His eyes went wide.
The walls...
They were covered, literally covered in knife slashes, horrible gashes all identical to the one he'd made on Eva Card's wall. Terrified, he clutched his gun and ran to his drawer, ready to gather all the weapons he could hold, when he noticed his two biggest knives were gone. The blood drained from his face.
Then, he heard it:
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
His knives. There was no mistaking it; he'd scraped them together a thousand times and knew the sound by heart. As his bedroom door latched shut with a click, he raised the gun with a shaking hand, his bladder faltering. He saw a tall figure standing in the shadows, a figure with two glowing green eyes. It suddenly dawned on him that he'd just done what those stupid blondes in all those horror movies did: backed himself into a corner. But unlike the girls in the horror flicks, he had a gun. Screaming at the top of his lungs, he aimed for those eyes and emptied his weapon of its bullets.
When the moment of chaos died down, he took a moment to catch his breath, thinking he'd made mincemeat of whatever freak had invaded his space. He gasped when the eyes appeared again. None of the shots had hit it? It had to be a ghost! Either that or someone fast enough to dodge bullets—there was no way!
"Believe it," the ghost said, his voice clearly masculine.
The creature then smiled, a flash of white in the darkness, the door at its back splintered with holes. It stepped out of the shadows and into a jagged moonbeam streaming from the window behind his prey. The ghost was no ghost. Oh, no, this creature of the night had wings! Flapping the dark appendages, the winged nightmare spun the blades, whipping them around his knuckles, cutting through the air with their malicious momentum. The boy took a step back, whimpering, feeling the warmth of his accident between his legs turn cold.
He begged for death before the end.
***
Laphelle
After finding Jack's house again, Laphelle sneaked inside. The door was ajar, the same as it had been last night. His plan was a simple one: he would find the man and demand to see the instrument. He imagined that Jack would certainly be frightened this time—that he would end up cowering under a table, and would do as commanded. But what Laphelle found was quite different.
Loud rock music boomed from the living room as he crept up to the doorway. There was Jack, sitting on an old green-and-yellow couch. The man bent over with laughter on the frayed cushions as he watched two wrestlers theatrically beat one another up on TV. A spandex-wearing warrior with a short ponytail jumped off the ropes and onto another wrestler in skintight black pants. Upon their impact, the loud crowd on the television roared in excitement, and Jack laughed like a hyena. Hermes howled.
The first wrestler pulled the second's beefy body to his feet by his hair, and then slammed the man's forehead against his. The victim did a back flip, and Jack's laugh resounded through the room. Hermes howled again.
Enough was enough. Laphelle lifted a fist and knocked on the wall, hanging pictures and mirrors jingling upon each firm tap. Jack jumped and turned his head, his foot jarring the coffee table that held his spilling soda.
"You!" he cried, fumbling for something beneath the couch cushions.
Laphelle watched him find the TV remote and turn off the television. Hermes gave a short barking, but after sniffing the angel's feet, he walked away on short, stubby legs. Jack stood, suddenly seeming to find his pride as he brushed some stray kernels of popcorn off his Led Zeppelin T-shirt. He ran around the couch and stood in front of Laphelle, who had invited himself in the room. The angel stared. The man stared back and tossed some stray hairs out of his eyes.
"You're no dream," he said, his face lit with either awe or joy; Laphelle couldn't tell.
"No," said the angel. He narrowed his eyes. "Why aren't you afraid of me?"
Jack smiled. "I'm terrified."
"Then why aren't you running?"
"Because we shouldn't always run from things we're scared of. We'd miss too much in life. I've been all over the world, you see. I've seen some very strange people and very strange things. And I'm not just talking about people with tails or three eyes. I've seen those things too, but what I'm talking about is the unexplainable." He crossed his arms. "This morning in class everyone was talking about the rumor of what went on downtown last night, and all of a sudden I remembered. Do you know what I remembered?"
"No, I—"
"That old gypsy woman I met in Europe. She was really strange, had two different colored eyes. Do you know what she told me?"
