Wings of the Divided: The Divided Book 1

by C. J. Sullivan

  The angel leaned his back against the counter and held onto his black left wing. He brought the blade as closely to the base as he could reach. Frantically, he cut at the appendage, biting his lower lip until it bled. His body trembled. The right wing was mangled, sliced up and down, barely hanging on by threads. A crimson flood dripped from his back, and a heap of red-drenched feathers lay at his feet.

  "You fool!" Jack cried.

  He felt wind whip against his face as he dashed to the back room and pulled an old cardboard box of medical supplies out from under the guest bed. With shaky hands he produced a medical knife and a syringe and quickly filled the latter with enough sedative to knock out an elephant. Then he ran back to Laphelle.

  His heart thumped in his chest, and he wanted to scream out at the top of his lungs in despair. The amputation would be the most risky operation he'd ever performed, for he did not know the anatomy of an angel's wings. Just the thought of jumping into something like that so blindly made him queasy. But he would do it. For the sake of Laphelle's safety, he would do it. At least then, the cuts would be cleaner.

  The blond rogue's eyes were half-open. His right wing twitched. Pools of blood had gathered on the floor.

  Jack couldn't take it anymore. Quick as lightning, he lunged at the angel with syringe in hand and stuck the needle in his neck.

  "You're going to be okay," he said as he sent all of the numbing liquid into the angel's system. "I don't even know if this is going to work." He took Laphelle's head in his hands, forcing him to look him in the eye. "Just don't fight it."

  Laphelle's eyelids started to close, and he looked up at Jack like a wounded animal.

  "How did it come to this?" he asked weakly.

  Jack shook his head. With his mind focusing on the steps of the operation, he didn't know what to say.

  Then, the angel lost consciousness.

  ***

  Melissa

  Remington Auditorium buzzed with life, despite the storms outside. "A Night of Beginnings," the annual amateur concert, was slowly taking shape as the orchestra set up their music stands and the players tuned their instruments. The auditorium held just under five thousand, and backstage, the contestants gathered and readied themselves for a great competition.

  Melissa loved the Edenton Symphony. She always went to the amateur concert, and she always arrived early to get a good seat. Not caring that she was alone, she thumbed through the program to look at the names of the contestants.

  Wearing a lovely blue dress that flowed in silk down her petite frame, she sat in the middle of the auditorium, one golden seat over from the aisle. She looked up from her program and observed the building, which had been repainted. The rich red curtain on the stage was pulled back and a thin wall of soft beige and gold was erected behind the musicians for acoustic purposes. The girl smiled a calm, satisfied smile. She always felt aristocratic just before the show began as she listened to the plucking of strings and light whistling of woodwinds.

  For a moment, her thoughts went to her popular classmates. They would never be caught dead at a classical music function, not unless they got extra credit at school for it. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why she decided to stop associating with them.

  Her thoughts drifted to Adam. Truth be told, she'd been thinking of him all week, about how he, unlike any other man, had been able to say just the right things to bring out the fire in her. A man like that would make for a very entertaining boyfriend, never a dull moment. She leaned back against the soft cushion of her chair as the brass section warmed up.

  Wondering what he was doing, she suddenly wished she hadn't been so rude to him that day at Max's. She couldn't remember the last time she went on a decent date.

  She felt somewhat ashamed of her new crush. Adam had the look of a dangerous guy. Still, there was something about the way that he looked in her eyes and not at her body when he talked to her, the way he seemed to really be interested in what she said, and most of all, the way his respectful eyes smiled when he talked to her—like she was queen of the world.

  "Hey, Melissa," Adam said from the aisle.

  "Adam!" She dropped her program, feeling a blush. "I was just—um, just thinking about you, actually."

  Adam Jameson, very much cleaned up and wearing a suit, smiled. He leaned down to pick up her program and handed it to her.

  "You look really great," he said, standing with a bit of a lean, like all tough guys do.

  "Oh, thanks!" She looked down at her dress, trying to cool her hot cheeks. "I always love coming to these things."

