Chapter Nine
On my mother's frantic travels around the world, I've been to many so-called "holy" places.
I've seen churches and temples and street corner preachers' houses galore. My mother, hysteric with her lust to repent for a terrible sin she hadn't yet committed, had dragged me from place to place in order to confess to anyone willing to listen to her illusions of demons. Every chapel I'd sat in, anxiously awaiting my mother to emerge from the priest's corner, had a vague feeling of serenity. Perhaps it was the high ceilings and majestic artwork framed on the walls. Perhaps it was the murmured prayers issued from the lips of desperate sinners or the Latin chants of a deacon's pleas. Perhaps it was the sensation that, surely here, my mother's demons would find neither her nor me.
This empty chamber has an utterly different taste in the air.
It's almost as if I can feel the breath of another being against my neck, hear its resounding heartbeat in the clack-clack-clack of Bryon's wooden pole against the stone. The softly dancing flame shivering from the crown of the slender incense stick casts only the barest amount of orange light, so little that I don't even see the ghost of the floor beneath my feet. Aside from that beckoning flame, everything is dark and foreboding.
No feeling of calm hugs the air, no sense of hostility scents the wind. If anything, indifference is the only thing that the cavern seems to hold – innocent and speculating indifference, to anyone that may tread down its throat and into the pit of its stomach.
The air is moist, like constricting damp hands. If it had been any other cave, I'm certain somewhere a slow and steady drip would sound, trickling from the ceiling down a stalactite. So, here, in the belly of the earth, so near to its reverberating heart, I find myself counting my breaths and setting my footsteps in tune with Bryon's staff. Clutching to the fire's soft light, it seems that, if I lose either Raffe or Bryon in the shadowed labyrinth, I will never discover them again.
With alacrity, Bryon stops, his flame spluttering at the sudden pause. My knees lock, my halt so abrupt Raffe sets a warm hand on my shoulder to steady me in case I may fall. Perhaps the angel can see the hairs on the back of my neck slowly standing on end, or hear the rapid rattle of my heartbeat. The warmth of his flesh on mine soothes my jumpiness.
Bryon's voice is alien after so long a silence. "Stay here. The ground we plod upon is treacherous."
I dare not break the quiet myself, merely nodding in response. If Raffe does the same, I do not see.
The candle flame moves again in the darkness, bobbing in accordance with Bryon's whisper-soft footsteps. My breath is held for reasons I cannot describe – whatever that man may be doing, there is something unnatural in it. There is a presence here, hanging in the air, an almost bitter spirit flavoring each breath I take.
Bryon stops abruptly, a little further than twenty feet from Raffe and I. He says something in a strange, garbled language that I don't quite catch, lifting the incense stick up to the ceiling.
"What did he say?" I whisper to Raffe, knowing his keen ears will have detected the noise with ease.
"I…" His voice is puzzled, but his speech vibrates his chest. "It's no language I've ever heard before. Strange, though, that he should worship angels. He does not seem the religious nutball type."
"From what he said," I murmur back, "I think he's just drawing on… Saw-ree-el for strength and courage and things like that. Not really worshipping. But trying to be like."
"Hmm," Raffe breathes. There's consideration in his tone, but, before he can retaliate with barbed words, Bryon quits chanting and casts down the incense stick.
Fire roars to life in a vat of oil that reveals itself. At the sudden vengeful heat in the chill of the tunnel, I stumble back slightly. The orange flames halo Bryon, silhouetting him against the orange. After spreading across the long trough of oil, the fire leaps up, snapping at the sky. It bathes an enormous statue in crackling light, spreading a topaz gleam along the slick walls and the damp floor.
The statue crowned by the fire seems startling familiar – everything about the tall, proud angel carved into white marble is as if I'd seen it once upon a dream. His wings are carved from a golden metal, just the very tips marble crescents. Two gold disks make up his eyes. Around his feet, a dragon curls, this one adorned in brass and copper.
Bryon's head tips back to stare up at the angel for mere seconds; his form against the flame adds a menacing gleam to his bronze eyes, despite his serene expression. Then, bowing once to the magnificent pyre, he turns back to Raffe and I, staff clapping against the ground. The cloak he wears flutters a tentative farewell, almost as if mourning a lost friend.
Cocking his head back slightly to admire the roar of the flames and the talons clawing at the gold, Bryon chuckles, "Kinda creepy, isn't it? Though he'd never say it aloud, Sariel himself was scared of his own altar, especially when it was lit like this. Can't say I blame him. It's a beautiful little idol, but honestly, those eyes are scary."
