Chapter Eleven
I laugh at the image on the paper. It shows Scruffy as some sort of mer-wolf, his hind legs a tail rather than paws. The utmost delight on the wolf's face is hilarious.
"Believe it or not," Hugo calls, lifting the torch a bit higher, "that actually became a thing after I posted it online. People started drawing mermaid everyone: mermaid Gabriel, mermaid Thea, mermaid Bryon – oh, man, yours was hilarious." He slaps Bryon on the shoulders with brotherly affection, chuckling heartily to himself. "The caption was: Still no wings."
"They should've given me wings," Bryon sighs with a note of yearning in his voice. "Somebody should draw fan art with me and wings instead of me with a fish tail. I want wings so bad. And no matter how many times I cleverly hint at it, it never happens."
"Really?" As I flip to the next page in Hugo's sketchbook, I meet Bryon's wistful gaze. "You want wings? Why would you like six limbs?"
"Everyone has wings!" Bryon complains pertinaciously, shaking his head from side to side. "I've got artificial wings, of course, but they're a bit of a pain when you need to escape in the nick of time. No, I want real wings, flesh and blood and feathers – or bat wings, I suppose, but that's hardly favorable. Most of all, I want to fly. Every other respectable creature has wings. It's not fair."
"Aww," Hugo coos with saccharine empathy, "is it mid-life crisis? Do we need you to find a doctor?"
"Enough of this subject," Bryon cuts off, blatantly refusing to continue. His winglessness must be a tender topic. "What else has he drawn in his precious sketchbook? Anything of interest?"
Since I'm the only one light enough for Scruffy to carry, this morning, Hugo had offered me to ride him during our trek today – apparently, Bryon was going to keep us swiftly moving, which he is. Perched on Scruffy's back, leaning against his neck, I'd been rather comfortable for the entire trip – if Paige feels sleepy, we'll either switch or she'll climb into Bryon's arms. However, it's been rather boring on the wolf's back, until I started rifling through a few of Hugo's things and found the sketchbook. He'd said I could take a look, and so I did.
Now, I flip back through the pages I've already viewed, searching for a particular image. "There was one of Scruffy as a human and Hugo as a wolf. That was pretty interesting."
"Oh, yes!" Delight sugars Hugo's voice. "My wolves! That became a thing, too – everyone was drawing everybody as wolves, and all wolves as people. Strange, it was actually one of my first drawings, Scruffy as a human. I was just a curious little boy that was trying to show the world how I thought Scruffy would look."
Long lashes quivering, Bryon gasps and turns to Hugo. "I remember that!" he rejoices. "He looked a lot like your brother, didn't he?"
"Yeah," Hugo realizes in a startled tone of voice. "Yeah, I suppose he does. I suppose Scruffy reminds me of my brother, in a way." He pats Scruffy's flank, grinning warmly at the wolf. In turn, his mutt licks up the side of Hugo's face.
"What's the story with you two, anyway?" Flipping back to my prior position in the huge sketchbook, I continue rifling through the pictures, awed by the emotion caught in each pencil drawing. "Not Scruffy and you, but your brother. You don't seem to talk very much about him."
"Well…" Hugo scratches at the back of his neck, discomfort found in his exhale of breath. "It brings back childhood memories, y'know? But I trust you now, congrats, so I suppose I'll fess up. As a prize. To give away a secret."
I lean forward eagerly, smiling encouragingly at him, an action prompted more by curiosity than any whim of compassion for his stage fright.
Hugo swallows, resting one hand on Scruffy's flank for inspiration. "What happened is he was nice to a hurt she-angel that crash-landed in our backyard. But even after she was better, she kept coming back, you know? Like there was something our pathetic village had to offer her. After a few visits, it was clear that she had fallen in love with my brother. Now, even though he wasn't the slightest bit interested in her, the archangels got all pissed when they caught wind of that. Like, severely pissed. Apparently, even though she-angels are barren and can't produce any Nephilim, love was and is strictly forbidden.
"So they released hellfire on our little village to exterminate my brother, killing everyone living there in the process. Everyone but me. There was flame – flame everywhere. I'll have to show a clip of hellfire from YouTube, it's really, really scary and supernatural. People were swallowed whole by the beasts brought to life by the inferno. I only survived because – he and I were – I was – well, we were running from the hellfire, my brother and I, and we'd almost made it…" Hugo takes a deep breath, remaining quiet for a second.
"You don't have to continue," Bryon consoles, placing a broad hand on Hugo's shoulder. The veracious sympathy and raw pain in his own gaze tells that he, too, had experienced tragedy from the event.
"I owe it to Penryn to finish up." Hugo squares his shoulders and looks me in the eye. "I fell behind. I was only six or so, of course I did. The fire was snarling at my feet, and one of its claws sank into my heel – ever heard the term Achilles' heel? – and dragged me to the ground. I don't really remember what happened there – it was going really fast and such, plus I was facing extreme agony. But I do remember my brother grabbing my foot where the fire had got me, and it spreading to him instead. I remember his tortured expression as the hellfire engulfed him, and his anguished screams as the fiery monsters sliced into his soul."
"The hellfire demons are merciless," murmurs Raffe, something close to empathy coloring his tone. "They dance in hell itself, and deal out death with every roar."
"Yeah." Hugo nods, eyes swimming with the ghosts of his past. "Yeah, what you said. Those bastards got Ivan. The she-angel that'd fallen for him swooped down and scooped me up, taking me far from the danger radius. She broke down crying afterwards, and wouldn't respond to any stimulus. I was bawling, too, but I knew I had to get out of there before more angels or more hellfire arrived. Scruffy appeared for the first time, that little kooky wolf. He just sort of popped up on the distant ridge and loped over to me. I'm not really sure why I trusted him, I just know I did. Scruffy took me to Bryon, and the rest… the rest is history. I drank Nephilim blood to extend my life, so I could hunt down the angels that killed my brother."
"Nephilim blood?" Raffe's inquisitiveness is clear in his blue eyes. "That extends human life?"
"Uh huh." Hugo's head bobs in confirmation. "Certain Nephilim live long lives, right? Well, when certain humans – it doesn't always work, not on all people – drink Nephilim blood, they have long lives, too. Some sort of reaction in the blood. I don't know, it's hard to study, haven't been able to nail it down yet. The Wives drank some, that's why a lot of them are still around. Must've been awkward, to suck some blood from your son's arm. But we're getting off point. I decided revenge wasn't worth. I became a semi-peaceful wanderer with a hate for archangels. And here I am today."
"Oh." I don't know what to say to that. An awkward silence consumes the moment.
"The she-angel you spoke of," Raffe proposes slowly, "was her name Janiel?"
Hugo purses his lips, brow furrowing. "You know, I can't be certain, but I think so. We always used to just call her by nicknames, things like 'Feathers' or 'Pigeon'."
"Janiel was insane." Raffe's voice is dark. "She went insane, at least. That she-angel was responsible for nearly a hundred angelic deaths. She had the skulls all stacked up against one wall, the feathers of the particular angel glued to the bone with their own body fluids. If we hadn't discovered her, she would've exterminated an entire aerie."
"It's a funny thing, what people will do for love," Bryon thrums, his mercurial gaze distant, "and what they'll do to avenge a love lost."
Awkwardly, I turn back to the sketchbook as everyone else falls silent. The frayed pages all hold something special: Jane and Scruffy loping side by side, a lion and a wolf reclining in the sun, an angel caught in flight, multiple sexy pictures of Bay and diagrams of Bay's wings, a detailed dragon's eyeball close-up, and a terrifying demon with ruby red lips.
"What the hell." My voice raises a pitch, adopting a reedy quality. Raffe looks at me with a question in his eyes. In response, I lift Hugo's notebook to show the picture of the demon.
"Oh." Embarrassment colors Hugo's voice. "That. Yeah, it's my attempt on drawing Lucius – it's difficult because to look into his eyes causes madness. Unfortunately, that's his deal with many travelers. Lucius likes madness a lot."
"I've heard of Lucius," Raffe acknowledges with a nod of his head. "There are many rumors, including that he's Satan's son. My men would brag about glimpsing him beneath the willow grow he was supposed to haunt, but they were all so wasted they were just seeing things."