  "Hey, I'm, uh, glad I found ya. I've been meaning to try and get a hold of you to talk to you about something. But, you never gave me your number or anything."

  "Oh, well, what did you want to talk about?"

  He placed his camcorder at his feet and sat down in the chair next to her. She got a whiff of sexy cologne that nearly made her melt. His pressed black jacket sleeve brushed her bare arm, and she had to hold her breath to stifle another blush. Gosh, he looked great.

  "I'm not saying this to get into your pants," he said. "Okay?" She nodded and he lowered his voice to a whisper. "But I think you were right about the angels."

  The angels.

  "Oh, really?" she asked, her heart skipping a beat. "What—what makes you say that?"

  "Well, I looked at that video over and over, and there are no harnesses. They've gotta be flyin' for real. And besides that, I think I may have met one of 'em."

  "Really?" She leaned closer to him, her eyes wide. "What did he look like? Did he try to kill you?"

  Adam laughed, "No, he didn't try to kill me. Actually, he—well. I'd be willing to tell you all about it. That is, if I can trust you." He flashed a charming grin.

  "Of course you can trust me! You've gotta tell me. I've got stories, too."

  "Hmm. Sounds intriguing. I'll tell ya, but I'm afraid I can't talk unless I've eaten." He quickly drummed his fingers on his knees. "How about dinner tomorrow? Any place. You pick it. I pay. And we'll talk about angels."

  A date? Melissa smiled and got up enough nerve to place a dainty hand on his large masculine knuckles. His tense hand went soft under her touch.

  "Okay," she said. "I'd like that." She put her hand back in her lap and gave him a coy look. "To—to talk about angels." And to be with you.

  "Great! Well, listen, I gotta go sit down front to tape. But, I'll meet ya at intermission and, uh, get your number?"

  "Yeah, okay. Oh, Adam?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Just so you know, I don't care if you smoke, really. I just wish you wouldn't, because I don't want you to—well, it's harmful."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah." He grinned. "Just admit that you want me." She laughed, shaking her head, and he rose from his chair with his chest puffed like a rooster. "It's okay to admit that I'm awesome." He winked at her and grabbed his camera. "See ya in a bit."

  She waved, laughing at his proud, yet charming, personality, and leaned back in her chair. As more people joined the audience, the orchestra's flighty, whimsical tunes lit up the room with the color of music, expressing in sound what the couple's happy hearts could not. Melissa covered her mouth to hide her elated grin as Adam strode to the stage, smiling as if he were the happiest man on Earth.

  ***

  Max

  Max Edenton smiled a deep, dimpled grin at his two handsome guests. They stood in the living room wearing brand-new black suits. Max nodded at the outfits, not caring in the slightest how much he paid for them. Gidyon's hair fell in elegance down his back. He smiled back at Max, who was wearing his own suit, though it was several years older than the new ones and colored a dark blue. Noam crossed his arms, his dark hair pulled back.

  "I might as well give up trying to meet any women tonight," Max said with a playful smile. "They won't be able to take their eyes off of you."

  Noam looked away with a slight blush on his cheeks. Gidyon opened his mouth, but Max sharply raised his hand.

  "Wait.
" The man ran to his study. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt—Give me just a minute. I have to call John Maddox. He's a pianist who lives a few miles outside of town, good friend of mine, always goes to this concert. Let me make sure he's remembered it. Poor John, always forgetting things."

  He flipped through his beige Rolodex and found John's number. Picking up the phone, he dialed quickly, the angels joining him in the study. Noam said something to Gidyon about Max's flighty nature being amusing, and the healer grinned and gave a firm nod.

  "I'll just be a second," the man whispered. He heard someone on the other line pick up. "Hello? John?"

  ***

  Malynko

  Malynko sat up in bed with the phone to his ear, his eyes heavy-lidded. He had fallen asleep with his robe on, the soft material sleepily sliding down his body. The Elitist had not answered the phone once since he had taken over John's mansion, and he didn't know what possessed him to do so at that moment. But there he was, with the cool earpiece lazily pressed against the side of his face.

  "Hello?" he said.

