Chapter Sixty Five
Sariel is undone. That's the only way I can make the scenes playing before my eyes make any sense. Under any other pretenses, they don't compute.
My eyes are locked on him as Emilio drags me to my feet, pulling me backwards. He wails and clutches Bryon to his chest, clawing through his son's hair, screaming at his little boy to come back, screaming apologies to the sky, begging, imploring the world to return his son. Their tears mix on my uncle's stiff cheeks.
"Penryn, let's go," Emilio growls in my ear, continuing to drag me back. "You don't need to see this – fuck." He bitterly launches into many more Spanish curses. "We need to move, now, Penryn. This instant."
His words don't quite register, not as my feet trip over something upon the ground – I wrestle myself from his grasp and lean down to inspect it. My hands tremble as if caught in an earthquake. The wooden splinter upon the ground, not even reaching a foot in length, brings a fresh wave of tears as I lift it to my face. Fingers tracing a knoll in the surface, I caress the fragment of my uncle's beloved staff.
"Penryn." Emilio's voice is softer – it barely punctures above Sariel's bellows as he roars at Audiat to get away from his son, blaming her just as he had Bryon for Thea, screaming at Hugo, at Baelan, even at me.
"Can – can I take this with me?" I look up at Emilio, swallowing nervously, illogically afraid that he'll come up with a reason for me not to. "Please? Just this?"
"Of course, Penryn." He squeezes my shoulder, his brown eyes locking our gazes together. "But we need to move, now. The angels couldn't have had worse timing, but I need to keep you safe."
"Angels?" I clutch the wooden splinter closer to my chest. "What?"
He nods gravely, pulling me to my feet and throwing his wing around me. Each of his strides is more hurried than the last, and that wing is the only thing keeping me stumbling along at the same pace. Only then do I notice the hell around us – the people screaming and diving for those damned angel barricades, men shouting orders, children fleeing like dogs without masters.
"I can't leave him," I say quietly. "We can't just leave him."
"And we're not yet," Emilio reassures. He settles me into the shadow of a building, furling his second wing around me to better block out the cold. "The angels are upon us. We're only waiting until things get nasty so that I can hopefully fly you away from here without much injury to you. Tell me if you get cold."
"What…" I peek through his feathers, another tear finding its way down my cheek as I watch Sariel sob and pet Bryon's hair from his face. He scratches at what would've been the special spot between his horns, only causing himself more grief upon realizing that his son will never react to his touch again. Audiat sits with another piece of his staff, holding it in one hand, rocking back and forth and whimpering like a dog, singing his favorite song from that horse movie to herself as tears pool over. Hugo seems to simply have ceased. No more tears track down his face, and he doesn't breathe a word. Bay gently cradles the boy against his side, not saying a thing, simply holding him and sharing his warmth with the one he loves most.
"What do we do now, Emilio?"
"…I'm not sure what you mean."
"What do we do…" I breathe in slowly, turning around to face him, searching desperately for an answer. "About everything?"
He opens his lips to respond in something undoubtedly deep and complex, but shuts them quickly as the first sound of gunfire thunders in my ears. Grimacing, he shakes his head pityingly, closing his eyes slowly. "Poor bastards. Those angels were Michael's finest, and armored with the best the world has to offer. They're protected against bullets, and not even –" He falters. "Not even the King's bullets could pierce their hide when they're actively avoiding it. Of course, they're heavy, and once they're down, it'll take a lot to get them in the air again. That's where I'm putting my money." He glances at me. "You know, in case you wanted to know."
"Tell me more," I insist, blocking out the sound of panicking cries as people realize their ammo isn't affecting them in the slightest. "Tell me all you can."
Comprehension flashes in his eyes. "I'm usually quite swift on my feet, so outrunning them on my own would be no problem. However, I've got you in my arms – the safest and most aerodynamic way to do that disables the usage of either of our weaponry, meaning that it'll be us fleeing, and that's it. We've got to wait until at least most of the angels are grounded, and then have a hasty rocket high into the air, no stopping for any heroics. Then I'll –"
"IT WAS YOU HUMAN BASTARDS!" Sariel roars, throwing Bryon's corpse down roughly – his head hits a rock with a cracking sound that makes me flinch. A chill runs down my spine. My uncle's blank bronze eyes gleam at me from across the yard, like a dead fish.
As the golden angel plunges deeper into insanity and runs off towards the heart of the camp, beyond my field vision, Hugo pushes his boyfriend aside and takes his grandfather's place, hushing Bryon and telling him to go to sleep. He cries silently as he whispers childish goodnight prayers to the man he knew as father, some in English, others not.
"I'm so sorry," Hugo chokes, cupping my uncle's cheek. "I'm so sorry."
The first screams of fear and agony echo through the camp. Every muscle in Emilio's body tenses. