"We're managing," Gidyon said, thinking of the night of the fight, his voice lit with a sardonic chuckle. "Thank you for responding, Aaron. If you speak with Raphael, tell him I apologize if my absence has slowed down any missions."
Well, we manage too, Gidyon. You know that.
"Yes. Take care." Gidyon smiled, forcing himself to return to the cheerful character everyone knew him to be. "I'll see you again soon."
Aaron nodded. May your soul's joyful light never go out, Gidyon. Farewell.
His essence melted into the air until not a wispy trace was left.
Gidyon's joyful demeanor slowly fell away.
He looked up and his eyes found a massive crucifix hanging on the wall in front of him. A wooden sculpture of Christ's dying body hung nailed to the cross, His face cast to the ceiling in beautiful, tragic agony. The healer stood up. With respect guiding his slow movements, he stepped toward the crucifix, his footsteps inaudible in the thick silence. Running his tanned hands over the smooth wood, he let out a painful sigh, the sound of it echoing through the chapel like a brokenhearted lament.
To die.
It was the ultimate sacrifice for a world of people the Almighty loved so dear.
People He loved, who ignored, mocked, and despised Him.
He'd save them, but turn away from…from the ones…who were once…
Gidyon's thoughts began to overwhelm him. He knew they were wrong, these thoughts. They were rebellious, always landing him in turmoil. But they were truths, these thoughts, so why should he turn from them? Unable to deal with it, he felt his hands begin to tremble, and he pulled them close, lowering his gaze to the ground.
He thought of his lost soul-mate brother.
The familiar lump grew in his throat, threatening the tears he'd cried time and time again. He lifted a weary hand to his face.
As the angel stood beside the cross, his heart burning with dark, hidden memories, the wooden Christ continued to look up to the heavens.
***
Noam
The stillness of the night did nothing to soothe Noam's troubled heart. Many times he had dreamt the nightmare, those horrible visions of his past gnawing on his subconscious, threatening his very sanity. But that night, a certain memory had taken hold of him by the heart: the memory of Malachi. His brother's face was so clear in his mind. Noam could almost hear his strong, confident voice telling him that things would be all right. But they weren't. Malachi was dead.
Noam stuck his hands in his pockets as he walked down a lower-middleclass neighborhood, his wings safely tucked away under his coat. His brown eyes darted from house to house as he made sure no angels of darkness were hiding within their walls. Last night's fight should have been enough to convince Malynko to stay hidden for a while, but Noam felt it his duty to at least patrol the city in case the Elitist tried anything stupid. But that was doubtful. Malynko was never stupid.
The Thanatakran's preternatural ears detected the sounds of televisions and radios within the homes he passed. He grew bored with the lack of action and about decided to head downtown, when a door creaked open to his right. He dashed out from under the light of the street lamps and beheld a tiny fairylike figure emerging from the home. It was the little girl in the white coat. His heart jumped. He watched and listened closely.
"Here you are," said a man, following the girl onto his porch. "One hundred for Dad, and fifteen for you to go buy yourself something special."
Noam furrowed his brow and moved where he could see the man in the doorway. He was a thin, dirty creature, thick-bearded and red-eyed. He handed the trembling little girl a wad of cash then reached down to zip up his pants. Noam slowly and steadily narrowed his eyes.
"Be sure and thank him for the favor, sweetie," the man said, scratching his needle-scarred arms. "You don't even put up a fight. Such a pretty little mouth. Better get out of here before my wife gets home from work."
The little girl nodded quickly and shoved the money in her coat pockets with tiny doll-like hands.
Noam fumed.
The girl started to head down the street, walking at a medium pace. Smiling sickly, the man in the doorway watched her go with the eyes of a pleased predator. He sighed with perverted joy and closed the door when the little girl was about a third of the way down the street. Noam waited like a tiger in the thicket then made his move.
He walked up to the door, found the bell, and rang it. He listened. He could hear mumbling.
"Ah," said the man. "Must be Bret with the stash. I thought he was bringin' that shit tomorrow."