  "I'm sorry," said an older voice with a slight British accent. "Is John home?"

  "I'm afraid John is on vacation." Malynko smirked.

  "Oh! Is that so? Well, this is Max—I thought he wasn't going to Greece until next week! I was calling about the concert. Oh, how dreadful. I'm sure he forgot completely."

  "Surely." He yawned.

  "Yes, well, to whom am I speaking?"

  Absentmindedly, the angel fingered the phone's flexible spiral chord and said, "To Malynko you are speaking."

  The phone seemed to go dead.

  The Elitist stopped playing with the chord. "Are you there?"

  "I, um, yes. Terribly sorry, I got momentarily distracted. I—"

  "You sound upset."

  "Oh, no, I—"

  The dark angel's eyes narrowed. "To whom am I speaking?"

  "To—to—"

  "You said it was Max." Malynko sat up and brought his feet to the floor. "Max Edenton?"

  He heard only shallow breathing.

  "I see." He cursed himself for even answering the phone. "Do you know where I am, Max Edenton? Do not lie to me."

  "Y—yes—"

  "Very well."

  The Fallen angel blinked. Gidyon was near. He could feel it.

  Darkly, he said, "It happens now."

  ***

  Max

  Max heard a click. He let the phone slowly slide from his hands. It swung off his desk, a loud, busy tone beeping out the earpiece. Gidyon rushed over and hung it up. He looked at Max with wide eyes. Then he turned to Noam.

  "I know," Noam said. "I heard everything."

  "But if Malynko is there," said Max, "then where—where is John?"

  Gidyon lowered his head. "If Malynko is there, John is dead. As well as any other person who lived there."

  "Amy!" Max felt woozy. "Oh, this is terrible! They can't be dead!"

  "We're so sorry, Max."

  The man suddenly realized what his phone conversation meant. His knees started trembling, and he fought to stay standing.

  "Christine." His eyes darted from the Thanatakran to the healer. "He said 'it happens now.' Now!"

  "Yes," Gidyon said. "Max, we'll handle this. You go to the concert without us."

  "No, I wouldn't dream of it! I'm staying right here until you bring that little girl back!" He started shaking his head, trying to focus, to not crumple to the ground in a heap of despair. "John lives just outside of town. Just past the church you first met me in. Go down Mannsway and look to your right. There will be a big gate. It's the only house for miles—"

  "Let's go," Noam said, storming toward the front door.

  "Wait!" Max said, and the angels turned to him. "Yes. Wait." He raised his pointer finger, hope fluttering in his breast. "I may have something that could be of service to you. Come with me."

  ***

  Gidyon

  Gidyon felt numb as the man led him and Noam down to the basement. The wooden stairs were in good shape, and the long dark room beneath his manor was dusted and clean. Max turned on the lights. On the walls were swords.

  "They're from all around the world," said Max. "Civil War sabers, Toledo blades, samurai swords, and Scottish claymores."

  Noam smiled, giving the man two hearty pats on the back. "You're a godsend."

  "They were my father's. I put them down here to keep Harry away from them. They always seemed rather crass to me, just displayed all over the living room. But Father was an avid collector. I couldn't give them away. You may take whichever you like to—to help you get Christine back."

  "I like this scimitar."

  "Oh, you're familiar with them?"

  He grabbed the blade and its sheath, smiling at Max. "We're all very familiar with Earth's wars and weaponry. Who do you think influenced their make?" He rushed back upstairs. "This is a godsend."

  There was a loud, metallic ringing of the Thanatakran's sai as Noam fiercely scraped them against one another to sharpen them. The healer searched the weapons and found a medieval blade with a cross shape stamped in the center of its golden guard.

  "This will do," he said.

  "I'll be upstairs if you need anything," said Max. "I just need to call a few people to let them know that I won't be at the concert. I suppose I came down with the flu." He shook his head. "John. Of all people. He was such a good man."

  He ascended the stairs as Noam came down. The dark-haired angel rushed to Gidyon, throwing the healer's old clothes at him. He had already changed garments, his long brown coat accenting his eyes that were gradually brightening to a nervous green.

