Wings of the Divided: The Divided Book 1

by C. J. Sullivan

  "What are you saying?" For the first time, Laphelle heard fear in his own voice.

  Jack knelt down. "What I'm saying, son, is that I was barely able to stitch you up. I wasn't able to close the wounds entirely. You really needed a skin graft. That's why you've got so many bandages. But not even they will stop you from bleeding if you move your arms, because you'll pull those stitches—"

  "Stop."

  He had known of the risk. He had feared what would happen to him if he went through with his decision. But deep inside he knew his time was short. He would have to face Malynko sooner or later. His soul was restless, desperate.

  "You wanted me to do the concert before, didn't you?" he asked.

  "Yes, but that was when you weren't so weak."

  "I'm no weaker now than I was before! I'm stronger."

  "Let's hope."

  "I don't know how much longer I have here in Edenton. I don't know if I'll get another chance to play for your audience. Trust me, Jack. I'll be okay. I know how badly you wanted me to do it. You can't lie and say that you didn't."

  "No. But can I change my mind?"

  "You'd be doing it out of worry and pity."

  "No, now listen—"

  "I'm doing the concert."

  The man gave a heavy sigh. He shook his head.

  "Come on," he said. He took the angel's elbows in his hands and helped him to his feet, and a pain somewhat less than before shot through Laphelle's body. "I bought you something earlier today. This was before I knew all this drama was going to happen."

  He led Laphelle to the living room where a new tuxedo, just his size, lay over the couch. A rich burgundy shirt was placed beside it as well as some brand-new black shoes and socks. There was a hairbrush on the clean coffee table. A five-foot, oval mirror was propped against the wall.

  "I thought," said the man, "since the night was so special, we needed to clean up and look like gentlemen. You said your favorite color was red. I thought you might like the shirt, and I guess it turns out to be a good thing I chose that color, because you'll probably bleed through those bandages."

  "You really want to steal my Vermusian suit, don't you?"

  Laphelle gave a weak smile, fighting the urge to wince from the pain of his movement.

  Jack laughed, the warm sound of it welcoming. "You've figured me out."

  The angel walked over to his new clothes and ran his hands along the material. "Thank you, Jack. I know this insanity of mine isn't easy for you, and you're handling it bravely. That's what I like about you. You're not a coward."

  "Yeah, well." He fidgeted with a loose string on his suit jacket. "I'd love to sit here and chat about how great I am, but we need to get you to the auditorium if you're still playing."

  He left the room. Laphelle watched him go then walked up to the mirror. He stood there for a few minutes, looking at himself, the bandages, the lack of wings. He felt as if a great weight had been lifted off his back, not just physically, but emotionally. A strange satisfaction coursed through him as he beheld his new self. He turned from the mirror and proceeded to get dressed with difficulty, refusing to make a sound, though the new tenderness of his back was quickly becoming unbearable.

  After he dressed, he joined his friend in the dining room and cleared his throat to get his attention. Jack smiled with deep dimples and stood from the table, facing him.

  "Well," he said, "see what a comb can do?"

  "I'll warn you, it won't stay like this."

  His eyes were even more stunning than before against the deep burgundy of his shirt. The tux fit him perfectly. The shoes, however, were a bit snug, but that was from years and years of going barefoot. He had brushed his hair, the layered mane tamed for now. When Jack nodded, the angel replied in a smile that was beyond charming.

  "Where's your tie, young man?" said Jack.

  Laphelle held it up in his long-nailed fingers. "I'm not young."

  "Well, for Pete's sake, you look it! I'm not used to this million-years-old crap."

  "And I'm not wearing the tie."

  "Fine. Insult me."

  "Okay."

  "Oh, before we go." He opened his jacket and revealed a pistol tucked neatly within it. "Bring back any memories?"

  Laphelle nodded, placing the tie on the table, remembering the night he'd met Jack and how cold the barrel of that gun had looked. "How could I forget?"

  "Well, I'm bringing it with us. In case What's-His-Face shows up. That guy you hate."

  "He won't. You don't need to worry about him."

  "Well, just in case. It's got four bullets."

  Laphelle walked over to the cabinet where the violin lay. He reached up to take hold of the case and his stitches pulled, sending him into great pain. After taking in a deep, shaky breath, he turned back to Jack.

  "Let's go," he said.

  ***

  Noam

  Dramatic bursts of electric light danced across the sky as Noam and Gidyon approached Malynko. The motion sensor lamps in the yard turned on at their movements, lighting their way to the dark antagonist. The angels stopped, leaving a gap of grassy land between them and their foe.

  Be on your guard, Noam warned the healer telepathically, taking his own advice as he looked straight ahead.

  The Elitist stood under the thundering sky, his long hair blowing in the rising winds. His general's jacket was open, his white shirt unbuttoned halfway down as if the garments had been thrown on in a hurry. Standing in front of the colonial mansion, he looked like the ghost of some merciless redcoat in the Revolutionary War, unable to accept the fact that his side had already lost. His black boots were planted firmly on the ground, supporting his tall, strapping frame.

  The enemies stared at each other, their wings out and uncloaked. Malynko had a gloved hand on the end of his giant silver sword, the tip of the blade touching the ground by his feet. His face was calm. Noam's eyes flashed green. Oh, how he'd been ready for this.

  "Where are the others?" he asked over the storm.

  Malynko raised a sleek brow. "Why, I didn't know you could talk. What an unpleasant surprise. The others, I'm afraid, will not be joining us. Kiazmo is dead."

  Gidyon shot a side-glance at Noam, and the Thanatakran said, "And Laphelle?"

  "Laphelle is none of your concern. He is not who you are here for. Your foe stands before you."

  "You flatter yourself, Malynko. You're just an obstacle in the way of our goal. We've come for the girl, though I would delight in eliminating every last one of you."

  "You will have to go through me to get the girl, Thanatakran. Don't worry; I didn't touch her. Although I believe she grew to like me over these last few days. I did catch a few glimpses of her while she was bathing. There's promise. She has such a delicate body."

  Noam had to hold himself back with every ounce of willpower or he would have attacked that instant—with his bare hands, if he had to. Malynko laughed. Then, he turned his gaze to the angel at Noam's side.

  "Hello, Gidyon," he said, his voice a low taunt. "Will you fight tonight? Or will you try to save me again?"

  Noam shot Gidyon a quick look. Save him? What did that mean? The healer didn't offer an answer. He instead lifted his sword high. He gave the weapon a series of rapid twirls, an impressive move for an angel under Raphael. Noam raised his brows. Gidyon was no warrior, but he obviously knew enough to defend himself.

  Still touching his silver sword, Malynko reached over his shoulder with his free hand to the sheath on his back. He slowly pulled out the Sivli. Gidyon took a small step back, and Noam's eyes grew wide. Surely Laphelle wasn't—dead! And if he was, then how? The Thanatakran watched in horror as the Elitist held the sword out to his side, then brought the grip to the middle of his face, the blade pointing to the black clouds above. The simple salute was more intimidating than any display of twirling he could have done. The Sivli's black, wavy blade reflected the flashing lights of the sky, making it look as if there were a storm within the very weapon.

&
nbsp; Noam reached within his coat and drew out his sai. He spun them in a whirlwind, his eyes illuminating as he went into total battle mode. Clashing them together, they made a loud cry that echoed above the thunder. His scimitar was hidden under his coat in the sheath around his waist. He hoped to give the Elitist a surprise with it later, if he should lose the sai.

  Malynko sneered.

  Then, Noam pushed off the ground and flew like a rocket into him. The Elitist brought up both swords, blocking the sai. The black snake on the Sivli rushed up his arm.

  The two warriors fought in a blur of weapons, Noam pushing Malynko back toward the house. Gidyon's blade soared in from the side. The Elitist jumped back, blocking Noam, but the attack from Gidyon caught his arm. Bringing an elbow to Gidyon's jaw, he kicked Noam at the same time with both feet, sending him backwards. It gave him enough time to briefly distance himself.

  Noam was not kind in permitting him time. He rushed back to him. Their weapons moved so fast, they created wind, blowing back the hair of their owners. Above them, the storm boomed, and Noam heard the faint scream of a young female.