Noam felt his empty presence reach the front door. His pulse pounding in his fingertips, he saw the knob turn. Noam met his eyes and brought his foot to the man's face. The man passed out instantly, his face broken and colored by a red boot print. Noam didn't have the time to waste, nor did he have the authority to take the monstrous man's life, though he wanted to terribly. His target now was the little girl's pimping father.
Oh, yes.
There would be justice tonight.
He left the man and followed the girl, his feet treading the ground with feline silence. His heart wrenched when he saw her begin to sob. She wiped her tears away quickly, as if they were forbidden to flow. Suddenly, he realized what it was about her that he found so familiar. Her hair was the same color as Malachi's.
Turning toward a small one-bedroom shack, the girl sniffed back her remaining tears and knocked four soft times on the door. Noam slipped out of sight at the sound of a rusty lock being forcefully unlatched. A hideously overweight boar of a man appeared in the doorway and smiled at the sight of the little girl. He opened a hand, and she gave him the hundred dollars. After pocketing the cash, he cracked his knuckles.
"I know he gave you something extra, Christine. He always does. Now, give it to Daddy, or you sleep in the backyard with the bugs."
"No, Daddy!" Christine peeped. "Here! You can have the rest." She handed the remaining money from her pockets to his greedy, fat fingers. "Please don't make me sleep outside!"
"Do you love me?"
"Yes, Daddy! I will always love you!"
"You'll never leave me like Mommy did?"
"No, Daddy."
"Mommy was a cheating skank."
"I know, Daddy," she said, looking down. "I know."
"How old were you when she left us? Huh?"
"One." Her reply sounded rehearsed. "Only one year old."
"Well, she'll get hers in the end," he said, eyeing her like a vulture. "You know what you can do for Daddy if he lets you sleep inside?" He began to fidget with the buttons on her coat. "You can share his bed tonight."
"Oh, but Daddy I'm so sleepy." She fought with his hands that eagerly searched for the young flesh underneath her coat. "Daddy! Please!"
The man's face fell cross. "You get in the house, you little skank, and do what I say, or the Devil will come and eat your soul."
Noam heard enough.
His eyes flickered bright green, and he took off his coat, tossing it to the ground as he stalked toward the house with vengeful intent. Entering the man's yard, he let his wings flash a brilliant white. Christine gasped and turned around.
The man shouted, "What the hell?"
The Thanatakran grabbed him by the collar with one fist and effortlessly lifted him off the ground. Christine stumbled out of the way and landed in the dead grass of the yard, staring, eyes wide. The angel hated to frighten her, but with divine retribution tightening his grip, he slammed the man's back against the rickety paneling of the house.
And then, Noam spoke.
"Do you have any idea where this will take you?" His smooth voice was darkened by rage. "The Devil will come and eat your soul, you pathetic human being."
The man stammered and stuttered, drooling from the pressure of the angel's knuckles against his blubbery throat. His eyes were wide and watching Noam's wings. Noam felt his heart fluttering through the arteries beneath thick layers of his fat. Noam pulled his body from the
wall, and the man slowly grinned.
"What, you want a piece of her, too, circus freak? She's cheap."
Not pleased, the angel frowned and slammed him again.
"Do you HEAR me, human?" he shouted, his green eyes penetrating into the man's soul.
"Let—let me—go, you—you goddamn freak of nature!" the boar said through a tight throat, his sordid breath and terrible body odor churning the angel's stomach.
The angel dropped Christine's father to the ground. Then he placed a violent hand on the man's large balding head.
"This is where you'll go," he said, holding tight. "This is where you will get your just rewards if you do not get enough of them in this life. Nothing goes unpunished, you incestuous criminal!"
He streamed a fiery collage of horrific images from his mind into the man's. He showed him the flesh-colored worms, the unquenchable flames, the gut-wrenching screams, letting him feel for his unfortunate self the overwhelming terror and blight that a mere second in Hell shed upon one's soul. The man went into violent spasms, but Noam did not let go.
"Do you see, human?" he shouted through clenched teeth. "Do you see where the guilty, unrepentant ones go? You will join them!"