  "Hurry, Gidyon," he said. "He knows we're coming."

  "I don't need these," the angel said, dropping the clothes. "I can maneuver just fine in what I'm wearing."

  He took off his black jacket and burst his wings through the back of his white button-down shirt in a fit of temper. He looked at Noam with angry eyes, dark secrets flying about in the blue orbs.

  Noam stared back at his partner, expressionless.

  "Gidyon. You never told me why I wasn't allowed to go with you behind that door in Hell to see the Elitist." Gidyon looked away, knowing what was coming. "It was Malynko, wasn't it? Malynko was the Elitist."

  "Yes. It was Malynko."

  "Why did you desire to speak with him alone? I don't understand the need to keep such things from me."

  "You want to know?"

  "Yes. I do. We all do."

  He knew they did.

  He also knew it was none of their business.

  But now was not the time for defensive bantering.

  "Very well." He slightly lifted his chin, choosing his words carefully. "When Malachi fell, he took his murderer with him. You never again had to look into the face of his demon killer."

  "Yes?"

  "Malynko is responsible for my brother's demise."

  The top curve of Noam's wings lowered. "So the rumors were true."

  "It happened very long ago. Before the Orders were formed."

  "So, it was revenge you wanted?"

  "No, that's not it."

  "Well, what then?"

  The healer could not meet his gaze.

  "Gidyon, I never knew your brother well, but I am sorry about everything that happened. Still, you must remember that dwelling in the tragic past will only hinder your movement toward a better, more peaceful future. I finally realized that."

  Reaching for his chosen blade, Gidyon said, "Whatever happens tonight, Noam, you keep fighting."

  He wasn't ready for this. He wondered if he ever would be. The future haunted him. Noam told him to think of Christine, and it gave him the strength to lift his feet and climb the stairs. Yes. He would take this one step at a time.

  They told Mr. Edenton not to worry, that they would be back soon, with Christine. The man walked them to the backdoor and gave them one final look of courage. With the growing lightning storm ahead of them, they gave solemn no
ds. A clap of thunder punctuated their leave. It sounded as if the entire sky was breaking. Gidyon felt Max watching them go.

  He felt his worry.

  And felt his prayers.

  ***

  Laphelle

  Laphelle blinked his eyes open, and Jack's kitchen came into view. He sat on the tiled floor with his back propped gently against a cabinet door and his legs unbent in front of him. Jack was on his haunches beside him, a syringe in his hand.

  "Welcome back," he said.

  Laphelle swallowed groggily, his throat parched. He looked down at his torso. White bandages wrapped over his shoulders and around his chest. Jack stood up. His hair was fixed. He wore a black suit with a green tie. He sighed as he looked down at the angel.

  "Feel better?"

  "No." He lowered his voice. "Did you do it?"

  "Yes."

  "Where are they?"

  "They—crumbled to ashes."

  That woke him up. "Ashes?" he whispered. "But in all the battles I've been in, angels have lost their wings, but no wings turn to ash." Nor do any angels live after losing their wings.

  "Well, what does that mean? Them turning to ash."

  Laphelle's eyes were wide, his heart fluttering. "I—I don't know, Jack. Our wings don't do that."

  "Well, yours did. I swept them up and threw them in the dumpster out back. I figured you wouldn't want to see them. Or do you?"

  He shook his head. Jack looked at his watch.

  "It's a little past eight," he said.

  "Good." They still had time. His face went deathly serious. "We won't be late."

  He brought his legs up, bending his knees, feeling the blood tingle through them. But when he reached an arm to grip the counter behind him, a sharp, nauseating pain jolted through his back. Quickly returning his arm to the front of his body, he looked up at Jack, shocked.

  Jack shook his head.

  "It was a very dangerous operation, Laphelle," he said, clearly frustrated. "About halfway through, I didn't think I'd be able to finish it. The gashes were huge. I must've soaked up four towels with your blood. The good thing is, the cut was fairly clean, especially after you did that trick to make them soft. You'll have no bumps on your back, no protrusions. It almost seemed too simple, except for the gashes."