Chapter Seventeen
"Raphael?"
My skin tingles and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end with alarm at the sound of the alien voice crying out Raffe's name with desperation and despair on his tongue. My eyes clap against a bloody figure limping from the shrouding shadows of the trees, releasing a trail of flowers. Two wings trail behind the humanoid creature, one only connected by a few veins, the other butchered beyond recognition.
Raffe tenses at the sight of the angel, quickly hiding his demonic wings by snapping them shut against his back. While I analyze the situation, still as a statue in the safety of the open meadow, Raffe approaches with open palms and an expression of disbelief.
"Yaoel," he whispers, stepping in front of Bryon to draw even nearer to the wary angel. "My friend. What are you doing here, so far from the aerie, out in the woods? There are creatures here, unfriendly animals."
The angel snorts, relief coming over his face, slumping his shoulders and relaxing his grip on the sword hilt he'd been clutching so tightly. "You needn't tell me –"
A flash of white sends flowers twirling into the air – it moves so quickly it might as well have been a bullet from a gun. With the sound of tearing flesh quickly cutting off the angel's speech, his head is savagely ripped form his body by a massive white wolf.
Raffe scampers back like a startled mouse, his wings snapping out to their full glory as his friend's decapitated head thuds against the ground at his feet. Hissing with rage, he reaches for a sword strapped to my own hip. Before he can truly register its loss, Bryon has already clapped a hand around Raffe's forearm, dragging him away from the white wolf.
"Stand down, Raphael!" Bryon orders, his tone solid as a block of ice. "Stand down, or we'll have your head at our feet!"
Raffe pays Bryon no heed, kicking and clawing like a little child, roaring at the wolf in fury.
The wolf pays him no heed, either. It has the same spark of cruel beauty as Raffe does himself – the flawless, streamlined build of the swift hunter, and the thick coat of a lupine predator. And, in its eyes, Raffe must seem like the prey as much as the limp angel body at its paws. Glancing once mockingly at Raffe's struggles against Bryon, the wolf buries its snout into the angel's belly, snapping his ribs in half on an upward blow to allow free passage to his more critical internal organs. I glance away as it rips something mercilessly from the chest of the angel, tossing aside lungs and bloody grey organs in the process, looking at the ground.
"Ah, Jane," sighs Hugo tranquilly. "She's beautiful, isn't she?"
Swallowing with immense difficulty, I drag my gaze up to his perch on Scruffy's back, tapping away at his computer. Bile rises in the back of my throat.
"This is Scruffy's girlfriend?" I choke out.
"Yes. The murderer of the murderers." With a devilish grin in my direction, he snaps the lid of his laptop shut. "Angels have this crazy regenerative factor, you know? Like, I've seen one get shot straight through the noodle before and live to tell the tale. That's because as long as most of their internal organs are intact, they can patch themselves back up. Unless you've got an angel sword, because then the metal gives them an allergic reaction and – whoa, getting sidetracked. Anyway, to avoid having her victims wake up and seek revenge, Jane eats them. Foolhardy method. I mean, digested angel isn't going to be doing any zombie shit."
"That's sick," I groan, pivoting away from the she wolf, ignoring the crunch of bones snapping beneath teeth, the rip of organs being torn brutally from their placement in the angel's body. Raffe's furious bellows do well to drone out most of the noises, but not all.
"Hmm. A bit." Hugo's grin grows even broader. "What she does first is she separates the brain and the heart. Good strategy, right? Then she peels back the ribs to trowel out the heart, mauling as many other valuable organs as she can, shredding the lungs and cutting the arteries. She eats that, getting it digesting early on. Then she goes after the brain. You see, when she rips of his head" – Hugo starts to make explanatory gestures, gestures I don't really need nor want to see – "she bites him just so that her upper canines sink into his eye sockets and her lower canines hit him at the base of the neck. To get to his brain, she eats out all the marrow and the flesh and muscles until she starts munching at his noggin. She then proceeds to clean out his skull, licking all the blood and skin away. Sometimes, she eats the rest of the corpse, too – other times, just the meaty sections, leaving the rest for scavengers. She always keeps the skulls, though, the skulls and a few of the feathers. Clever girl."