His warm, melodic voice in the darkness of the untouched shadows is like a balm to my nerves, disbanding any sinister thoughts I'd had. The soft flash of Bryon's bronze eyes act like beacons in the darkness, repelling any of my fear.
"Mildly impressive craftwork," Raffe admits begrudgingly. "Monkeys will do anything for their entities, won't they?"
"Not just humans." Bryon tilts his head to one side, blinking in a slow, lazy way. "I believe in God. Perhaps not the way he is depicted by either angels or humans, but I do believe in the Lord."
"Primitive," Raffe scoffs. "For one who claims to be as powerful as you, you definitely have a lot of old ties."
"I may have an old fashioned view on life," Bryon accepts, "but I see it as a vast opportunity, affected by the people you communicate with, the things you do, and the rules you follow, not to mention the ones you disobey. And I'm happy that way, with my indifferent God and my Heaven for all those that do good. What truly interests me is that Ogden did not light a fire. Perhaps he did, and it died down. Both Gadreel and Penemue don't have much oil, I'd imagine, with this blooming war."
"The Nephilim are fighting, too?" I wonder.
"Well, not quite yet." Bryon turns to me, benevolence sparkling in his bronze eyes. "But they're on the human side, if that's what you mean. I've gotten in touch with your Obi – he knows me. I've told him not to worry about the Nephilim should they join him."
"Obi?" My interest peaks. "What is he doing?"
"I'm not utterly certain," Bryon admits, scratching his neck. "You've probably seen him closer to time than I have."
"Oh. Oh, okay. Should we go, then, or will Sariel glare at us some more?"
"Let's go, he is so freaky." Bryon releases a slow breath into the air, his ivory teeth catching the slightest hint of the flame along the pearly surface. "Back into the dark, creepy tunnels. I remember when these Temples were well lit. But I guess that's what being abandoned does to a place."
A sudden, jarring pain on Ariel's wrist has her whirling, rapidly pinning her to the wall. With a jar of breath, Ariel quickly responds to the abrupt attacker with a quick cut to the stomach. It isn't until the other she-angel blocks her counterattack that Ariel's gaze at last meets those cherry colored eyes.
"What the hell were you trying to pull, Ariel?" Audiat hisses, her teeth bared in a toothy snarl. "In what world does eliminating Bryon assist your personal agenda?"
One of Ariel's eyebrows raise. She blinks in slow, feline confusion, maintaining a perfectly indifferent expression as she stares down at the little angel. "I do not know what you mean."
"Tumblr's exploded," Audiat snaps, her high voice like daggers against Ariel's peaceful façade. "Hugo, Bryon, and Ogden were all in that forest that you released the cherubs on. Hugo's pissed off like nobody's business because Scruffy was hurt, and Baelan had to go back down to hell to escape the swarm. Bryon's pissed that you endangered his nieces."
Throughout Audiat's vindictive speech, Ariel's face had slowly lost color, her black wings wilting. Horror gleams in her eyes. The empty hallway is silent for a moment, echoing the rage of Audiat's words. Audiat's chest pumps in and out, slender strands of white hair falling into her face. Warm reddish brown wings shiver threateningly at her sides. Against such blind fury, Ariel's tongue seems clumsy in her mouth, but the words are astonishingly punctual.
"None of them are harmed?" Ariel questions intently, shaking Audiat off her wrist with a mere flick of the arm. "Do we need to send in a medical team? Thea owes me a favor. The Wives can always move in, I know they're nearby."
Audiat steps back, still suspicious. "You didn't know that they were with Raphael?"
Ariel waves a hand dismissively. "Of course not. In what world would I harm Ogden, or Bryon? I have no desire to become an enemy of their followers. Anyone who kills either Bryon or Hugo or even little Ogden finds themselves Target No. One."
"And Penryn, the human's hero?"
"I assumed that the girl could become a martyr for the humans to fight for if she indeed perished, but it seems God isn't smiling upon me."
Audiat crosses her arms. Her eyes narrow, hazel specks dancing. "None of them were seriously injured, lucky for you. Bryon received a few nicks and scrapes, and Scruffy was mortally maimed, but they found sanctuary in the Chaza."
"I see." Ariel nods to herself, connecting the dots. "The forest Chaza? Why would Bryon show Raphael such a secret, even if it is neglected?"
With this, Audiat seems displeased. Her frown is mighty with disapproval. "It seems that beautiful idiot thinks that Raphael can change his ways, because of… friendship and magic, that's why."