"No. I—"
"She told me that she foresaw a creature of unearthly power coming into my life. She told me several things about him. For instance, she said he would be very strong, very intimidating, not of this world. Said that I would play some part in his destiny."
"Well, I—"
"Course, I didn't believe the old crone. I was only thirty at the time." He seemed to hug himself as he reflected. "I was quite a wanderer back then, just trying to spread what I knew of medicine to the world. I had big dreams then. Isn't it crazy how we think we're going to be the ones to save the universe all by ourselves?"
"What are you talking about? Tell me where the instrument is!"
"Pushy, aren't you?" His tone turned fatherly. "You're in my house you know. And I'm not done talking to you yet."
Laphelle's eyes widened and he cocked his head to the side. Jack ran to the coffee table and picked up one of the angel's long black feathers. He held it in front of his face and walked up to him again, his hand shaking.
"I found this after coming home today. So tell me, is old Max Edenton lying about you? You don't seem like an actor to me."
"Who's Max Edenton?"
His trembling vanished, a charmed smile forming in its place.
"I'll be damned," he said. "Jack, take a look at your younger years."
"Excuse me?"
"That gypsy woman was wrong about one thing."
Laphelle, annoyed, placed a hand on the back of the couch and leaned. "What?"
Jack's eyes crinkled. He smiled playfully.
"You're not very intimidating," he said.
Laphelle gave him a blank look. If he hadn't desired to find the violin so badly, he would have cut off the man's head and taught him a lesson on intimidation. But he was on a mission.
"That's wonderful that you think that," he said, lifting his hand from the couch. "But I really, really would like you to show me—WHAT are you doing!"
Jack had moved behind him and was touching his wings. The angel spun around and unsheathed his sword. He held it to Jack's throat and gave the man an exasperated stare.
"Sorry!" Jack said. "I just wanted to see how they're connected!"
"Don't touch them!" Laphelle said, bewildered that a human would dare get that close to him.
"Why not? Are they actually real?"
"Of COURSE they're real!"
The blond rogue removed his sheath from his back and grabbed the front of his black jacket, tearing the fabric off of his body. He tossed it to the floor. Then he turned his back to Jack, placing the sword in the sheath, so that the man could get a good look at his wings. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Jack's face turn serious. The man blinked as he scanned the image before him with twinkling eyes.
"Well, you didn't have to ruin your little coat," he said. "I just asked if they were real."
After tossing his sheathed sword on the squishy cushions of the couch, Laphelle reached down and grabbed the torn jacket. "It's Vermusian silk, you idiot. Give it a minute, and it'll meld back into its originally tailored shape."
"Vermusian?" Jack grinned, taking a glance at the jacket that had already started to mend itself.
"Yes," Laphelle spat. "I take it you've never heard of it here."
"Nope. Where's it from? Some secret village in China? I'll buy it from you."
Laphelle laughed and slipped the material back over his body. "There is no way possible that I w
ould let you keep this outfit. This kind of silk can't even be found anymore, ever since the skraelligs practically went extinct."
"Skraelligs? What the hell kind of a word is that?" He chuckled.
"They're a type of insect that makes the—WHY am I telling you this! Show me to the instrument or I'll kill you and forget this night even existed!"
"Calm down. What instrument?"
"The one. That you were playing. Last night." He had never talked with a human for such a long time; it was exhausting. "Don't tell me you don't remember."
"Let me think. What was I doing last night?" His brow crinkled, then smoothed as he happily raised his eyebrows. "Oh! The violin! You heard that racket?" He laughed. "Come with me."
Laphelle's heart jumped. Violin. Yes, that was right. He let every smooth syllable of the word warm him as he followed Jack into the dining room.
"I usually play in here," he said, "so I keep it up on this shelf." He reached out and took hold of the case's handle to pull it off of a faded old wooden cabinet. "What did you say your name was?"
"Laphelle."
He walked up to the case that Jack had set on the table.