"Clever?" I glare at him. "I can understand dog-eat-dog logic. I know, I've lived through situations like that. But this sounds like murder to me, a madwoman's murder."
Hugo spreads his hands in an iffy expression. "The murder of a murderer. Who's at fault? Depends on your viewpoint. But she's clever in the way to separate the body and the head. According to scientists, even, scientists studying the theories of the soul, it's the throne of the actual soul – the being of a person – that's in the area of the heart. The mind of a person – the thoughts, the knowledge – is in the skull. The soul goes on, it can leave this plane and pass on after Jane kills one of her victims. But the mind is forever imprisoned in the skull without the heart's soul to first free it, and it can never, ever leave. Jane stockpiles all those skulls in her den, forming her own version of the European Catacombs. All those angry and confused minds together in one space makes those dark tunnels very scary. Some say Jane feeds off thoughts. Others say it's a deal she made with the Devil. All I know is that it's the perfect place to summon Lucius."
"Lucius?" I turn back to Jane, swallowing my disgust, watching as she does indeed rip the skin from the angel's scalp in an effort to reach his brain. Her muzzle is splashed with crimson, her amethyst eyes shadowed with scarlet. Although Scruffy does seem to be drooling, I cannot see a single thing beautiful in the beast anymore.
"Uh huh. The best place to summon a demon is a place that's felt suffering. Nothing's felt suffering like those angel heads. But enough with this depressing conversation." Hugo swings his legs over Scruffy's back, dismounting his wolf only to nudge at the angel's limp wing with his toe. "Now, let's talk about the name Yaoel. That sounds like it came from anime. One of those type-names. Who names their killer angels Yaoel? Hey, Ogden, can you grab my gauntlet?"
Plodding over obediently with a thick metal glove held gingerly in his arms, Ogden hands Hugo the metal contraption. Fascinated, I watch as Hugo slides on the glove and promptly leans down to pluck the angel's sword from his side, flicking it to rid it of some of the sticky blood coating. He lifts the blade to his eye level, looking down the edge to search for imperfections and flaws.
"It's in pretty good condition." He knits his brow. "Yeah, okay. We'll keep it. Seems pretty likely we'll find a buyer soon – you seeing those marks on the wings, too, Ogden? Make sure those steampunk goggles are secure, because I'm pretty sure that the Wives were the ones did this too him; looks to me that Jane just finished the job." Patting Ogden on the shoulder, Hugo turns his back on the corpse and on the monstrous white wolf without a care, holding the sword with his metal gauntlet.
"What are you doing?" Raffe booms, breaking free from Bryon's lock long enough to march up to Hugo. "Are you attempting to plunder the weapon?"
Calmly, Hugo meets Raffe's gaze, tossing the sword up once experimentally. "Yeah, actually, I am. It's not like he's using it anymore."
His statement rubs Raffe the wrong way, as if the angel hadn't been strung up enough.
Voice the low, dangerous growl of the pissed off predator, Raffe settles into an offensive stance. "An angel's sword is his being. His entire soul. His heart, his legacy, his very being. You will not steal his sword from his bloody corpse." Raffe peels his lips over his teeth in a feral snarl. "I will kill you a thousand times before you can take another step from his body."
"Angels are very passionate people, aren't they?" Giggling childishly, a platinum blonde walks from the shadows of the woods – in our chaos, we hadn't even registered her approaching trail of flowers. "You're so funny, absolutely fascinating. Of course, people were the exact same way about their houses and families." Abruptly, her cheerful, round face sharpens, like the broad of the blade being turned until only the edge is visible. "Such a pity the angels ripped those from their hands."
"Daisy," laughs Bryon with relief, his tense muscles relaxing. "At last! Backup! Where's Mauler?"
Her expression softening once more, the blonde strides proudly right up to Bryon, shedding light upon their difference in height – she barely stands at five-two, whereas he towers nearby seven whole feet. "Bryon!" Daisy cries with the drawled accent exploited only in the deep heart of the South, throwing her slender arms around his waist and squeezing. "Oh, it's so good to see you! We had a feeling you were around here somewhere when we saw Tabitha!"
"Tabitha?" I question, voice so soft I don't believe it'll carry over Raffe's intense growling.