Ariel snorts in amusement. "He is clever, and he is good, but perhaps he is too good to be a war leader. There comes a time when you must abandon all hope for a person. Raphael is simply too dangerous. I dislike that I am forced to spare his life when it was so close at hand."
"To kill him would be to assist Uriel," Audiat points out. "For the moment, I'd stick to Bryon's plan. I'm not quite sure what it is, but he got rid of us the last time, didn't he?"
"True," Ariel acknowledges. She twists a golden bangle around her wrist until it rubs the skin raw. "I merely hate putting the fate of our aeries in the hands of one so reckless."
"Hey, Bryon?" Hugo's voice is soft, barely carried over the snapping crackle of the roaring fire the giant had built to light the cavern and to heat it. His fingers caress Scruffy's groggy face, lulling the wolf into a deep sleep.
Bryon lifts his head from the soft stick he'd been whittling at, attentive at the sound of his name. "Yes, Hugo?"
"Can you sing something?" he questions awkwardly. "I mean, like you did in the good old days. The lullaby. You know the likes. Not the sad lullaby. But the hopeful one."
"Of course." Bryon smiles merrily, setting both feet down on the ground and leaning closer to the fire. "Is there any reason behind your request, or is it merely a momentary desire?"
Hugo casts a glance in my direction, though perhaps his gaze is more directed to Raffe than I. The angel does sit beside me, and, with the teasing ploys of the fiery hands, a gaze's intention can be hard to discern.
"I'll tell you later," he decides brusquely.
"Alright." Bryon straightens, tilting his gaze over Ogden's shoulder. "Paige, hon, how about you leave Scruffy's tail alone? Just because he's feeling better doesn't mean he's a hundred percent. I'm sure Raphael would be thrilled to have you play with his wings instead."
"Oh, yes," cajoles Raffe acidly, "let's send the child to go toy with the leathery demon wings and massive scythes! What could possibly go wrong?"
"Well, then, sourpuss, she can come play with my cloak." Unaffected by Raffe's taunting, Bryon slips it off his shoulders and extends it to Paige. "You wanna try it on for size?"
Grinning tautly, Paige's wobbly legs hold her in a standing position. The sight of her glee brings a matching smile to my face, and gratitude for Bryon's fatherly attitude towards her demonic appearance. Ungracefully tripping to his side, she knots her fingers into the silky fabric. Patiently, Bryon helps her clasp it at her chest, teaching her how to use it for "later use". And then little Paige is gone, brown cloak swishing behind her like a wedding veil. Both Bryon's and Raffe's eyes seem to follow the sound of her footsteps.
With a contented sigh, Bryon turns back to the fire. His ripped shirt allows views of the muscles flexing beneath the fabric. The smile in his eyes is nearly as blinding as the smile on his lips. "Now, Hugo, you said you wanted the lullaby, correct?"
"Yep." Hugo fondles Scruffy's ears, voice still quiet. "You know, the one you'd sing to me when I was a kid."
Turning towards Raffe and I, Bryon forewarns, "Though some like my voice, others hate it with a burning passion. I'm not promising sincere enjoyment nor absolute hatred, but I figured it would be nice to tell you in advance."
"I'm interested," I confess, ghost of a smile touching my lips.
Awkwardly blushing, Bryon looks into the heart of the fire, his long lashes catching their golden reflection. He clears his throat, and begins to sing.
His voice is just as beautiful as Hugo had painted it to be. Sharp as a razor and yet warm like folds of fragrant laundry fresh from the dryer, it holds a strange power to it. I find myself transfixed by the beautiful vibrations and tough steel tones of Bryon's voice. It almost awakens memories of happier days, days when my father would laugh at my mother's jokes, days when I was content with watching whatever my babysitter put on, days before I had to worry about angels attacking my homeland.
"I hear the wind call my name," Bryon sings, the emotion he places in every word like a roll of thunder. "A sound that leads me home again! It sparks up a fire, a flame that still burns. To you, I will always return."
Taking a deep breath, he launches into the second verse, one with equal beauty. "I know the road is long, but where you are is home. Wherever you stay, I'll find a way!"
Ogden sways to the beat, blissful expression consuming his face.
"I'll run like the river, I'll follow the sun! I'll fly like an eagle to where I belong! I can't stand the distance, I can't dream alone! I can't wait to see you, yes I'm on my way home.
"Now I know it's true, my every road leads to you. And in the hour of darkness, your light gets me through.