"Well, Laphelle, before I show it to you, I have to tell you a story about how I got it." The First Rank nodded, looking at the black case in anticipation. "I was in Africa. I got it from a medicine man. Kamooloo Taka was his name. I was in his village, giving out free vaccines, when his appendix burst. I took care of it, and he gave me this violin as a present."
"Do your patients always give you such gifts?"
"No. Sometimes they don't give me anything."
He turned to the foolish man and frowned. "Then they cheat you."
"No, you don't get it. I don't let them pay me." Laphelle gave him a blank stare. "You wouldn't believe what shape the world is in, son. Just because America has gotten way too materialistic for its own good doesn't mean that the rest of the world has a television, let alone a bed to sleep on. No, there are some places where the people don't even have roofs over their heads. In this day and age, can you believe it? No, those people don't pay me. I don't want them to." He shook his head. "I like to think the entire human race matters, not just stiffs with thick purses."
He gently unlatched the lid of the black case, and slowly revealed a faded golden instrument with shiny, feminine curves.
"It's an original Strad," he said. "You know, a Stradivarius? Isn't that incredible? Its worth is in the millions! If old Max Edenton knew I had it, he'd be at my door, begging me to sell it to him. But he'd probably keep it in a glass case somewhere and never use it. What good would it be then?"
Laphelle shrugged, his eyes glued to the instrument.
"Kamooloo got it because he healed an Asian woman—the violin was hers, passed down through her family. She gave it to the old man as a gift for healing her. And then he gave it to me. He made me promise never to give it away unless it was to someone who healed me, just to keep the tradition."
Laphelle reached out for the instrument. He lost track of time stroking its sleek, painted wood, letting his fingers trace the S-shaped sound holes on the belly.
"This," he said, his voice hushed and childlike, "this is the thing that made that music? The—the violin?"
"Yes."
He observed the angel's awed expression and lifted the violin's long bow, which was not as antique as the instrument.
"You play it like so," he said.
He reached for the violin, readying himself to demonstrate, when Laphelle grabbed it by the neck. He was careful to be gentle, trying not to think about the horror he would feel if he somehow broke the precious treasure. A wave of tingling déjà vu hit him, and without consciously realizing what he was doing, he lifted the violin to his shoulder and placed his chin on the rest.
"Oh," Jack said quietly. "Do you know how?"
Laphelle's heartbeat quickened, and he battled the growing sound of his nervous breath then reached out firmly for the bow. Jack handed it to him and took a seat at the table, still looking at the angel's black wings. Laphelle lifted the bow, not knowing why the sensation was so familiar. His heart pounded as he brought it closer to the strings. This feeling was new to him, this fear. His mysterious movements were not in his control. It was as if the powerful-yet-fleeting memory he continually failed to fully recall guided his hands.
Then, something magical happened.
A long, high note rang throughout the room, drowning out all other sound. Laphelle brought the bow slowly across the string with perfect accuracy, the note seeming to carry on forever. Jack's eyes widened. The angel reached the end of his bow and vibrated the fingers that pressed the string on the fingerboard, making the end of the note sing.
"Wow," Jack said.
Not sparing a second, the angel let his fingers guide his playing. The music that emerged was like a romantic rain shower, one that could lift the spirits of the most depressed souls. It was a song that would stop anyone in his tracks and cause him to sigh, remembering a fond dream, his hope ignited from the strings' enchanting touch. The smooth melody brought a soft, peaceful smile to Laphelle's lips. The kind of smile he did not know he was capable of.
His fingers moved swiftly over each string, his other hand commanding the bow with grace. In his mind, he could hear other instruments—an accompaniment to the song that he somehow remembered—and as his playing went on, the memory of the symphony grew louder.
Hermes entered the room and cocked his head to one side. Jack leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his stomach. The angel closed his eyes and brought the music higher, the notes climbing with the pace of his elated heart, as the symphony in his mind rose up to heights of musical ecstasy. He began to tremble. Even though the hidden memory refused to fully show itself, the music stirred up such a deeply buried happiness in him that two tears streamed down his face.