"Bryon's unicorn," Hugo explains with a wink in my direction. "With good fortune, we'll see her soon. She's very… irritable."
"Tabitha is not my unicorn, and she's not irritable." Bryon's indignant reaction is more feisty than what it had been defending his own rights. "You are just remarkably talented at ticking people off. You even make unicorns want to gore you in the gut, for God's sake."
The woman, Daisy, laughs. "Hugo is just a special child, aren't you?"
Hugo winks characteristically, leaning forward – in character is what comes to mind, in character of the steampunk merchant, which means this woman is branded as a customer in his eyes.
Daisy laughs at his response, tossing her head up. Her sweater sleeves are slightly too long for her arms, her jeans coming up below her ankles. At her hip, a set of knives hang, partnered with an old fashioned silver revolver. Bright green eyes the color of the golden sun through summer leaves glint in the darkness, reflecting the gleam of the blue flowers. Around her neck, layers of charms and spiritual pendants hang from leather necklaces. Almost everything on her being, from her nearly white hair to her knee-high riding boots, is splattered in various shades and tints of paint.
I do not have long to ogle before I am ripped from my analyzation – something cold and scaly dashes up my leg, winding around it like a snake. Tiny claws pinch into my back and sink into the soft skin of my neck. Jumping and attempting to shake the creature from me, I scream, lashing my shoulder to and fro to loosen its ever-tightening grip.
"Penryn," Bryon husks, a single hand around my flailing fist halting my awkward bucking. "Belle won't hurt you. She's merely curious."
The animal on my shoulders croaks in agreement, almost like a frog.
"Penryn," Raffe whispers in horror, blue eyes wide as pools, tinted the same color as the flowers crowning him. "Don't you dare move. I'll get it off."
Hugo snorts, twirling the angel sword in one hand, nonchalantly ambling over until he's located between Raffe and me. "Ah, no, you won't. You really think I'm going to let you kill another Nephilim? With both a Wife and two of the most powerful ones right here? Not likely."
"This is a Nephilim?" I breathe, rock-still as the creature's flaring nostrils hover over my ear, not daring to protest as it experimentally nuzzles my hair, pulling a strand playfully. It whines and whimpers, cold, serpentine tail writhing over my flesh like a snake in what may be a creepy tail-wag.
"Yes." Gently, Bryon drops my hand, allowing it to hang limply. Extending an arm towards my shoulder, Bryon offers himself as a new perch for the monster. "And just a baby, poor little thing. Her mother was slaughtered when the angels attacked Kenya – the town was obliterated, everyone and everything slaughtered except for her. Nobody knows who the paternal or maternal parents are, but Belle here travels with the Wives."
My taut muscles unravel as the tiny claws release my skin and Belle creeps onto Bryon's thick, muscled arm. A long tail hangs down from her perch, the very tip frayed with long hairs, like a lion's tuft. She's a little larger than a Chihuahua, but not by much. In the darkness of the moment, I can tell no more than that upon her physical features.
"Penryn, honey –" Daisy hesitates, smiling crookedly. "Penryn? Penryn Young?"
I nod in confirmation. "The same."
"Hmm." Daisy grins at me, a more motherly spark entering her evergreen eyes, her expression softening under gaze. "Well, Penryn, dear, Thea will be very glad hear you're in safe hands." She pats Bryon's shoulder in explanation. "I hope you and Belle will get along; she really is quite sweet."
"How has she been, again?" Bryon questions, itching beneath Belle's chin.
"Oh, Belle has been a dream!" Daisy sighs happily. "Her and Mauler get along brilliantly. Mauler really is the sweetest wolf in all the Wife Pack, isn't he? So laid back! This week alone, I swear –"
"Hugo said something I'd like to extend upon," Raffe thunders. The icy, deadly quality to his voice racks my body with startled shivers, and his sinister appearance does no better to assist my building alarm – the scythes on his wings are stretched to full length, hooks still slightly bloodied from their last use. "If I am correct, Hugo just claimed that we are in the presence of a Watcher's wife" – he looks to the mechanic for confirmation, a confirmation he receives without effort – "and three Nephilim." Again, Hugo nods, casually twisting the angelic sword about in one hand.