"You run like the river, you shine like the sun. You fly like an eagle, yeah you are the one. I've seen every sunset, and with all that I've learned…"
Bryon swallows and shuts his eyes to conceal the tears I'd seen glistening on the surface of his bronze irises. Heartbreak is what fashions the emotion in the last line, not the same powerful determination found throughout the rest of the tune.
"Oh, it's to you, I will always, always… return."
Silence hangs like a tarp over the fireside. Even Raffe deems the song worthy of no sarcastic comments. Slowly, Bryon's eyes peel open, but he looks nowhere but the heart of the fire. At long last, Hugo speaks, but his voice is tired and foggy with exhaustion as his head slowly droops to fall against his wolf's bandaged chest.
"I'm so glad that you incorporated that in the soundtrack," he yawns. "Beautiful song. My favorite. The other one's too sad. Too creepy. Just… keep singing that one, please."
Bryon smiles brittlely. "I'll do my best, Hugo. Goodnight, my friend." Then, cracking his shoulder muscles with a swift jerk, he stands. "We should all follow his example and get some rest. There's no way to tell time here, really, so getting sleep now would be as good as getting sleep any other. I'll take first watch."
"I'll take second," I volunteer.
"Third," rumbles Raffe. He points a finger at Hugo. "He can take fourth, and Ogden can take fifth, if we can sleep that long."
"I'll take fourth again," offers Bryon, locking gaze with Raffe. "It's no biggy. Let the poor boy sleep, and Scruffy, too. You can't wake one up without alerting the other."
"Fine," Raffe relents, surprisingly not fighting Bryon over his ruling. Judging by Bryon's raised eyebrows, I'm not the only one that's surprised. "But it's your own senses you're dulling."
Again, I face a lucid dream, and this time, I recognize one of the people.
It's a party, a frivolous, frilly party. The angels sway to the beat of music I've never heard the likes of before, wearing strange clothes and bizarre fashions. Almost as if the winged idiots lack the creativity to create another layout, the setup is virtually identical to the party I'd attended at the aerie – strangely dressed humans offering bubbling drinks to chatting angels, a band of musicians playing on bizarre instruments creating twangy and unpleasant harmony, and a raised area for the muscled warriors, who, as I notice with explicit interest, are all shirtless, excluding two females that trot among the ranks.
The females. That's the only thing missing from the party. There are no human stand-ins for the vacant she-angels. The only two are these finely dressed women warriors.
It seems that the focus of the dream is the she-angels.
One of them is dark in color, her nearly black skin crisscrossed with silvery scars along the forearms and chest. Her robes are low, but not to expose her generous breasts. She bears her battle wounds with more pride than she does her exotic beauty. Chocolate brown eyes cunningly dart around the room. A golden necklace rings her neck, and matching bracelets adorn her arms. Close-cropped black hair is crowned with a single circlet of gold. Her wings, though folded tightly against her back, seem to be black with metallic zebra stripes along the feathers.
She is in an intense discussion with an angel draped in topaz and gold. His jaw is broad and his face is arrogant even at first glance. The fragments of their intense conversation hone in the dream, allowing me to hear her rich voice and his cold one.
"—stubborn and insolent," the topaz angel spits. "Look around, Ariel! We have been sliced in half by your tenacious pride. The job of the females is what it has always been. Why are you now so controversial to the –"
"The code this, the code that," the she-angel snaps, evidently Ariel. "Look at the humans, Gabriel. Look at the one that rides the wolf, cutting down angel after angel. Her bronze eyes burn and she shows no mercy. If a female monkey can do that, than so can female angels."
"Why do you insist on living separately?" demands Gabriel. His grip on the delicate glass in one hand tightens. "Are you so foolish as to believe that having separate living quarters will even the balance of sexes?"
"So you admit there is an imbalance in sexes," Ariel presses triumphantly. "And, to answer your question, your drunken warriors are still superior to us in two respects: you are better at losing and better at drinking. When a fool with more muscles than brains drinks, she-angels pay the consequences without apology nor regret wasted upon us when they at last emerge sober."
"So the difficulties of maintaining drunkards have warded you off," continues Gabriel spitefully, but the conversation had already faded for me to hear the rest of his argument. The focus of my dream soon shifts from one she-angel to the other.