"He's the son of Satan, yeah," Hugo approves, smiling at Raffe's drunk warriors. "Sort of like an anti-Nephilim. Believe it or not, he's got a brother that's even more gruesome looking. But does Luther try to lure souls down into hell or torture humans into insanity? No. No, he does not. He actually is a YouTube gamer, but he always wears a mask. The 'V For Vendetta' mask. Cool guy. I like him."
My fingers trace the disturbing image sketched onto the paper. Lucius has a sharp, angular face, as if blades are implanted beneath his deathly pale skin, ready to slice through at the slightest prod. Everything about him is white – white skin, white hair, white suit – except his horrid eyes, his black wings, and his red lips. The glossy crimson lips and pinpoint scarlet pupils are the only real colors on the page, vividly exaggerated by the plaintive black and white setting. His smile stretches to an unnatural width, almost like the Joker's crazy grin. The black wings splayed slightly behind him are even more hellish than Raffe's – instead of a mere row of scythes, all of Lucius's wings are covered in little hooks and needles, like sheets of thorns. The eyes aren't truly eyes at all – two inky beetles are caught mid-twitch in the pits of his face, their legs his eyelashes. Two red specks on the oily shells are evidently meant to be the pupils. His appearance sends a shiver through me, a shiver that sparks Scruffy's curiosity.
Scruffy mewls with a question, twisting his head about. From my perch on his back, I pat his shoulder reassuringly. I rock to his gait, leaning against his neck. Huffing with contentment as I apparently hit the perfect spot on his shoulder, Scruffy relaxes once more, plodding onward just the same.
"He's an ugly fellow," Raffe harrumphs. "Looks like he's wearing lipstick, doesn't it?"
Hugo throws his head back in a laugh. "Truth be told, I'm not totally sure he doesn't wear lipstick. Imagine that, though: son of Satan, going through his average beautifying procedure." His laugh grows more boisterous. "If somebody did a tutorial, I would marry them."
"Looks like blood to me," I comment skeptically, not seeing wear their lipstick angle could come in.
"That's more likely the answer," Bryon sighs grimly. "I suppose we can ask him."
My skin crawls, my gaze landing on Bryon's broad back. In a low, dangerous tone, Raffe inquires, "What do you mean by that?"
Instead of Bryon, Hugo speaks up again. "Lucius is a deal-maker, a lot like me. He can give you almost anything, anything in the universe, but he requires something in return. And the deals are always barbed; in the end, it's only ever Lucius that wins. At least I'm somewhat honest. We're in the company of the only person who's ever forged a successful bargain with him."
Eyes growing wide, I turn to Bryon and his impassive tranquility. "You?" I whisper.
Bryon snickers richly, glancing over his shoulder at me. "I'm too much of a softie to deal with demons – that, I know. No, Ogden's done it before."
Ogden beams at me and waves, flailing his broad palm through the air.
"So, why are we going to be able to ask Lucius about his lips?" Raffe repeats, eyes narrowed. The tips of his scythes peak slightly from his black wings, itching to emerge.
"Because he should be more willing to cooperate," explains Bryon with a tone of reluctance directed towards his plan, "if we have Penryn with us. You see, Paige is like nothing I've ever seen before – sorry, child, it's true." He strokes my baby girl's hair from her face in apology, taking her little hand in his. "However, Lucius will be able to heal her and tell us how to help other people like Paige. We could save not only your sister, Penryn, but all the other children as well if we risk a little bit."
The only thing breaking the awkward silence is Bryon's tapping staff and Scruffy's jovial pants. All eyes fly towards me, and the aura shifts. This idea could be vetoed within a moment by my rule, and everyone would be sent scrabbling for a new strategy. Or I could consent, and risk my neck with this fearsome demon creature.
"It sounds like an okay plan," I decide uncertainly, "and I trust that it must be the only option. But I don't understand one thing – you said it'd be easier if you had me with you to negotiate, right? What the hell does that mean?"
Hugo's voice is oddly crackly. "Do you remember when I told you I was afraid of your mother's demon?"
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My hand, which had been caressing Scruffy gently, knots tightly in his fur. I meet Hugo's coppery gaze, staring deep into the pools of reluctance and hidden fear.
"No," I whisper. "No way."
"Yes," sighs Bryon in an ancient tone of voice. "Yes way."
