Chapter Ten

Though the climb had been strenuous, the sight awaiting me at the peak of the bejeweled towers and long carpeted stairwells is nearly as beautiful as the climb itself. Nephilim seem to be great artists and builders – it seems that nothing was treated without care, no wall left untouched by the tender fingers of creativity nor any floors left without intricate tile-work or thick carpets designed specifically for the buildup of static electricity.

But now, standing in the carved arch of a doorway leading to this fantastical room, my breath is stolen. Yellow stone carves the room up, the lazily swirling lines of the stone shaded in colors like beige and brown. The ceiling is pure glass, strong metal beams connecting the plates reinforcing the strength in each pane. The geometric design spreads fey rainbows over the soft marble floor even without the assistance of the other stained glass windows, the early morning light from above already affecting the world below.

There are three stained glass windows, as directly ahead of me as can be in a circular room. The one on the right is a monstrous black wolf with snowy white wings, inky fangs bared in a chilling grin. It stands on two legs as if attacking, in no natural position a wolf could be found in. On the other side is a white wolf with black bat wings, like a fallen angel of sorts. Its gruesome grin has a splash of red around the mouth, as if showing that, despite its somewhat calmer position, it is a killer as well. The center panel depicts a woman with two unique wings made of clockwork, her brown hair caught in a violent storm of wind.

Mouth falling open, I wander into the center of the room, eyes wide. The ethereal rainbows flutter over my skin as I reach my arms out to touch their delicate feathers. Almost as if chiding me for even attempting, they gently drift just out of reach.

But it my time of gawking is cut short by a little ovular object that rolls in through one of the adjoining arches, beeping like a time bomb.

It's copper and mechanical, matching perfectly with Hugo's steampunk theme. Rings on the surface twist and writhe, as if the machine is launching into violent spasms at the sight of me. It yelps for reassurance, the beeping growing gradually louder until it's a rude blare. At first, only annoyance is my only reaction; this is obviously Hugo's contraption, a little egg meant to protect someone from unwanted guests.

The next thought dawns on me rather aggressively, shaking my view of the annoying ovular device as it rolls to and fro across the room like a windup mouse pumped with caffeine.

My mother's eggs.

The ache in my head does not leave, even when Ogden emerges from the mouth of the same corridor. His face is smeared with ash and charcoal marks color his ratty apron. New wrenches and other assorted materials hang from his pockets, their reflections in the sunlight waving oily hellos. It's almost as if he can see my internal distress, clear across my face. The old man hobbles to my side, concern bunching his bushy eyebrows and frowning deeper than ever before.

"Ogden, what is that?" I whisper, jabbing a finger at the egg. It's stopped yelping at his presence, now quietly rolling around and slamming into stone walls.

His eyes widen, fat lips parting slightly. With mounting comprehension, Ogden turns his face back to me, a touch of sorrow coloring his thick chocolaty brown eyes. Touching a coarse hand to my shoulder, he beckons me back down the tunnel he'd appeared from, hobbling gait slowing his stride considerably. I follow numbly without a problem.

We reach another large chamber, this one darker than the last, more subject to the shadows' forlorn grip. On one side of the dark room, a smoldering forge sits, the embers growling at me with flares of orange light. Tools are aligned on hooks on a corresponding wall, and beautiful creations are being left to cool. From the ceiling hang other deft works of art, delicate metal creations created by plates of iron and silver and gold joining together to create a puppet in black, grey, or yellow. On the other side of the dark room, computers sit, screens all a mess of waiting screen bubbles. One flat screen TV seems to be hooked up to a keyboard, creating a monster computer.

Ogden strides up to the immaculate computers. Hunching over, his fingers rattle over the keys. Words appear on the large screen, easily readable.

The Eggs are one of Hugo's inventions. They're relatively small and unnoticeable, with many different settings. They're used to protect people.

I swallow, choking down the lump in my throat. "Ogden… did you ever meet my mother on any of your wanders?"

Guilt consumes his face, but his expression is quickly dominated with an ancient pity. Turning back to the computer screens, he types slowly, each peck of a key chosen carefully.

I've never met her. Your father, I have, but not your mother. Hugo did do business with your mother. She bought a dozen of the Eggs to protect her baby – I guess you – from something. Apparently, she never said what.

"Probably because 'it' never existed," I mutter darkly, but in such a low volume that Ogden couldn't possibly hear it if he tried. Clearing my throat, I inquire, "How did you know my father? Was he involved in… all this?"