After he felt like he had punished him enough, Noam released the man. The boar fell to his side sobbing and shaking with sweat pouring down his face. The angel leaned down and grabbed him by the collar once more, forcing him to look up into his unforgiving eyes. The man's trembling induced not even a fragment of sympathy.
"If it were up to me," Noam said crisply, "there would be no chance for you. No hope of redemption after this night." Eyes full of lightning, he lowered his voice. "I order you to leave this city and never return. Your daughter is no longer yours. If so much as your face is seen even a hundred miles from here, I will make sure you regret it."
The man nodded.
"Do you understand?" Noam asked. No response. Then, he raised his voice, giving a firm flap of his wings. "Do you understand?"
Crying, the man nodded again. Noam let him go. After crawling to his thick feet, he ran away, not turning back once to grab anything from his house. Noam watched him with the eyes of an eagle until he was gone. Taking clipped strides to the street, he frowned at the audacity that some humans possessed. As he reached down and picked up his jacket, he slowly released his rage through a long breath and slowed the adrenaline that pumped through his body. The color of his eyes turned back into a passive shade of brown. He turned to face Christine. The girl, huddled in a little ball under her white coat, looked up at him with big, shining eyes. Noam smiled at her gently. Very gently.
Almost whispering, he said, "Hello."
He could sense the girl was not afraid of him, but also sensed she still had not fully grasped her freedom. But there was no doubt she felt a sure sense of relief that she did not have to sleep in Daddy's bed tonight.
In a sweet, mousy voice, she managed to say, "Hi."
Noam walked over to her as if he were approaching a wounded bunny. He carefully knelt down and sat in front of her, making sure not to invade her personal space.
"You have pretty hair," she said. "And big, pretty eyes."
Children. So wonderfully blunt.
"Thank you," he said. "My name is Noam."
"You're welcome. I'm Christine."
"That's a beautiful name. Do you know what angels are, beautiful Christine?"
"Yes. Daddy told me about them. How if I did what he said, that I'd go to Heaven and be with them, and if I didn't, the Devil would take me away."
"Your daddy was not telling you the truth. He made you do terrible things. They made you feel bad, didn't they?"
She nodded, her lip quivering.
"You don't have to do those things anymore," he said, sending her peaceful images from Heaven to her mind. "I promise you."
She reached out a porcelain hand to touch his cheek. Then she looked at his wings.
"Are all angels' wings white?" she asked.
"There are angels who like to help people and do good things," he said. "Their wings are white. But there are also angels who like to hurt people. Their wings are black."
Her voice was barely even a whisper. "Did God send you here to help me?"
Noam smiled as he felt her pixie touch against his face and said, "Why, yes! You're right on your first guess!" Christine giggled, and he smiled a dashing grin. "You're smart and beautiful. What a girl! Would you like to come with me? I have a friend. My friend is a very nice man. He will give you a good place to live."
She looked down the street in the direction her father had fled. Waiting patiently, the angel let her watch, let her let go. And when she turned her gaze back to him, tears glistened in her eyes. He took her hand and tenderly held it in his.
Feel the peace in my touch. The truth. Believe in me. Believe in us.
He squeezed her hand—only slightly—and silently begged her to trust him. When she smiled, a rush of relief came over him, and dimples creased in his cheeks. She stood up and pulled him to his feet, and they walked, hand in hand, to Max's welcoming home.
***
Laphelle
The moon's soft illumination lit Max Edenton's gardens in a gentle, nocturnal glow. The beams faintly shone off of frail flower petals, stretching tree limbs, and sculpted hedges as if each bit of foliage were a precious piece of art on display.
A Fallen angel under a mysterious new enchantment, Laphelle wandered among the flora, seeing each bud not as discolored, but as vibrant and full of new, brilliant vitality.