"You see," Hugo explains gently, "your mother was in a very… unique situation. The key to handling Lucius is not to succumb to what he desires, not to put him in any sort position of power, no way to con you. She never – never was the most stable of women, even when she did work for the government. And, well, this has probably never come up in a fireside conversation, but your father quite literally died once. Flat line. Soul was elsewhere. From what he'd been able to figure after hearing her babbling afterwards, Lucius had appeared to her with that goddamned deck of cards and offered her a deal. He would revive her lost loved one if she… did something. I don't know, he always keeps his deals secretive. Probably would've gone pretty smoothly if she hadn't looked into his eyes and… you know the rest."
Scruffy whines once, bringing about the realization that I'm ripping his fur from his shoulder. My fists only unclench slightly, still remaining tense. Sweat beads over my forehead, and my hands shiver and shake. "You're telling me my mother's demon… existed. That there's actually things that hunt her. That it could be the reason she hurt Paige."
"It's a lot to take in." Bryon slows his pace, striding beside Scruffy. One of his broad hands covers mine, the warm, coarse flesh somewhat of a comfort. His eyes are molten bronze, their softness incomparable. "This world can be overwhelming. I've seen many facing first realization with much less dignity than you."
My vision blurs, the light swirling with each of Scruffy's strides. "She really is crazy," I whisper.
"As a loon bird," mutters Hugo sagaciously. Bryon's staff is a blur of brown wood as it smacks Hugo rather soundly between the legs, but his gaze does not falter, bronze eyes still locked onto mine.
"She would've done it a second time," Bryon says in a quiet, apologetic tone of voice. "I know she would've. But I was afraid she would offer something more than herself to Lucius. I couldn't let her do that. No." Towards the end, he almost sounds like he's convincing himself.
"And after all of that," I curse bitterly, eyes stinging, "he still left her. My father still left us."
"Oh, Penryn." Bryon's eyes swim, and, for the first time, he looks away, keeping secrets still. There is grief pulling his mouth into a thin line. "He didn't want to. He did not want to at all."
"I need a moment," I inform him after a second of silence. "Nothing too long, but somewhere… somewhere where no one can hear me, okay?"
Page ambles up and hops, her cold fingers brushing mine and Bryon's. Undoubtedly sensing my distress. Of course she'd like to console me. Because that's what Paige does. She consoles people, even when I should be consoling her about those awful stitches.
"Let her have a moment alone." Raffe's voice is surprising after such a long period, gruff and adamant. He appears on my opposite side, blue eyes as hard as stone, not releasing an inkling of emotion. "She deserves it."
Hugo slaps Scruffy's haunches firmly, propelling the wolf over the stone. "Go take her somewhere far off. Don't come back until she does."
With a huff of breath, Scruffy starts to trot a little faster, limping with his bandage and veering from the group. Bryon's hand is dragged off mine, and Paige's is taken with it. Paige's round eyes seem to capture the poignancy of the moment in two reflective pools fringed by her long, doelike lashes, whereas Bryon's expression holds mystery and the tickle of a distant sorrow. Hugo waves teasingly, his smirk as uncannily knowledgeable as ever. Raffe's face is blank, but the barest lick of farewell glints in his eyes.
I wave half-heartedly, wiggling my fingers in goodbye. Scruffy plods deep into the belly of the Nephilim Temple, as if he knows the tunnels and bridges better than he'd let on.
On the main path, the Chaza had allowed extraordinary sights and beautiful architectural feats. Illuminated by the dim glow of small holes in the high ceilings and Hugo's torch, I'd seen statues and arches and palaces carved from jewels. The regal beauty of the Nephilim Temple had forced me to respect the once-were inhabitants. But that had only been the main street, the primary route. As Scruffy expertly scales steep stairways and lopes up slick ramps, I'm introduced to another revolutionary style.
As the dots of the gang disappear far below us, plants and stones glowing begin to appear. A broad flower with a golden trumpet sparkles with luminescent pollen, releasing a cloud of glowing dust into the air as Scruffy's paw brushes against it. Though I gawk, the wolf does not falter in his stride. He takes me into a long corridor with one wall of arches peering down far below at the main street where the men used to be, now trekking onward, and the other wall a sheet of diamond waterfalls gurgling like frogs. The waterfalls spill into a pond filled with massive koi fish and wide lily pads with shining blue blossoms. At the end of the corridor is another set of stairways, and this time, the opals set into the wall glow.