Unlike the first female angel, which had maintained a warrior-like quality like the rest of the archangels, this pale one is smaller, petite. Instead of tall, graceful, and lithe, she's rounder and seemingly carved from a much gentler substance than the marble making up the rest of the archangels. Her smile is soft, her voice high like a lullaby, and her cherry red eyes are bright with laughter. Unlike Josiah's crimson eyes, hers are gentle, dancing with dark pinks and maroons alongside the browns and reds. Her laughter is like the song of little twinkling fairies, her innocence seemingly obvious. It doesn't appear to be a mask – she seems to be a lot like Paige, honestly, with a smile and a compliment for everyone. In a world of angels, though, that could be dangerous, and I find myself fearing for her.
The drunken angel slouching in the chair beside her does little to comfort me, considering I know him so very well.
Raffe swings his glass into the air, allowing dark liquid to spill over the edge of his chalice. His bare caramel skin allows clear sight of the muscles flexing sinuously beneath his silky hide, boasting upon their full, rich completion. There is nothing in his eyes but dumb drunken thoughts, nothing but emptiness. He's a hollow husk of the glorious angel Pooky Bear portrays him to be. But, although his sword thinks of him as deadly when most powerful, some primal female instinct tells me that his testosterone is being kindled by his high, and that a wrong word can lead to this innocent angel's demise or shame at Raffe's hand.
"So… you've got all the Nephilim now?" the female questions politely, her high voice frail and melodic, like a thrush's whistling song. "After all those years of hunting?"
"Most of them." With slurred words and a belch, Raffe continues, spilling more alcohol onto his bare chiseled chest. "Got a few bastards that get away from me every time. Little demons think they can get away with it. Demons!"
"Ah." The she-angel seems increasingly uncomfortable, as if she's just now realizing a completely wasted Raffe might be dangerous to be around. I can't help but agreeing with her, praying she'll escape. "So, erm, have these Nephilim really done anything to earn the title 'demon'? They are just spawned with the Daughters of Men, are they not?"
I feel like screaming for her to escape while she can as Raffe's pinpoint pupils narrow even further. "They sent my men to hell. They go to hell, too."
"Of course." The she-angel's feet shuffle, her red roan wings awkwardly unfolding and refolding in a gesture of nervousness. "Do you have any idea where any of these Nephilim may be hiding?"
"Can I offer you anything more to drink, sir?" offers a new member of the conversation, voice humming with familiarity. At the sound of him, the she-angel jerks her head up, relaxing her shoulders and stilling her wings. Relief gleams in those beautiful reddish eyes, alongside softer smitten emotions.
Bryon steps up to Raffe in a bizarre waiter's outfit, balancing a disk stacked with fragile glass chalices on one hand. Though he looks ten years younger, in his lower twenties, it's definitely Bryon. He casts one reassuring glance in the she-angel's direction, and it dawns upon me: the she-angel believes that, should the need arise, Bryon can help fight Raffe off. Questions are quickly smothered by my interest in the continued conversation.
"Eh? Oh, yes, just sit tight, I'll get one." Raffe drops his glass on the floor, shattering it in a million pieces and causing the liquid to puddle around his feet. "You see," he explains as he gropes the air to find another goblet of alcohol, "I've got this feeling like they're watching me." Bryon moves closer to Raffe, guiding the glasses to his blind hand. "Right under my nose."
The she-angel's face contorts a bit, as if she's concealing laughter behind those round cheeks. "I'm sure you'll catch them eventually," she assures, smiling at Raffe in order to allow some mirth to escape.
"Will that be all, sir?" Bryon questions, his civil professionalism astounding to hear in the face of the drunken Raffe.
"No." Raffe belches again. "Leave me the tray, and then get out."
"Of course." Bryon gently sets it down on the table beside Raffe, within arm's reach of his awkward gropes.
"Of course, sir," Raffe corrects, face sharpening.
"Yes, sir," Bryon obeys, half-bowing once, before slinking backwards into the shadows with a poorly concealed smirk coloring his expression. The she-angel sucks in her cheeks, gazing intently at the floor while Raffe blabs onwards about demons and Watchers and Nephilim. She casts Bryon in the shadows one last glance before backing away from Raffe, disappearing into the crowd.
The most frightening thing is that Raffe continues talking, as if she'd never left.
A gentle touch on the shoulder awakens me. Moaning softly beneath my breath, I curl my back, struggling to tighten into a tighter ball and ignore the beckons of the person interrupting my dreams. After a distant chuckle, the touch comes again, prodding harder into my shoulder.
"What is it?" I whisper to the awaiting Bryon, stretching in my mess of smelly blankets like a cat.
"Your watch," he informs quietly. "I'm sorry, I waited as long as I could. Your turn now. If you get bored, you don't have to stay stationary – you can always wander; if anything is quiet enough to sneak up on Raphael and I, it deserves to catch us by surprise."
