." Melissa's eyes darted fire. "I'm a senior, for your information."
"Oh! Well! You're not that much younger than me, then!"
"What do you mean, 'not that much younger'?"
"I meeean, if we went out, your daddy wouldn't come after me with a rake."
Melissa's jaw dropped. "You're flirting with me!"
"I am?" he grinned and leaned in closer to her.
"I can't believe you! First you think I'm a freshman, and then you flirt with me! I can't stand males!"
She couldn't believe how forward she was being with this guy. It was as if she had known him for years and was perfectly comfortable losing her temper in front of him. Normally, she wouldn't be so bold, stranger or not.
"You're quite a little pistol, ya know that?" he said with a grin.
"I…" She didn't know what to say to that.
"You…what?"
"I gotta go," she said, huffily. "Don't follow me either. I know your kind. I'm not some slut you can just flirt with and expect to spread my legs at the end of the night. I'm not that type of girl."
"It's okay," he said, his voice taking on a gentle, almost comforting tone. "I'm not that type of guy."
"Well," she said, "I don't believe you."
She walked away, her frustration fueling her steps, and paid for the armful of books she'd found. Then she passed by a domed wastebasket and threw her half-empty cup of cappuccino into it. She looked back quickly, hoping he wasn't watching her, but dying to know if he was. He was indeed, and when he met her gaze he waved. She shot her head forward, blushing, and stormed off to her car.
***
Laphelle
Laphelle lifted a hand, the black crystal around his neck glowing, and an ivy vine raced up one of the white columns of the porch. The leaves made a crinkling sound as they scraped the stone, the violet buds shriveling with the climb. Having been engaged in his dark gardening for nearly half an hour now, Laphelle proudly saw that the house appeared weathered and worn, as if it had been abandoned for many years. A wave of his arm faded the bricks. The touch of his finger shot great cracks up the columns, and a flick of his wrist boosted the climbers to the top of the roof.
Smiling at his work, he placed two fists on his waist as he made sure he hadn't missed a spot. As his eyes darted from brick to covered brick, the front door slowly opened, and out strode Malynko. The Elitist's dark hair fell like silky ribbons over his bare body, one of the pretty locks brushing beside his eye like a wavy stroke of black paint. He held a romance novel in his hand.
"Laphelle," Malynko said, "I'm at an advantage here."
There was a playful edge to his voice that Laphelle didn't like.
"What?" the rogue asked, his face contorting into automatic disdain for whatever his leader was about to say.
"This human looks like me."
He raised the novel to eye level. Huffing, Laphelle walked over to him and peered down at the cover, which displayed a beefy hero with long raven hair embracing a beautiful, redheaded female, her eyes heavy-lidded with ecstasy. The rogue's stomach lurched.
"Get that trash away from me," he said, vehemently stepping away.
Malynko laughed. "Don't you think he looks like me?"
Laphelle gave him a glare that would have curled anyone else into a whimpering ball of fear. But Malynko stood firm. He raised his sculpted brows and stared right back. That bastard. He was loving this.
"It's just a big distraction," Laphelle said, turning to examine his vine work with crossed arms.
"And an enjoyable one. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Maybe at one time. Then, as the humans here say, 'it got old.'"
Malynko walked beside him and he smiled, his green eyes trac
ing the leafy creepers. "Nice decoration."
"Bite me."
"Oh, is that what you really want?"
This time, Laphelle's gaze wasn't just cold; it was arctic. The Elitist erupted into a spell of laughter. Laphelle simply stared at him, a prodded lion behind bars, anxious and ready to attack. When the laughter nearly made him come unglued, he spat:
"I'd rather die choking on my own vomit, which you really are encouraging me to do, you cretin. Go put some clothes on!"
Still chuckling, Malynko raised a single eyebrow and made his way to the house. "It might lift this mood of yours."
"Listen!"
Laphelle raised both hands as if he were a stage actor hushing an audience. Malynko turned around.
"I hate everyone with the utmost equality," the rogue said. "But I want you to know the thought of even touching you—and I don't care what anatomy you'd choose for your loins—the whole idea makes me want to throw myself into an erupting volcano. Your idea of fun isn't mine. So leave me alone."
"Done." Malynko shrugged, turning around again. As he strode to the door, he muttered, "Earth. We're on Earth and you're throwing fits when you could be out learning something or at least enjoying yourself."
He entered the house, closing the door behind him—even the way he pulled it shut was powerfully sensual.
Rolling his eyes, Laphelle shook his head, his rage swallowing him up into a sphere of anger where time sped by like lightning. Before he knew it, Malynko was emerging from the home once more, now dressed in a new outfit: a sleek black suit.
"If you don't like the selection I brought," he said, "there are plenty of clothing shops all over town. You might want to wear something new."
"No."
"I thought I'd offer the suggestion." He switched his tone of voice from playful to purposeful. "Tonight I visit Eva. And tomorrow, we will consult the young witches north of town—the ones you failed to find. Why don't you try to locate them again tonight?"
"And if I still can't find them?"
"Buy a map." The Elitist smiled, spreading his massive wings. "Surely you can locate a house with a map."
He leapt into the air, and the night sky engulfed his frame. Laphelle hated when Malynko had the last word.
Wings of the Divided: The Divided Book 1 Page 14