In the periphery of my vision, I see more sleek-pelted wolves than Jane and Scruffy roiling in the depths of the forest, flashing their ivory fangs, releasing battalions of flowers into the air. I could perhaps be incorrect, but a few dark blots in the sky seem to circle overhead our position. Bryon's grip tightens on his staff, and Daisy slowly edges behind Raffe.
"Oh, dear." Daisy sounds concerned. "Did he not know about that? Oh, you poor thing." She starts forward, thrusting one arm around to the small of his back and rubbing the other up and down his bicep in a motherly fashion. "C'mon, let's get you cocoa and marshmallows a nice, warm fire, eh? How does that sound?"
"Stop it," Raffe snarls, not even looking at Daisy as he bats the woman away. She blinks in injured astonishment, her sleeves falling over her hands as Raffe leaves her behind to stalk up to Bryon.
"Bryon," Raffe growls, teeth bared like a feral hound's, "I'm only going to ask you once. Are you a Nephilim?"
Bryon cocks an eyebrow, not meeting Raffe's gaze, but instead caressing the tips of his fingers around Belle's horns, studying her monstrous face as she purrs and mewls beneath his hands. With each second that ticks by, Bryon seems to undermine Raffe's authority a little more – I don't want to see my uncle ripped apart by Raffe, nor I do I want to see that arrogant archangel humiliated by Bryon; if Bryon doesn't answer soon, I will take the risk and step between the two.
Luckily, however, Bryon does find time in his snuggle therapy to respond to Raffe.
"I'm quite surprised you didn't notice earlier, Raphael." Bryon meets Raffe's gaze with a serene look that balms even my nerves. "I do pray this doesn't interfere with our friendship. That would be quite awful."
Both Daisy and Ogden cry out as Raffe lunges, his fist closing around Bryon's throat. I shout to stop him, but nothing seems to puncture Raffe's battle armor sufficiently enough to breach his instinctive rage. Raffe lifts Bryon from the ground and swiftly hefts him several feet before slamming him into the trunk of a nearby tree, the impact of Bryon against wood so mighty, frail twigs rain and leaves swirl to the ground like a thunderstorm. The wolves in the darkness huff and bark threateningly, still mulling behind an invisible line. Belle is thrown violently from his shoulder, thudding against the ground, hissing in fear at Raffe, and retreating into the bowels of the dark forest for protection.
Bryon's face reddens as Raffe's grip tightens, but he doesn't fight back. He simply watches Raffe with innocent bronze eyes, even as Raffe's fist furls and his arm tenses for a punch atop the strangling.
"Raffe!" I shout, tugging on his bicep. "Stop it!" Though I resent the idea of using his beloved sword against him, it may come to that if he comes to blows.
I know that the wolves are awaiting a command to pounce on Raffe and rip him to shreds. From what I've heard, Raffe isn't very popular, and his death will mean nothing to Bryon's life. The very real possibility haunts me. Fueled by this discord, I snarl and wrestle with him as best I can, dragging back his arm until I can squeeze through the gagging Bryon and him.
Slamming my fist into his throat, I successfully knock Raffe off his balance – his focus had been tunneled on Bryon, his thinking patterns narrow, not searching for another target. As he recoils, gasping to refill his lungs from the deprivation of oxygen, I come as close to his face as possible, grab his collar in an attempt to be superior as opposed to dragging his head down to my level, and rumble, "Raphael. You. Leave. Him. Alone."
At this, Raffe recoils, releasing Bryon and allowing the Dragon King to slump against the bark of the tree, gasping for breath. His umbrage has a new focus – me.
"Penryn," he growls in a tone that legitimately frightens me, "would you like to explain to me what exactly you're doing?"
"Keeping you from getting killed," I discipline in as hard as voice as I can muster while staring into those furious blue eyes.
"Oh?" His breathing grows ragged. "Are you?"
"Take a look around, Raffe. We're in Nephilim territory. I'm not exactly sure about the Wives, but they seem badass enough to have been originally been the ones tracking your dead friend over there. They can probably pitch in, too. Don't look up now, but we've also got buddies to the sky. If you take a wrong step here, you'll get yourself slaughtered. Call me crazy for wanting to prevent that."