"What do you mean?" I groan as I arch my back, popping bones back into place.
"I mean you don't have to just sit on a rock for a few hours like I did." Bryon takes my hand and helps pull me to my feet. "Explore a bit, go visit Ogden in his forge, wander the halls of this fine city. If you get lost, we'll find you eventually."
"Okay." I yawn broadly, blinking the sleep from my eyes. "Where is Ogden again?"
"His forge." Bryon gestures deep into the bowels of the dark, angling his finger up the walls. In one of the ornate buildings carved into the stone, a light shines, a tunnel leading to somewhere else. I squint at the light. "You should be able to reach him with much ease. He likes being in the sunlight when he works, so he's got a place close to the surface. Lots of windows. It looks like a temple from the surface."
"Alright. I could use some sunlight." Cracking my shoulder, I peer curiously at Bryon. He's already striding off, heading towards his personal spot, but it seems necessary to stop him, to beckon him over. "Hey, Bryon?"
Pausing immediately, Bryon pivots and faces me, the bags beneath his eyes not dampening their patient glow. "Yes, Penryn?"
"I… this is going to sound weird."
Bryon chuckles dryly. "It's a bit harder than you may think to catch me off guard."
In this world of demons and angels, he has a point. But this new dreaming ability I'm developing – it seems to be a step further than this hell on earth. I hope that this talent is all just a mistake, and that my words will not register when compared to the truth.
"Well, I had a dream about you," I inform him, glancing once towards the ground once. "It was weird. I mean, it looked like one of the angel parties, but everything was unlike anything I'd seen before. You were there, a waiter, and you looked younger. A bit older than me. There was Raffe, who was wasted as hell, and this other angel with white hair."
"Ah." Bryon smiles bittersweetly. "Yes. That happened millennia ago, the first time the angels inhabited earth in my lifespan. Back then, we had a plan. It was simplistic, but it got the job done."
"What plan?"
Bryon shifts his weight, leaning on his staff. "The golden rule of human and angel interactions is this: angels don't remember humans. It is a fault of theirs. Of course, if I remembered every cow I passed while walking through a field of livestock, I would be a bit off my rocker. But then again, cows aren't trying to kill me. Back in those days, even angels recognized that clever people could have a certain danger level. A person could play a thousand roles and gain so much information. They could be the one that bitterly stabbed an angel and the one that dressed his wounds. The Wives, especially, rejoiced in this sort of deceptive warfare. I used it too – as Raphael's personal servant for, what, eight years, I could warn the Nephilim whenever he went out hunting and where he was headed. It sacrificed much of my freedom and happiness, but it hailed prosperity for the Nephilim."
I blink. "So Raffe doesn't even slightly remember that?"
Tossing up his head, Bryon laughs a little louder than necessary. "You've seen him as well as I. He knows me by the name 'Simon', my alter ego. Before he went AWOL, I was his personal servant this go-round as well. It is proof of the golden rule."
"You got rid of the angels the first time through?" I confirm, interest mounting.
"Sent them back to heaven." Bryon's expression tightens into some sort of acute pain. "Every last one of them."
"Will you do it this time, too?"
With a sly smile and blinking bronze eyes, Bryon laughs darkly. "Oh, Penryn, this time, they're not even going to have an entire year lounging on this planet."
"Alright." I nod, a sudden confidence in Bryon's abilities coming to me like a slap to the face. Two things dawn on me in absolute unison: Bryon, though he may be kind and merciful towards Raffe, has a powerful belligerence directed towards angels, and that I now respect him as the leader of our group.
So, yeah. Bryon and Bryon's past. With all hope, he should become less of a riddle soon. There were quite a few clues as to his identity in this chapter, if you searched enough. Let's play a game and see if anyone can spot all of them. HEAR THAT? GAME RIGHT HERE.
What happened to FallenAngel, Melissa, Nini, Cassie? Where are your reviews? Have you died? I've been waiting for them to roll in, checking my emails as constantly as possible, but… you're lost. Oh, and Emi, welcome to the family.
Also: I'm on a little vacation nestled in the middle of no and where, so the Wi-Fi is scarce and weak. However, in the middle of no and where, people that do have Wi-Fi don't really know how to lock it, so all I need to do is a little sneaky behaviors and access someone else's internet. Whatever for my readers, right?
POLL: Sariel, the Watcher with metallic golden eyes and a coppery bronze dragon curled around his feet. Hmm. Thoughts?
Ciao,
~wolfluvermh