Wings of the Divided: The Divided Book 1

by C. J. Sullivan

  When the Elitist was out of hearing distance, he mocked in a breathy, seductive voice, " 'Surely you can locate a house with a maaap.'" Then, scoffing, he remarked under his breath, "Pompous, overrated—"

  A familiar sound halted his rant.

  It came from one of the spare bedrooms on the second floor. He jerked his neck up to the darkened window where a light shone through a crack in the sill.

  That sound…

  It was the same sound he'd heard last night, only now accompanied by other instruments. But to Laphelle, it was that one special sound that stood out above the rest: the sound of the violin. With a quick swoop of his wings, he flew to the window and kicked it in. Glass shards flew everywhere, cutting little Kiazmo who had figured out how to work the stereo system.

  "Why! Why did you d—do that?" Kiazmo shrieked, huddling next to the wall.

  "You," Laphelle barked at him. "Where's that sound coming from?"

  "There!" Kiazmo pointed to the player and several speakers on the wall.

  As the stereo continued to play loud chamber music, Laphelle marched over to the box that held the spinning CD. The music overcame him. He felt dizzy, in a wonderful, soothing trance. Shaking his head as if to knock the sensation off of him, he growled, his old, murderous soul begging him to shut it off. And so, fighting the tranquil feeling that threatened to calm him forever, he took the player in both hands and pulled it out from the wall. With the yank of the plug, the music stopped.

  The sound of the violin was gone, stripped away, violently muted.

  It made his heart sink, his suddenly edgy nerves pushing him into a terrible mood.

  Kiazmo yanked off his cloak in rage and screamed, "You broke it!"

  "I did NOT!" Laphelle roared as he threw the box to the ground with a smash. "THAT was breaking it!"

  Kiazmo screamed in fury. Laphelle gave his naked body a blank look. Bones protruded from the little angel's skin. Already his frame desired to change into a demonic shape.

  "I made it play! And it took me a very, very, very long time!" He rose to his petite feet. "A very long time!"

  Laphelle stared down at the broken pieces of the stereo, remembering the song of the violin he had heard the previous night. It came back to him, fresh and crisp. His ears suddenly ached for that sound, his body magnetically pulled to the house where the instrument was.

  "That man," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Jack."

  "Who—who's Jack?"

  "Nobody." He gave Kiazmo's frail figure a disgusted glance. "You look like death itself, Kiazmo. Put some clothes on, for the sake of everyone's eyes that have to look at you. What is wrong with everyone today?"

  He moved to the window, letting the night breeze ruffle his clothes as it passed over the sharp shards of glass left protruding from the frame like jagged teeth.

  "Where are you going?" Kiazmo whined, pulling his long cloak over his bony shoulders.

  "To the city. I'll be back later."

  "But I want to go to the city, too!"

  Laphelle stopped and irately spun around. "You can fly by your damned self! What are you? Some sort of infant?" Then, he climbed out the window, grumbling, "By Lucifer, I swear you are the most helpless, annoying creature—"

  The loud whoosh of his wings drowned out the sound of his irritated voice.

  ***

  Kiazmo

  Several minutes passed and Kiazmo was still standing where the blond rogue had left him. His bony chest heaving, he looked at the broken stereo, pieces of black plastic strewn all over the hardwood floor. The little angel felt very alone. Malynko had told him earlier that he, too, would be gone for the night. Kiazmo looked down at his hands that were cut from the shards of glass. He reached up to a sliver that stabbed his soft cheek and pulled it free, feeling warm liquid stream down his face. Blood. It excited him.

  So be it. He would go on an adventure tonight as well.

  ***

  Malynko

  Malynko didn't let Laphelle's foul mood affect him. He'd put up with the blond rogue for centuries and knew well to ignore his comments, no matter how rude they were. Taking confident strides along the sidewalk of the downtown party district, he adjusted the silk tie around his neck, letting a catchy African rhythm from a nearby club seize his booted feet. His hair flowed long and free behind him, his green eyes glowing brightly. Every streetlamp he passed dimmed, surged by his electric presence.

  The Elitist was feeling great.