Raffe seems only slightly contained, his breathing still haggard. "Did you know about this?" he accuses, piercing blue eyes searching my face. "You don't even seem the slightest bit surprised by knowing that Bryon, our little camp leader, is a monster."
"I'm surprised and disgusted by your temper." I ignore the emotion this draws in his eyes, only focusing on constructing the tough attitude I must display to calm him. "Otherwise? No. Bryon's been pretty frank with me. Frank enough for me to know that he's a good guy."
"If he's such a saint, why didn't he come and spit it out to all of us?" Raffe snarls, his grand wrath trickling away into something less formidable. "Why did he keep his secrets instead of revealing his true nature? It would've made things simpler."
"Dude," Hugo laughs from behind Raffe, "do you think we're stupid? He would've been skewered before he could reach 'and who are you' questions."
Raffe's growl almost seems like a titanic boulder tumbling down a mountain's face. "For all the right reasons."
"Oh, for heaven's sake." Daisy's cross sigh holds the cadence of a pissed off southern belle. "Raphael, are you blind? Bryon hates you probably more than you hate him – you have killed hundreds of his siblings. Even I hate you more than you can even possibly hate him. You've slaughtered all my children up until the past few centuries, slaughtered 'em like pigs. So, I suppose what I'm trying to say is" – Daisy bats her eyes, the pale lashes emerging from her lids like whalebones half-submerged in sand – "you've made enemies, enemies that'd like you dead, while this man has been making nothing but friends. Kill him, and you'll face a universal witch-hunt."
Though his security in his superior position seems marginally altered by our resistance, but his throne still has three legs to stand on. "I can outfly any humans. Let them come."
"But can you escape those things?" Again, I jab at the sky, gesturing towards the circling creatures.
"Seraphim," Daisy provides, eyes grazing over the serpentine shapes. "Three female Seraphim."
"Where there are females, there's males," Hugo elucidates helpfully. "Their combined powerful is too great for this world… When a Seraphim passes together, the moon and the sun seem to become one and the angel and the Fallen walk as friends…"
"Nutball," Bryon wheezes, drawing my attention to his crippled form, leaning against a tree, and the bruises already clouding the tan skin at his throat, the imprints of Raffe's fingers entwining over his windpipe sending a shiver through my veins. With the faintest hint of bronze through a slit of his eyelids, Bryon watches us with a lazy gaze, his eyes occasionally drifting down to my sister where she sits crouched by his side, caressing his cheek the way one might quiet a wounded puppy.
"Jerk," Daisy offers in response.
"Bitch," Hugo spits.
Bryon's smile broadens across his face, bringing a taut grin to my sister and to me as well. Something about those two phrases seems to warm Bryon to his core, and the sight of him being so giddy is oddly heartwarming.
But his glee is quickly snuffed out by rasping coughs issued from the very back of his throat, wet hacking that doesn't sound pleasant. Leaning to one side, he spits out a glob of quiver phlegm onto a mass of flowers; the blossoms flee from the nastiness, escaping in the sky with disgust trailing in their wake. Paige cups his cheek in alarm, meeting my eyes with a plea written in stitches.
Hugo kneels by Bryon's side, compassionate concern splintering his youthful expression with glimpses of an older spirit. With two fingers, he tilts Bryon's chin up, gently pulling at his cloak to get a better look at the wounds. Momentarily forgetting the crisis at hand, I kneel beside him, clasping his knee for reassurance that no heat has escaped his body and dashed upwards to the stars alongside his flowers. Bryon's callused hand closes over mine in familial comfort, peeling open one eye between coughs to meet my gaze for mere seconds.
Raffe's voice shoots ice through my veins. "Get away from him, Penryn. Keep your sister back."
Chilled by the open malice in his voice, I choose to ignore Raffe's order, focusing on cupping my sister's other hand in mine.
"Penryn," Raffe commands from directly behind me, "step away from that monster."
Bryon's hand tightens slightly around mine, perhaps in response to the insult.