  Christine.

  Gidyon had apparently heard it, too, for he looked up to the blackened, second-story window. He glanced quickly back at Noam who nodded, keeping Malynko busy. Another cry from the girl. The healer jumped off the ground, headed straight for the window. Backing Malynko into an oak tree, Noam tried to avert the Elitist's eyes from the rescue attempt. Malynko dropped to his knees just as Noam brought his sai towards his face. The silver weapons pierced the tree instead and were stuck just long enough for the Fallen angel to duck out of the way. Facing the window, he flicked his wrist, his red ring glowing. The climbers on the house extended their leaves to the pane, covering it completely. He narrowed his eyes, his arm outstretched, and the vines grew thick and black.

  Noam freed his weapons, and Malynko spun around, meeting the warrior again. He landed a deep cut on the Thanatakran's arm.

  Dizzied, Noam grabbed the wound and telepathically said to Gidyon, Be careful!

  Malynko grinned. "Why do you travel with him? He's weak."

  Noam looked up. Through eyes blurred with pain, he saw that Gidyon had reached the window. He could hear the healer telling Christine to be brave, that they were there to save her, and he cut wildly at the vines. They would not give. A blade was not going to break whatever spell Malynko had put on them. Malynko. Where was—

  Noam cried out, and Gidyon turned, raising his weapon just in time to stop the Sivli from running through his chest. Malynko shoved the healer up to the roof, flapping his wings to join him. He landed several yards away from his foe, smiling. Noam desperately tried to fight off the sting of his bloody wound so that he could fly again.

  "Did you think," said Malynko, "that by coming a few days early, you would be able to avoid your fate? Why don't you attack me? You have a free shot." He sheathed the Sivli and held his silver sword out to the side. "Kill me."

  Gidyon stared at him, his weapon down by his side.

  Noam's heart skipped at the sight of his hesitation. He clenched his teeth. Gidyon was keeping a secret from him. And it was costing them the battle. But unlike Gidyon, Noam would not hesitate. Giving his head a violent shake, he dispersed of the pain that had bound him and leapt off the ground. He sheathed his sai and pulled out his sword, ignoring his injured arm, which smarted terribly with the new weight.

  A thunderclap momentarily muted the wind's screams.

  The Thanatakran brought the scimitar up in a flash, and would have taken off Malynko's head had the Elitist not jerked away at the last moment. The attack did, however, slice a sharp, bleeding gash in his right wing. Malynko shot Noam a glare full of livid fire and awkwardly jumped off the roof, landing behind the house.

  "Why?" Noam roared at Gidyon, the green in his eyes sparking behind the white glow. "Why didn't you strike?"

  Gidyon gave an angry, defiant look and jumped off the roof.

  The Thanatakran growled, more frustrated at his comrade than Malynko, and soared off the house in hot pursuit of both.

  ***

  Laphelle

  Jack parked his car across the street from Remington Auditorium on the multi-level parking lot. Lightning flashed overhead, and the smell of rain foretold of a coming downpour. The angel walked in silence by Jack's side down to the long brick building and around to the back entrance. He firmly held onto the violin case's black handle as he entered and passed a handful of nervous artists, some pacing back and forth, others tuning their instruments. Jack led him into a small, empty greenroom, and told him to sit down on the beige couch while he informed the crew of their arrival.

  As the Fallen angel sat, looking at the black Roman numerals of the clock on the wall, his soul was visited by a foreign sense of calmness. Never in a million years would he have imagined himself in such a position. He smiled, as the muted air took him, and he looked up at the ceiling, imagining he could see through it and up to the heavens.

  He whispered to God, "Are you doing this?"

  Chills ran down his body as he waited, in frightful anticipation, for his archenemy to respond. But there was no reply from Him. There never was.

  Jack appeared in the doorway and crossed his arms. He stared at his friend for a fond moment, then took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  "You know," he said, "there's music, and then there's music."

  Laphelle stood up and felt a sharp jolt in his back. "What's the difference?"