  He had to admit it was a relief being away from the battlefront of war, having to travel to planet after planet, always tense out of suspicion that a wretched team of Michael's angels was waiting to foil his plans. But not now. Noam certainly was a notable foe, his Thanatakran powers well respected, but there was only one of his kind here.

  Gidyon had no power.

  Slipping through an empty alley behind a strip of bars, he emerged on a quiet road where a sign across the street immediately caught his eye:

  FORTUNES BY EVA

  Aha.

  The words were painted above a doorway on a wooden plaque, designed to look authentically antiquated. The entryway was open, leading into a tiny shop hiding in a nook below a set of abandoned apartments with old, cast-iron balcony railings. He walked up to the door and ducked into a short, narrow hallway, another doorway, this one strewn with strings of Oriental beads that obstructed his view of the fortuneteller inside. Glancing at the walls, which were covered with exotic rugs, he grinned. Decorations around him included voodoo dolls, brass pentagrams, diagrams of palmistry, and crystal amulets. Placed on either side of her beaded doorway was a black shelf; on each sat a tall scented candle that didn't quite mask the prevalent musky odor of the aged walls. The fallen angel reached forward and slid his long fingers through the beads, the candlelight making them sparkle.

  He stepped through, wrapping his invisible wings tighter around his torso. Eva, a young clairvoyant woman to whom he'd sent dreams to prepare her for his coming, sat with both darkly tanned hands on her wooden desk, the candles on her walls dancing in eerie silence. Malynko cocked his head to the side, his lust stirred. She was nice to look at from the first realm, but in the flesh she was quite an impressive beauty. A lock of her long dark hair nestled, curling in her luscious, inviting cleavage, her shapely body poured into a black corset dress. But despite her attractiveness, there was one significant problem with their meeting:

  She did not know he was there.

  Her eyes were closed, her full, red lips trembling.

  Malynko crossed one leisurely foot over the other and leaned against the side of the doorway to wait. He'd witnessed plenty of people in trances. Most of the time it was chemically induced, but occasionally, just rarely, a person had that gift to free her mind and allow her body to be possessed by a dark spirit of the underworld. He never cared much for possessing. It always took too much energy out of him. And it rarely did anything other than scare the living daylights out of whoever witnessed the act. The people being possessed never knew what happened, just received some thought the demon or angel sent to distract them while their limbs were being controlled by the malevolent puppeteer.

  He was about to give up on her when her eyes shot open, a gust of pure energy sending a heat wave through the small room. He drew closer to her, pushing aside the folding guest chair, the beads clattering behind him. He leaned over the desk, the irises of her big eyes narrowing, becoming slit-like.

  "Who's there?" said Malynko, sitting down in the metal guest seat.

  The woman's lips parted in a wide, chilling grin. She opened her mouth to speak, and a distorted, gravelly voice flowed over her lips.

  "My liege," said the voice. "I am but a humble demon. We've never met."

  "Well," said Malynko, "it is a pleasure."

  "All going well for you on Earth?"

  "Quite well, thank you. I take it she was meditating."

  "Yes, calling the spirits. I've made sure to give her a nice fantasy for you. I've already promised her u
nlimited wealth if she follows you." The woman's arm lifted, controlled by the evil spirit inside of her. "I will depart now. May dark fortune be with you and the First Rank—though I speak for everyone, I'm glad he's with you and not with me."

  Malynko gave a brief lift of his eyebrows, considering the statement, and Eva's eyelids closed, her body convulsing in sudden spasms. The Elitist leaned his back against the metallic chair and waited. The table rattled, the woman's hands holding the sides of it like a frightened passenger in a hellishly turbulent plane ride, until finally the demon left her.

  Eva's big brown eyes fluttered open, the irises round once more.

  "Oh," she said, deep and breathy. She stood up, trembling. "I—I did not know you were here." A delicious Latino accent danced on her tongue. "I knew it. I knew my dreams were real! I could not explain how, but I knew!" Clasping her hands together, she shrieked, "I knew it!"

  He raised a hand to calm her hysterics. "Shh. I did not mean to break your meditative state."

  "I was having a vision." She smiled proudly. "A powerful one."