He held Jack's father's jacket in hand, taking step after slow, mesmerized step. The beautiful beast walked serenely along a narrow, winding path, under two massive maple trees whose branches met in a handshake above his head. Step. Step. Step. The world was so pretty tonight. He strayed from the path, the stars sparkling overhead. He never noticed before how brightly they glittered in the velvety sky. They shone as the memory of the symphony soared with ecstatic life in his head. He could hear the music in the unreachable distance, beckoning, taunting—the sound of the violin hanging in the air like the distant cry of a bird announcing the morning.
It was so familiar.
But he didn't understand why.
As far as he could remember, he never so much as touched a violin in his dark existence, nor had he witnessed a live symphony. Ever.
Ah, but his past, the long-since-forgotten life of an angel of light tucked safely under his Father's bright and loving wing, a time he couldn't remember, perhaps held the secret to this new and wonderful find.
But try as he might, he could not remember.
The blond rogue brushed a few wisps of hair away from his icy blue eyes and reached out a pale, perfect hand to touch a sleeping red passion flower mounted proudly upon its pillar of green. The thin stalk hugged a thick tree trunk. Smiling, he felt of its silky texture and knew there had to be a song just as beautiful as it, to match such a creation. How he knew, he did not know. He tried to capture the faint orchestra's sound, to grasp hold of that elusive wisp of smoke. When nothing came to him, he took a step back.
He stopped when he ran into another body.
Spinning around with his heart in his throat, he gasped and came face to face with Noam.
The Thanatakran, who no telling how long had been there, calmly reached into his duster jacket and pulled out his sai. Laphelle, immediately knocked out of his spell, took a stumbling step away and reached to his sheath.
His sword was gone—carelessly left at Jack's house.
With eyes growing wide, he whispered a shocked, "No!"
He spread his wings. Weaving around the trees with Noam hot on his tail, he added onto his musings.
"No, no, NO!" he cried, quickly losing composure.
Just then, the sun started to peek over the horizon. It was too late to go back to Jack's. He had to return to the base.
After dodging two frightening slashes of his pursuer's forked weapons, he jerked under a portly cherry tree branc
h and grabbed hold of it with both hands. Noam swooped underneath it like a baited fish. When he stopped his momentum and turned around, the rogue had already slipped out of sight.
And so had the tree branch.
Holding the branch as he quietly hovered in the air above Noam, Laphelle waited. Then he whacked the Thanatakran on the back of the head with the massive limb. Tossing it to the ground next to the unconscious warrior, he cursed his own stupidity and fled from the gardens, fled from his unknown past, fled from the power of the coming light.
***
Malynko
Eva was not happy as she waited for Malynko outside the shop door. When he strode up to her, his new outfit stained with blood, he smiled with debonair triumph. But she only sighed and tapped a high-heeled foot.
"Well?" she said.
"Well," he whispered, his frame towering over her voluptuous body. "Mission complete."
Taking her hand in his, he placed the Devil and Death Tarot Cards in her palm. He didn't let go of her right away, and she looked up into his green eyes, his lustful intimidation surrounding her, trapping her.
"What now?" she asked. "My car is just up the street, in the lot. I want you to walk me to it."
He knew what she wanted. It was what every woman or man who spent more than five minutes with him wanted. But he couldn't give it to her now, not yet. He needed her focused. Besides, humans found encouragement knowing there was a prize waiting for them at the end of the race.
"No, I'm afraid I don't have time for walks," he said. "I apologize for making you wait so long in the cold. I hope your husband isn't worried. We will resume tomorrow evening."
He pulled away from her, feeling the cold chill her disappointment emitted like a wintry gust. She nodded and adjusted the strap of her purse over her shoulder before walking away.
Malynko did not follow her with his eyes but looked in the opposite direction. He wondered where Laphelle was, if the rogue had found the Wiccans, and if so, wondered if the young hopefuls were still living. He was sure they were. When he was toying with Phil, he came up with a wonderful monologue he was going to give the Wiccans. And when he disposed of the body, leaving behind no trace of his bloody handiwork so that Phil's parents would simply think the boy had gone missing, Malynko mentally arranged a code of ethics for his future followers. Quite satisfied with the way the night went, the dark angel stared up the road, the street cold and empty.
Wings of the Divided: The Divided Book 1 Page 17