  "Well, on one hand you've got rock groups, good rock groups, but not great. They don't have that special something. They're popular for the moment and then they're gone. But great groups on the other hand create songs that blow you away. Songs that move your soul and stay with you to the grave. Do you remember that Moody Blues album I played you?"

  "Yes."

  "Brilliant, wasn't it?"

  "Yes…"

  "They're my favorite group of all time. But you're a thousand times better. Better than anything I've ever heard in my life. It's incredible, Laphelle. Your music is magic." He took a step forward. "But even more incredible than your music is you, the guy I've gotten to know. Magic tunes or not, I don't want you to hurt yourself. You don't have to do this. You can still turn around and call it a night."

  "You already know my reply."

  The man nodded his head, lowering his eyes. "Come on then. You're on."

  He led the wingless angel down the hallway to a metal door. A robust, middle-aged woman stood beside it, tapping a clipboard with her pen. She smiled warmly at the two of them.

  "Name?" she asked.

  "This is Justin Chester," Jack said, pointing to Laphelle.

  She looked down at her paper. "Aha! There you are. The violinist." She checked off the name. "You're up next. Nobody will announce your name—it's in the program. So, just go ahead and walk onstage after Gregory is done with his trumpet number—as soon as the audience stops clapping, okay?"

  She opened the door, looking the exceedingly handsome blond violinist in the eye. Laphelle didn't blink or offer any hint of a smile, but held firm to her gaze. She quickly glanced away, shutting the barrier, and Laphelle and Jack stood backstage, darkness blanketing them. A low blue bulb faintly making a hum let off enough light to guide their path to the side of the stage where Laphelle was to make his entrance. He heard Gregory's trumpet playing with the symphony behind it. Reaching stage right, Jack planted his feet and crossed his arms. Laphelle got goose bumps at the sight of the live orchestra.

  "You told that woman my name was Justin," he said quietly, turning to Jack. "Justin Chester."

  "I figured you wouldn't want them to know your real name." He took the case from Laphelle's hold and brought out the violin and its bow.

  "Who is Justin Chester?"

  "That," he said, "was my son's name."

  He handed the instrument to Laphelle, and the crowd began to applaud. The angel stared at him. The man did not reciprocate. He instead had his eyes on Gregory, w
ho now headed towards them. The young trumpeter brushed by with a smile and a quick sigh.

  Laphelle never looked away from Jack's face. He quietly said:

  "I'm not worthy."

  Jack turned to him. "It's not for you to decide."

  The cheers of the crowd died down until the remaining claps were gone.

  It was time.

  Laphelle looked ahead at the wooden floor of the stage. He kept his eyes on the center, where he would stand. The orchestra put their instruments at their feet.

  The angel would do it alone.

  He coolly strode to his spot on the stage and stopped downstage, center. And for one brief moment, he took in the rows of elegantly dressed humans that would be his audience tonight, his bones near to vibrating with chills. They did not know who he was. But they would soon. He raised the sleek golden instrument into place and closed his stunning blue eyes.

  Heaven was brought to Edenton. Laphelle began with a note so high and so long, that even the members of the orchestra gasped. The note soared down like a majestic bird through the auditorium, and time did not exist anymore. Only the power of that sound. He played slowly at first, a beautiful melody. And just as the tune circled back to its starting note, another violin began to play, too.

  The angel glanced over his shoulder and saw that it was not his imagination, but an elderly member of the orchestra. He was startled, but he kept playing. Then, ever so mysteriously, the entire string section picked up their instruments and followed him with their music as if his violin were magically conducting them.

  It grew lovelier by the minute. The melody was a flight through the very windows of time, a pilgrimage to the skies of paradise where all shrouds of confusion were lifted, and there was only the truth. Only the music. Slowly, the solid, foundational strings of the bass violin crept in, resonating ancient glory, the epic power of the French horn joining as well to lift Laphelle's Heaven-bound strings to even higher, celestial plains. The woodwinds accompanied them on the voyage, pushing the listener deeper into the mystery of the song. It seemed as if a memory had been awakened in every musician of the orchestra as they heard Laphelle play. There was no other way they could have known the song.