  "That you were."

  "This spirit promised"—she blushed—"great pleasure in my future. How is it that spirits can tell the future if they are but the life of this present Earth?"

  "Because they are, they were, and they will forever be," said the Elitist. "Time is not linear, but a circular cycle, destined to repeat itself over and over. The spirits can sense familiar patterns in your human lives and predict your future from it. We are always accurate."

  "But why would Nature be so eager to please us, those who harm her? Is it our ancestors? Do they link with the other spirits to—"

  "I will answer all questions in time. For now, please, sit."

  He could see that the mere resonance of his voice made her body break out in a sweat. He easily felt the sudden magnetic pull between them, saw in her eyes the desire to do whatever he asked of her. Good. This would make it easier on both of them. She sat down.

  "You do not know what an honor this is for me," she said, slightly rolling the R.

  "You may speak your native language, if you like," he said with a stealthy smile. "I am fluent in all tongues."

  "Oh," she said, raising dark, arched brows. Then she looked away. "I vowed to never again speak Spanish. I was but a young woman when my mother and I moved here from Mexico, a chubby and shy little girl who fit in nowhere." Her lip curled as if the memory were made of vile poison. "But America is a country of freedom, a country where dreams come true. I found my place under the blessed Goddess's wings." Meeting his eyes, she said, "My parents disowned me for my blasphemy."

  "A shame. But I have come to adopt you, pagan child."

  "Malynko." Her eyes were glittery with tears of joy. "Yes, spirit of nature manifest in the flesh. Sent to teach us." Her brow suddenly furrowed. "I told the witches of your coming. Their coven is dear to my heart, but though some believe what I have told them, others say you cannot exist—particularly the high priestess. She holds tight to the old ways. I warned her of the dangers of never giving into change. I told her that if I hadn't turned from Catholicism I would have been forever blinded."

  "Well," Malynko said with a smile, "They will all be educated before the end."

  "Will you be needing any supplies?"

  She pointed to her right where a cabinet sat squeezed between the ceiling and walls, a pane of clear glass displaying different items for sale inside, including books on magic, packs of candles, jars of rare herbs, and handmade bracelets. He shook his head, and she reached into a drawer to pull out a deck of gold-backed Medieval Tarot Cards.

  "I will give my personal deck to you," she said, "if you desire one that is used—"

  "No. I have everything taken care of."

  Her eyelids grew heavy with desire as she watched his lips form each succulent syllable. Very good. Like a puppet in his hands.

  "Tonight," he said, softening his voice, "I'm all yours."

  This meeting had gone delightfully well. Usually it took some time convincing people that he was indeed real and they were not crazy, whether he lied to them and told them he was a spirit of nature or even on rare occasions when he told the truth. Luckily, Eva was as gullible as a naive child. She would believe the world was flat if he said so.

  "Anything I can do for you, my pagan beauty?" he asked. "Remember that I have not only come to teach, but to bring retribution to those who have harmed the Earth by doing violence to nature. Those criminals who have taken part in breaking our blessed harmony cannot go unpunished."

  He took her palm in his hand and made tiny circles on her skin with his gently brushing pointer finger. She was a married woman. He'd seen her husband. The comparison between that man and him was almost comical. There was no comparison. He let out a breath, its sensual energy trailing down her neck like erotic fingers. Nervously clearing her throat, she looked down at their joined hands. She was now caressing his fingers.

  "I might have a request of you," she said. "But it would feel so inappropriate, you being the one—"

  He put a finger to his lips, calming her with another "Shh," and plucked an invisible feather from his wings. He waved it in front of her face and the cloak fell off, revealing the quill's original, glossy black sheen. The tip of it touched her forehead, traveled over her nose, and stopped at the part in her lips.

  The sigh she released was laced with a shudder.

  "Winged," she said, taking the feather. "Just like in the dream."

  "Yes. Though I am made of all things, the trees, the rivers, the mountains, this is the shape the Goddess has chosen for me. I feel so different being in a body." He looked down, smiling with false timidity. "Contained, yet, altogether empowered. What do you think of it?"

  "I—I think it is magnificent."