Raffe grabs my arm and rips it from Bryon's grasp, yanking me savagely to my feet, twisting me about until I glare deep into his blue eyes. His fist curling tighter and tighter around my forearm invites nervousness, nervousness that he may crush my arm entirely in the palm of his hand. With the strength building in his grip, he very well might. To avoid that happening and to avoid Bryon leaping up to defend me, I meet his gaze levelly.
"Raffe, what are you doing?" I hiss at him, anger seeping in each word.
"You were keeping me alive by stopping me from killing him." Raffe's gaze hardens. "I get that. Now, I'm keeping you from getting slaughtered. No matter what deals he can offer you, you must turn them down. We need to leave now, need to see this place disappear over the horizon."
I feel baited to spit out the truth, to tell him that Bryon is my uncle, but logic halts my words – if Raffe is reacting so chaotically to a single Nephilim, he wouldn't take it very well that I'm one. With the mood he's in, my head would be lopped from my shoulders before I could breathe of word of explanation.
Instead, I settle with, "Raffe, he's given us no reason not to trust him. He's admitted that he doesn't like you, but he's trying to… I dunno, make up? The least we can do is see this through until the Nephilim town."
Raffe's rage overwhelms his expression, his fist tightening to a point of pain around my wrist. "Given us no reason not to trust him?" Raffe roars. "What do you know about this beast, Penryn? You know nothing!" Lips peeling back over his teeth with primitive hatred, Raffe cocks his head towards Bryon's broken form. "I know who he is, inside out and backwards. Know your enemy. I know him well. This man puts on a façade of innocence and rips you apart the moment your back is turned."
"Oh, please," I snort, twisting my wrist back and forth in a desperate attempt to dislodge his strangling grip.
"I have seen him destroy nations, Penryn," Raffe murmurs softly. "I have seen him raze cities simply by thrashing his tail. Bryon is not a good man. He has never been a good man, and he never will be."
"Let go of me, you're crushing my arm!" I order, peeling my own lips back at him. "And, if you want to know my opinion on the matter, I'd say you two are pretty much the same. In case you hadn't noticed, you've killed millions! You've slaughtered nations, brought humanity to its knees, and you don't even seem slightly apologetic! You don't try to make friends, don't try to repent for your wrongdoing! No matter how bad you think Bryon is, you're a thousand times worse!"
In that moment of pithy fury and pent-up aggression at last freeing itself from its constant bonds, I simply do not care if Raffe wasn't behind the apocalypse, I do not care if he took no part in it, I do not even care if he is indeed a thousand times better a man than Bryon. The tension of carrying around a thousand weights on my soul breaks loose like a dam giving way to a deluge. Inundated with emotions and fury, care not how algid my words are, nor do I care if Raffe is just as confused as I.
Raffe drops my arm, shock blanketing his expression.
His expression stiffens, his fists curling into tight knots. "I didn't know you felt that way."
"Damn," Hugo whispers to Daisy. "This is an all-out argument. Like, they're at each other's throats."
"This could become interesting," she observes, "but interesting really isn't what I came here for." Daisy half-cocks her head towards Hugo, extending an open hand. "We saw Jane dart after Yolo or whatever his name was, and gave up the chase there – but we still want the sword. Hand it over."
"I pillaged the corpse first," Hugo protests, toying distractedly with his tie. "It's rightfully mine."
"Killer gets first picks of the spoils," Daisy points out.
"Yeah, but you didn't kill him."
"I poisoned him. He wasn't going to last much longer than an hour."
"Ah." Hugo holds up a finger to silence any more of her argument. "But Jane dealt the killing blow. And I pillaged the corpse first."
"You two are ridiculous," Bryon grunts, smiling weakly with lips still slightly quivering. Growling to himself, he plows the tip of his staff into the soft dirt at the foot of the tree he slumps against, and drags himself up the sturdy plank of wood. Hand over hand, he rises, with my little sister tenderly aiding every move.
"Whoa." Briskly, Hugo attends Bryon, laying a hand on his chest to try and push him down. "I'm no doctor, but I'm mildly certain you shouldn't be moving just quite yet, no matter how regenerative your Wolverine blood is."
"Nonsense!" Bryon chuckles, genial smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He nudges Hugo's assistance away without a trace of weariness, patting Paige on her shoulder in appreciation of her work. Then, he lifts his head and cracks his neck, rolling back his shoulders, and sighing heavily.