He was unaware of the sudden trickles of emotional release, his spirit lost in the beautiful trance of joyous peace he had set free.
Not able to get enough, he moved his fingers faster and faster until Hermes began to bark at the notes that were too high for humans to hear. Laphelle's arm that held the bow moved at speeds faster than any human could see. He never wanted this to stop. Never. He bit his lower lip.
Then he felt a strong hand grab his arm.
The music ceased, and his eyes shot open as if he had been rudely awakened from an intense slumber. He blinked, realizing that he had wept.
Never in his furthest memory, could he remember a time that he had cried.
He looked down and saw that Jack was the one that held his arm, the man's face lit with confusion. After he slowly let go, Laphelle laid the violin and bow on the table with hands that violently shook.
"That was incredible!" Jack said, placing a hand on the angel's shivering back. "Are you all right? What's wrong?"
Laphelle brought a hand to his face, covering it, trying to control the new emotion that had taken hold of his soul. Jack ran to another room and returned with a long tan overcoat. He handed it to Laphelle, who snatched it out of his hands, momentarily stopping the shivers with the brash movement.
"It was my father's," Jack said. "Maybe it'll help—"
"I have to go," Laphelle whispered.
"What? You can't go now! You're a wreck!"
The angel ran to the door, swaying like a drunkard. Hermes followed at his feet, jumping out of the way of his clumsy stumbles. With Jack's father's jacket still in his hand, Laphelle pushed the front door open and ran outside.
"Will you come back?" the man asked from the doorway. He sounded desperate. "I hold a part in your destiny, you know!"
Laphelle stopped and turned back for an instant. Foolish human. Of course he would be coming back. There were too many questions, and he had to have answers. But for now he needed to be alone. He needed to think. After giving Jack a firm nod, he ran down the street, heading back into town to walk off the strange intoxication that had so forcefully seized his spirit.
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***
Jack
Jack watched him go, making sure he didn't stumble. He stood on the porch and smiled, his heart skipping to the beat of a new and adventurous drum.
So, the old gypsy had been right after all.
***
Gidyon
The angel Aaron appeared to Gidyon in translucent shades of luminescent blue that dimly lit the dark church. He wore his hair pulled back. A white uniform loosely fit around his body. Gidyon listened intently as the angel spoke telepathically to his mind.
Several of us saw the fight that happened—a bad move on Malynko's part.
"I know," Gidyon said. He held his glowing crystal in hand as he knelt at the altar and hoped he hadn't flinched too visibly at the mention of Malynko's name. "I'm glad you were able to reach me safely."
The important thing is you, not me. Are you safe for now?
"Yes. We're staying with Max Edenton, a very kind human being. I sense no evil intentions in him. Does anyone else know that we're here? Besides the few who saw the fight?"
Everyone knows. Lucifer was summoned to God's presence, but the Almighty didn't punish him for opening the gate, only threatened him never to do it again.
"So it was Lucifer." Gidyon cast his eyes downward and whispered, "How could we be so foolish?"
It wasn't your fault. If you ask me, and I speak for everyone I've spoken with about the matter, the Dark Prince got off too easily. What he has done is an abomination. He told God the whole story, about how he had it planned, how he tricked you. He claims it was done simply to stir things up. He said he got bored. We know you and Noam are completely innocent.
"I don't want to waste any more of your time—did the Almighty say nothing else about our being here? How will we return?"
As we speak, Michael is being contacted. He will come to your aid as soon as he can. There are some pressing matters he has been attending to elsewhere, but if you can remain patient until he arrives, he is bringing some of his best warriors with him to send Malynko and Laphelle to the Lands of the Dead. He will be given the power to open the gate wherever you are, so that you and Noam may return while his angels take care of the villains. It could be a few days, but we don't know. I can't imagine the worry you must be feeling.
Wings of the Divided: The Divided Book 1 Page 16