It seems logical that my mom would trust the mendacious boy with steampunk inventions and a giant wolf plodding around his feet, but not my dad. The man refused to read us my favorite fairytale as a kid; it was one about a valiant knight slaying a malevolent dragon, but he never got past his prejudice against fantasy. Personally, I think Mom's demons scared him even further into disbelief.

The words on screen puzzle me further.

Your father was a very clever man. He and Hugo would scheme together like a pair of supervillains. However, your dad was much more into modern electricity and technology and things, while Hugo – need I even say? Hugo wanted his steampunk. Like Hugo, your father had me make his parts. We spoke often, until he domesticated and started toning the fantasy down to live with your mom, to have you and your sister. If he never told you about his other life, I can't, either. I'm not the right person. Forgive me.

Swiveling away from the keyboard, Ogden stares at me with large brown eyes and a pleading expression I simply can't ignore.

"Who would be the right person?" I sigh.

Family would probably be the best to inform you.

"Alright," I grumble grouchily, waving a hand in reluctant defeat. Even if she knows something about my father before he dated her, she'd never say. "What are you doing, anyway?"

Making parts for Hugo. He wants another tempered sword ready, for whatever reason. Hugo fights with a bow. Also, he wants me to prepare feathers for Bryon – don't even ask about that.

"He's strange," I intone, shrugging. "I'm mostly just glad that Scruffy's okay. Hey, do you know about the stained glass windows in that main room there? I saw a few similar symbols climbing up here."

Ogden nods knowingly, prodding a finger to the sky. Some sort of universal symbol thing. It's one of the Nephilim beliefs or traditions or something – it traditionally protects a place. The figures are supposed to represent how life really is. Good cloaked in black and bad cloaked in white, that sort of thing – since they're usually visualized as monsters, Nephilim are into the whole "don't judge a book by its cover thing". The woman is the Clockwork Angel.

"What is the –" Ogden extends a hand to tell me he understands, hushing my question.

The Clockwork Angel is more a legend than anything else. An old wives' tale. Ogden smirks as if he'd just amused himself. Supposedly, it's an ordinary woman with a pair of lightweight wings made of clockwork. There have been numerous "sightings" throughout the centuries, leading some to believe that the Clockwork Angel has power over time. Many of the Nephilim respect her as a god, a prophecy that's certain to come true – evidently, in the darkest hour when their light has gone out, she'll come. Hugo wants to be the one to make the "time-traveling" wings, so he's devoted himself to create the perfect pair of clockwork-type wings. I've got a pair, I brought them up here to study the gears. They're against the wall there. He gestures towards a shadowed corner of the room.

Curiosity mounts as I stride over the place Ogden had waved me into, eyes widening at the sight of what almost seems like a backpack of black metal. Cautiously, I squat beside it. The gears beneath tick at me, almost as if it's trying to frighten me off. Long, slender iron strips like feathers hide the gears.

Ogden's lumbering footsteps warn me of his approach. Looping two fingers through a black leather strap, he lifts the contraption effortlessly, hefting it to a nearby table to rest it upon. Smiling invitingly at me, he begins to unfurl the beautiful set.

It's a strange thing, both wings having a rather magnificent pulchritude about them. The wings of the machine are meant to be folded on the back like a pack, hidden until actual use. Separate of this metal masterpiece are two long iron rods to be strapped along the backs of the arms, with gears at the joints to allow smooth movement. The pack, which is meant to be stationed firmly between the shoulder blades and stretching down to the lower back, is attached to these rods by the crests of the wings. As the wings unfurl, a set of tiny wheels follow grooves on the rods until it unfolds at a massive length and locks into position. I see now that, while in the pack, the wings hadn't just been folded, but instead, all the feathers had been pancaked on top of one another. As Ogden demonstrates, the long pieces of metal used for the primary feathers are nearly five feet in length. The length of the one wing he fully unfurls is nearly fifteen feet from feathertip to joint.

"Hugo made this?" I breathe, not quite connecting these beautiful shining works of art to that puerile face. Ogden nods in confirmation, shrugging to show his own bewilderment.

"How do they work?" My curiosity burns. "It looks too heavy to fly, and, even if the wings followed that rod thing, it'd be difficult to navigate. Also, do you have to unfurl them every time?"