Perhaps one of the most incredible factors of the Nephilim Temple is the way it's organized. The main road we'd been travelling on before leads from cavern to cavern, each cave room as large as a town. Wrapping around the walls of the caverns are house after house, dotted with shops and restaurants and all sorts of little hole-in-the-wall places. It makes me wonder just how many Nephilim had lived among us before the angels took root nearby.
Scruffy continues to scale the buildings, occasionally skipping a level by scrabbling up the wall to another stairwell. I'm not sure where he's headed, but it's fairly peaceful, trotting along with the light of the incandescent sources. The gait he travels at is soothing to my whirlwind of thoughts. I collapse into him, resting fully on his neck and shutting my eyes, letting the wolf lead the way. Clutching his fur for any stability, I find myself trusting Scruffy more than I ever had before. After what seems like a blissful eternity of walking, he pauses, and woofs to me. It's almost as if we've reached our destination, as if Scruffy is through wandering.
Peeling my eyes open, I glance around the room he'd entered. Everything is lit by a soft yellow light, filtering through from a crack in the ceiling – perhaps a bed of golden flowers is above us, and the pollen's luminance shines through. Or maybe we're at the top of the cavern, and that's sunlight I see. But this corridor has no windows or any way for me to tell where exactly we are in the terms of height.
"What is this place, Scruffy?" I whisper, pulling myself into an upright position on his saddle. My fingers sink into the rugged leather. "Where did you take me?"
Scruffy releases a huff in response, shaking out his mane. Whining and limping a few steps, he waves his leg around to show that his shoulder's aching.
Oh. So this isn't some mysterious room that Scruffy's been trying to show me. He's just tired of walking.
Somewhat disappointed and somewhat amused, I dismount from him, feet hitting the marble floor with a pins-and-needles sensation. Scruffy sighs deeply, lumbering over to one of the ornate walls and collapsing against it. I laugh quietly as he closes his eyes, causing his tail to thump against the floor.
"Sleep well, puppy dog," I whisper, turning my attention to the rest of the corridor Scruffy had lead me to. "This place should entertain me."
The room is a mural, from start to finish – the long hallway is painted in the classic style, depicting all sorts of monsters and demons and angels on the walls. It's almost like an amalgamation of all the Nephilim fabled heroes, or legendary warriors or something. There is no holy feeling here, but rather a sense that this place was tread often before it was abandoned. Lonely, sad, and longing to be seen again – and happy, happy to host people once more.
At the end of the hall, that insignia – the two wolves and the Clockwork Angel – appears again, a few colossal unlit candles ringing the three figures. Curiously, I roam down, eyes wandering over the paintings until something catches my gaze.
I walk right up to the wall, staring into the angel's eyes. A ribbon carrying a title rests above his head, like in most old fashioned paintings. "So, you're Lion. Lion and She Wolf." I frown. "Is Lion a codename for that Saw-ree-el angel? Because you look a lot like him."
The two figures, one a golden angel and the other a woman with a bronze and brown color pallet, don't respond. They both are about as tall as the length between my fingertips to my elbow, and both are surrounded by a swarm of other angels with a woman counterpart – all the Watchers and Wives, I suppose. I stare closer at Sariel's wife for a moment, memorizing the hostile expression on the woman's face, her hair flailing melodramatically, and the crimson blood dripping off her long pair of narrow blades. "If that's Sariel, you must be his wife, huh? You look pretty tough. I wonder what your real name is, Mrs. She Wolf."
Scruffy sighs heavily, the sound echoing through the long chamber. I glance back at him. "You're right. Talking to myself is pretty pathetic, isn't it? How about from now on, I'm talking to you…"
Scruffy sighs even louder.
"Okay, okay," I chuckle, rolling my eyes. "I suppose it's still pretty pathetic. But I'll go insane if I don't speak in this deathly quiet place. I'm keeping myself entertained, right? Not thinking about mom or hellfire or Lucius or – hey, look, it's Bryon."
I cross the hall, going diagonal from She Wolf and Lion to look at Bryon's painting. Obviously, it was done by somebody who admires Bryon. His staff is held by calloused hands, and slightly exaggerated muscles are clearly visible beneath his shirt. Though it maintains his appearance, it puts him in a handsome light – his cloak is caught in the wind, and his eyes are painted in metallic bronze dye.
"Look at this." I tap the paint gently at his name, the old art cracking at my touch. "Dragon King. He wasn't kidding. I thought it might be Dragon, or something like that, just with King attached by some people. Huh." I frown, fingers skating over the painting to the pretty white-haired she-angel beside him. Her cherry red eyes awaken some sort of memory. "'Wish'. Huh. Is that her codename? She's never come up in a conversation before. Those red wings are kind of pretty, I guess." My frown deepens. "I wonder if they had a thing. Bryon doesn't seem like he'd be into angels or anything."
Scruffy snorts incredulously, as if he's really listening to me.
"Okay, okay," I laugh. "I suppose I don't know enough about him. Heck, I know next to nothing about him. Man of mystery, isn't he? He could be into angels, for all I know. Maybe. Is Hugo on here anywhere? Or Ogden? Wait, there's Ogden."
Ambling over to the drawing, I peer at Ogden. His outfit is different than it is now, but otherwise, it's the same Ogden. "Bear. I suppose I could see that. He's so, so strong, and a bit timid. Plus, he did get ticked at Hugo that one time, and his temper was a bit bearlike. Yeah, I suppose he could be Bear. I would've chosen Ox, personally. I have no clue what they'll call Hugo, that little trickster. Oh, look, you and Hugo right next to Ogden. Are those two associated together?"
Studying Hugo, I find that he's got a few of those Eggs rolling around his feet. His outfit is different as well, a scrappy top hat matching a fancy butler's suit with pocket watches and quilted patches at the elbows. The cocky smile on his face is captured with astounding skill. Scruffy is behind him, the wolf's grin somehow seized in dye flawlessly.
"You don't have a title, Scruffy," I whisper, fascinated by the artwork, "but Hugo is 'Monkey'. Is that where the nickname started? Or maybe he took it gratefully?"
Scruffy huffs an exasperated sigh, as if I'd hit it on the nose. I throw my head back with a laugh. "I wonder why you don't have a title. There's a She Wolf, why isn't there a Wolf?"
His movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I turn to face him just as his head rises, and his nostrils flare. Ears swiveling to my direction, he widens his eyes. A thundering grunt rumbles from his chest. With a sigh, he relaxes back against the wall.
"Did that mean that there is a Wolf?" Curiously, I peer around the room, searching for the little mural. "Where? Are you going to tell me, or just leave me to search?"
Scruffy peels one eye open, his scathing exasperation glinting in the coppery layers.
"Right." I nod, blushing. "You can't tell me. You can't speak. But you knew that. Can you help me or anything? Or are you just dysfunctional right now?"
Grunting and growling, Scruffy hefts himself to his feet, rumbling at me. His paws thud over the earth. He shakes out his cinnamon fur, ruffling his mane. Snarling once at the bothersome cast trapping his shoulder, he lumbers to my side, breath tickling the side of my neck. I wait for some hint of where to search as he stills, but the wolf only stares at me expectantly.
"What?" I blink at him. "Am I missing something obvious?"
Scruffy jerks his head towards the place he'd been relaxing all over with utter defeat on his face.
"Oh." I stride over to the wall with a crimson blush heating my face. "I totally knew that."
On first glance, there is no Wolf – I see Bull and Parrot and Coyote and Raven and, strangely enough, Unicorn, but I do not see Wolf. "Where is this wolf?" I murmur, gently stroking the wall. My gaze tilts slightly to the right, and I see him.
My heart stops.
WOLF
And beneath that beige ribbon with the text clearly printed upon it, with intense blue eyes and black tousled hair, is my father.
"No." I collapse to my knees, touching the old paint and rubbing the imprints of the brushstrokes. "No way. That's…" I turn to Scruffy as he pads up beside me, reaching one hand up caress his cheek. "That's my father."
"So it is." For a bizarre second, I believe that Scruffy has responded to me with a borrowed voice – but then logic crashes back into me, and I turn to the mouth of the mural room to catch sight of the two bronze eyes.