  "Good." His sham of shyness vanished, and he made soul-penetrating eye contact with her. He whispered, "Now, tell me what you desire."

  Malynko thought she was going to ravage him right there over the desk, but then she broke away from his gaze. She turned to a crude knife slash in her golden wallpaper and narrowed her eyes.

  "A mark made by an unsatisfied teenaged customer," she said. "I wouldn't have given the criminal a bad reading, but he made lewd remarks about my body and refused to pay my fees. So I made sure he drew the Devil and Death card, and he left the blemish on my wall."

  She glanced down at the thick binder at her feet. "I have his name and address in my record book." Lifting her black feathery lashes, she said, "He needs to be taught a lesson."

  ***

  Phillip

  Phil sat on his floor, reaching into a bag of chips. Squinting, he madly pressed his thumbs on the buttons of his videogame controller, the light of the TV burning his bloodshot eyes in the darkness of his bedroom. He yawned when the screen flashed GAME OVER, then he stood up.

  Phil was a proud eighteen-year-old who knew everything there was to know about life. He turned off the television and shuffled his feet to his bathroom. Grimacing when he entered the confined, cologne-scented space, he made a mental note to bitch at his mom when the 'rents got back in town. He was sick of having a small bathroom. When they moved into the new two-story, he gave her plenty of a heads-up that he was going to need a larger, more private space, and that no the guest bathroom didn't cut it. He deserved something within his access. He was the star quarterback for Grant High School. Was a nice bathroom too much to ask for? Yawning again, he reached out an arm clad in the sleeve of a turtleneck from The Gap, and turned on the shower.

  Suddenly the power in the house went out.

  "What?" he whined, angrily flipping the useless light switch up and down, the sharp clicks flustering him further. "I'm gonna kill them!"

  Stepping back into his room to write a reminder to yell at his parents for letting the electricity go out when they were gone—didn't they know better than to deprive him of his basic needs?—his feet stepped on something smooth.

  The touch startled him. He could h
ave sworn his floor was spotless. Mom had cleaned it that afternoon. He crouched down on his haunches, feeling around for whatever it was. Slowly, he picked up two Tarot Cards. One was the Devil, the other Death. Remembering his reading from Eva, he grinned, standing back up and tossing the cards to the ground.

  "Hey, bitch, is that you?" he said, his voice deep and cocky. "Your hot, wetback ass need somethin'?" He almost got an erection with the thought of her naked, but when no one replied, his heart started to pound in apprehension. "Hey, Espanola, you can quit hiding now."

  The front door slammed shut, and he jumped. Adrenaline racing through his quarterback veins, he smiled, though nervously. Maybe the bitch wasn't alone. Maybe she and all her little Mexican friends thought they would try to start something when his parents were away. What a cowardly slut.

  Stealthily leaping to his dresser, he pulled open the top drawer, revealing a stash of weapons. Knives, guns, brass knuckles. His mom had said something to him about his collection once, said it was dangerous. He'd laughed it off. And Dad didn't give a damn. Taking a loaded .22 in hand, he shut the drawer and made his way to his bedroom door. When the shower shut off, he halted. Fear gripped him. Was she in his room? A bead of sweat trailed down his jaw. Holding the gun up by his face—just like how he saw the cops do in action movies—he tiptoed to the bathroom door. The shower curtain was exactly as he left it, the room empty.

  "Shit," he whispered, quickly losing composure.

  He took two steps out of his room and peered down the stairs. The porcelain vase sat on the shelf at the bottom, nothing new there. The front door was closed, just like he'd left it when he came in for the night. Feeling his heartbeat in his ears, he quietly made his way down the stairs, the third one creaking under his weight, sending his nerves through the roof. Once at the bottom, he stopped in front of the door and stood for several minutes, calming his pulse, trying to rationalize the situation. Maybe he didn't really hear it shut a second ago. He turned around to climb the stairs again. Maybe he didn't really see the cards. The creaky step made his heart shoot up into his throat and he skipped the rest of the way to the top. Maybe it was all just his imagination, induced by too much time playing video games. Letting out a sigh, he stepped into his room. Maybe he needed to go to bed. With the gun. Maybe—