Ogden's fingers rummage the place where the two wings meet for a moment until he touches a button and the other wing flies out to its full capacity, hissing with a schnick of blades. The distant feathertips smash against the stone wall with an irritating clang. He quickly bundles it again, pulling the wing back into its neat position. Then he extends the pack to me.

"You want me to pick that up?" I retreat, throwing up my hands in surrender. "No way. I'm not a bodybuilder."

Ogden grins like a schoolboy and holds the contraption in one hand as if to tease me, still gesturing for me to pick it up.

With a hearty sigh, I secure my hands through the leather straps, gripping the metallic feathers tightly and spreading my legs wide to hold the bulk. Bracing myself for the load of metal about to be mercilessly dumped onto my shoulders, I glance testily at Ogden only to realize that he'd already released the wings, and is standing back with a victorious smirk.

I'm holding the full weight of the wings, and I doubt I'd even need one hand.

With a surprised laugh, I rise from my labored pose, balancing the delicate work of art in my arms. The gleaming feathers are sharpened like razors, as I quickly learn by nicking my finger on a blade. It doesn't really seem to matter – this is unlike nothing I've ever felt before, light as air.

"What is this metal?" I whisper in awe, shifting the wings in my arms. "It seems like it would shatter at the slightest breeze."

Ogden throws up his head laughing. There is a jolly tone thundering in that mirthful chuckle that has me feeling like a fool, as if it's a silly question. Still chortling to himself, Ogden lumbers over to his tool table. An argument blossoms on my tongue as he lifts the largest hammer of them all, turning back to the wings with a glint in his eye.

Ogden slams the head of the hammer into the unfurled wing, the force of his blow sending me stumbling, but, where the hammer had smashed the wing into the ground, there is nothing. Recovering from my falter, I see that the wing hadn't been dented at all. Disbelief rounds my eyes.

"Seriously." I shake my head in awe. "What is this metal?"

Winking at me, Ogden holds his finger to his lips.

"Raaaffe," I whisper in a singsong tone of voice, drawing out the vowels while poking his cheek. "Oh… Raaaaaffe."

His snores don't even falter, continuing on like an elephant being repeatedly ground into pavement with a bulldozer. Drool leaks from the edges of his lips, untidy black hair more a rat's nest than its usual shampoo commercial perfection. The wild splay of his limbs is mildly adorable, in the way a sleeping tiger is sweet – though the cat may be harmless for the time being, wise prey animals still keep their distance.

I suppose that, in the jungle, I wouldn't be a very wise prey animal.

Prodding my finger into his cheek again, I gently poke at the corners of his slack mouth. My voice rises to a pitch it's never hit before on the next singsong taunt. "Raaaaaaaaffe."

This time, his snore trembles, and he mutters something in his sleep. I bite the inside of my cheek to contain my laughter, but a small giggle escapes me. Fearing that it might've awakened him, I still. Tenseness keeps me quiet as a mouse. However, as time passes by, Raffe only snores louder than previously, seemingly shaking the earth.

Leaning forward until I'm hovering over his face, I cup one hand on his cheek. "Raffe," I breathe, his name curt one my tongue. He mumbles something unintelligible again, facial expression contorting and relaxing.

I don't even try to conceal my laughter, despite the fact that Scruffy lifts his head from his peaceful sleep. My confidence with the sleeping Raffe grows. Resting my hand on his chest, I bow my head, lips at his ear. "Raaaffe."

Blue peeks through his eyelids, and Raffe awakens with a jolt. Groaning and rubbing at his eyes, Raffe props himself up on one elbow, wings stirring like two tar pools shifting in the darkness. He blinks, staring up at my smirking face – then collapses with a moan, putting a hand over his eyes.

"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," I tease, prodding him in the temple. "It's your turn to watch."

"How much was I drooling?" he sighs, dragging his hand from his eyes. The barest remain of smoldering embers casts beautiful light on his face, illuminating his full lips and expressive eyes more than ever. Despite the shimmering path his drool had left in its wake, I find his appearance rather arousing, with tousled hair and a dazed gaze – Raffe's morning face is something I wouldn't mind seeing more often.

"A lot." I mask my complex train of thoughts with a smirk. "I won't even mention the snoring. You woke Scruffy up."

"His poor unfortunate soul," Raffe mutters darkly, closing his eyes once more. "A pity you had to see me like this. It'll put a dent in my reputation."