Bryon tips his head. "Apologies for barging in. I had a feeling Scruffy might've taken you here, this painting room. There's one in every Chaza. It's a very friendly place, isn't it?"
"Why did you follow me?" I bristle timorously, clasping both hands on Scruffy's cheek and pressing my body against his soft neck. "I thought I said I needed some time alone."
"And I am sorry," Bryon apologizes with a tip of his head. Undauntedly, he steps beside me. "We simply didn't want to get too far ahead of you and Scruffy, considering his cast." He raps his knuckles on the wolf's bandage as Scruffy bathes the left side of his face in slobber. "At first, he researched more into Gabriel, but then Hugo got tired of waiting, so he sent me after you. We can stay as long as you like, they're not going anywhere."
"Do you have to –" I groan with annoyance, knowing Hugo well enough to be sure that Bryon will stick around. "Oh, alright. Can you at least explain to me why my father is here?" I wonder, jabbing a finger at the painting. "And why he… is painted with those grey things on his back?"
"Wings?" Calmly, Bryon taps his staff on the painting twice, nodding. "I suppose he never would've mentioned that. I got so pissed when he cut them off, even if it was for true love or whatnot. I suppose it was rather sweet, slicing them off for your mother and you, but he was so lucky to get those wings. And he just sawed them off, without a second thought. I was heartbroken."
"That's actually my father, then." Nausea rocks my stomach. "My father with wings. You're saying that my father had wings."
"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying." Bryon smiles and nods at me soothingly. "He never did go swimming with the family, did he? Or take off his shirt? You never saw the scars, and he was careful of that. Strange man, your father. He had everything – riches, respect, and wings – but he gave it up for a normal life. To be normal is quite boring, in my opinion, but we never wholly saw eye to eye." He blinks with his toothsome eyelashes, glancing me up and down. "This is quite a day, isn't it? Let me know if you need to vomit."
"Not making any promises that I won't." Clutching my stomach, I hunch slightly, staring at his picture, each passing second bringing the realization that I never did see my father without a shirt, perhaps to hide hideous scars from Paige and I. "Is my dad an angel? One of… them? Am I…?"
With a melodious chuckle, Bryon rocks his head from side to side. "You really think your quirky little stick of a father was an angel?"
"Then what is he?" I turn my head to Bryon, the slightest tears blurring my vision. "No – no human has bird wings, living flesh and feathers like those. And… my God. What am I?"
"Mostly human." Gently, Bryon places one hand on either of my shoulders, looking deep into my eyes. His own bronze pupils are fringed by those long, thick eyelashes that seem to wave forlornly at me with each blink of his eye. "Penryn, you are a glorious human monkey, and that will never change."
"Your eyelashes," I whisper distractedly.
Bryon's eyebrows raise, puzzlement dominating his sympathetic expression. "What about them? Did one fall out?"
"Those…" My voice tremors. I step away from him with trembling strides, my legs quivering violently. "Those are Paige's eyelashes. You have my little sister's eyelashes. Why do you have Paige's eyelashes?"
Bryon stills smiles, but there's a heartbroken note to it, as if my frightened retreat from his touch had injured him more deeply than I'm aware of. "It's time you learn the truth, isn't it? Time to know the truth of our family."
"Our?" I choke out on a strangled breath, back arching in shock.
"Yes." Bryon closes his eyes, long and lush lashes against his cheek. "It's time to learn the truth about everything. About angels, about Fallen, about Seraphim, about the humans, but mostly, about" – his eyes open, allowing the metallic bronze to chase the dark brown in his iris – "the Nephilim."
First thing's first: Happy Birthday, Anonymous! I plan on releasing this chapter on the 17th – if I miss it, I'm sorry!
Next thing: This story's officially hit 100 reviews. Guys, that's amazing. Truly amazing. I'm so happy about that, it made me beam like a little, uh, happy writer.
Final thing: Haha no just kidding I'm not going to comment on the chapter I'm just going to sit here and let you debate about it. I will say that you might not get the next chapter for a while, because my sacred Wi-Fi spot has been compromised.
POLL: put a poll in here… DON'T FORGET
Ciao,
~wolfluvermh