"There!" With a broad grin, Bryon meets my gaze. "Good as new! Now, I don't want any fighting in the camp" – he steps towards Raffe and I with the slightest hint of a limp hindering his gait – "so, you two, whatever you're fighting about, make up. Hug."
Though he might've had a point about not wanting fighting in camp – a good general always wants his men in order – I don't quite comprehend the last word to leave his mouth. Evidently, Raffe, too, has difficulties fully understanding Bryon.
"Hug?" he questions balefully, glare fixed on Bryon.
"Hug," Hugo pipes up. "They're when one person wraps their arms around another person, either around the torso, over the arms and around the back, or around the waist. They're usually used to show signs of affection, comfort, reassurance, and making up." Raffe and I both relax, neither one prepared for Hugo's additional statement. "Hugs often happen before sex, too."
"Thank you," Bryon trumpets, cutting off Hugo before he goes into great depth of his gay fanfictions. "Thank you, very much, for that. Yes, Raffe, I said hug. Make up. If I believed you were still ticked at me more than you're now ticked at Penryn, then I'd make sure we hugged, too. We still might, if you don't stop glaring at me." For a second, Bryon imitates Raffe imprudently, flaring his nostrils and rounding his eyes. "That's what you look like, it's quite annoying. Now. Hug."
Our glares meet with disharmony, anger curling his lip and tightening my grip at Pooky Bear's hilt.
"Hug!" Bryon snaps, authority ringing in his voice.
Still, Raffe seems indignant – his disgust is somewhat of a punch to the heart. But I have no wish to infuriate my rapidly recovering uncle, knowing the mood he is most likely squashing for the good of all.
"C'mhere, Casanova," I mutter, eyes trained on the ground at Raffe's feet. In the corner of my eye, though, I do glimpse his arms crossing over his chest in a sign of intolerance, even as I reach around his muscled torso. Disdainfully, I awkwardly pat at his back, face squashed up against his thick-girthed arms to reach around him all the way.
"You, too, Raffe," Hugo calls.
Raffe does not move. I release him, knowing very well that I'd done my job. It's not my fault if Raffe's being stubborn.
But, just as I retract, unwinding my arms from around him, Raffe lunges forward, his arms uncrossing and slamming my body against his. The energy in his embrace forces a breath out of me, but it would've been stolen anyways by the fact that he's hugging me at all. Though initially awkward, as my face is buried into his suffocating chest, as Raffe settles around me, it grows more comfortable. Like a little kitten, he cradles me, nuzzling my hair. His breath circles over my scalp, sending tingles over my skin. From my position, ear against his pectoral and forehead resting at his collar, I can hear the resounding rhythm of his heart.
This, this embrace in the middle of the moonlight woods with none but misfits and monsters looking on, this hug he gifts me with even though he knows he shouldn't – this is his apology for the things he's done, and I feel that, with each throb of his heartbeat and each breath circling through the air.
I twine my arms around his neck, trying to physically communicate with him the way he had with me by digging my fingers into his flesh and holding tight. And, in this moment, everything seems flawless, with the floating flowers all around us and the stars like a million twinkling bystanders.
"See?" Bryon murmurs, leaning heavily on his staff, stroking Belle with two fingers. "Isn't a hug wonderful?"
Over the hill, a chorus of baying wolves or dogs sounds, howling at the moon and yipping for attention. They bark loud and crisply, as if agreeing with my uncle: hugs are, in fact, wonderful.
Alright, so, last chapter was pretty nice and calm and chill and such – but this one? Stuff happened, stuff happened big time. No doubt there's jealousy in Raffe of Bryon, and a new hatred for that matter – he can't want Penryn liking a Nephilim.
Daisy was introduced. Ogden really wasn't any help. Hugo succeeded in making things awkward.
POLL: So, this means that Uriel is on to something, doesn't it? Raffe didn't do his job, not completely – not if there are still Nephilim left over. And that, my friends, is definitely something big to Raffe, isn't it? So what should he do? Should he do the same thing as Gabriel, something even Bryon had sympathized with: letting one nation fall to allow prosperity to the rest?
Ciao,
~wolfluvermh