"Aw," I coo, patting his arm in feigned consolation, "don't worry! You look like a little tiger after a long nap. Sleepy and confused and so cute."

One eye of his peels open to stare at me, the dark smirk toying with his lips fostering many a dirty thought. "You compare me to a tiger?" The air hisses and Raffe's form blurs; that is all I know, until a pair of blue eyes are directly before mine. Tingling heat spans the scarce gap. His nasty breath caresses my chin and throat. "I can't imagine why. Would you mind telling me why you think of me as the king of beasts?"

I lean forward slightly instead of balking from his demonstration of his physical prowess. Malaise is now my friend instead of my enemy as Raffe's gaze swims abruptly with uneasiness.

"The lion is the king," I whisper, smiling at him. "The tiger's just the strongest, and the biggest."

"You're right about that," Raffe purrs in the most licentious manner, grinning torridly, his hands slowly skating over the ground to land on the tops of my thighs. My skin crawls and my belly rocks. His statement makes it that much harder to focus on an impervious answer.

"You've got no way to prove that," I point out triumphantly, smirking and cocking my head. With each breath he takes, his broad shoulders flex and muscles bulge.

His hands lethargically climb my thighs, gently roaming up until they rest at my hips. I could be imagining it, but I do believe he inches slightly closer as he cocks his head opposite of mine. "Don't I?"

"Get a room!" Hugo snaps sleepily.

The brusque statement breaks a mood, as if he'd shattered one of the beautiful stained windows from upstairs. Raffe leans away from me, and I blush and scoot further from him. Scruffy still pants with a sloppy, drooling grin, but now, Hugo is awake, too, with a scowl instead of a smile.

"I swear," he grumbles, "there is nothing like two little lovebirds to ruin your sleep. This is the second time. I'm not amused." With a huff, he rolls over, facing the wall. Bemusedly, Scruffy licks his master's ear, as if questioning why he'd gotten so ticked.

Raffe turns back to me awkwardly, his apologetic smile somehow still winsome, despite all the tension in the air. "I'll take watch, then. Get some sleep. You've earned it."

I release a massive yawn, roaring like a tiger myself. "My original plan was to talk to you about loyalties and our current travelling partners and such, but I guess that won't be happening. You just had to wake Hugo up."

"Me?" Raffe's eyebrows lift, displaying his disbelief like a page on a book. "Excuse you, you were the one gasping like a fish out of water."

"I was not gasping," I berate, scowling at him. "You're imagining things."

"Hmm. Maybe. Truthfully, I'm not even sure why you wanted to talk – we're such a good group, the camaraderie is just –"

"I didn't really want to say anything in hopes that you would quiet down," Bryon sighs tiredly, "but Raphael, you're quite loud. Please, I've got to go on watch again."

My voice drops a bit in volume. "Oops. Sorry."

"Get some sleep," Raffe whispers, pulling at a blanket from the place he'd been resting in. With a gentle grip and a soft touch, he eases me to the ground, snuggling me down in his nest. Contentment shines in his eyes as he stares down at me, bundled up like a child.

"I can't move," I inform him, kicking slightly at the raggedy blankets.

"Good," he chuckles, rising. Raffe towers over me like a god, or perhaps a devil. The shadows claim most of his black wings, leaving only the crests to be illuminated by the firelight. Only his eyes gleam. "Now I won't have to worry about you running off. Try to sleep, Penryn, we'll most likely be… doing something tomorrow. Something that requires energy."

"So specific," I mutter, but I nestle tighter into Raffe's nest of blankets. He pads off like a shadow, disappearing into the darkness without a glance back. It's almost as if he is a predator, searching for prey without realizing one's reclining in his den. Sighing deeply, I shut my eyes, relaxing into his bed.

Beneath the wolf odor and the pungent reek of oil, I can't help but notice that Raffe's blankets smell an awful lot like him.

Anonymous won the little contest here, even though all the results haven't rolled in.

I could add more to this chapter, but I feel like here's a good stopping point. You'll see why next chapter.

Hugo is hiding more secrets, this time about Penryn's father and mother. But he did introduce as one to have secrets and not share them, so can we be surprised? No. No we cannot.

POLL: The Raffryn, the sweet, sweet Raffryn! Although I love writing it, I try to make it realistic – which means no pointless Raffryn. How do you think I'm doing on Raffryn writing and maintaining each character's personality?

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh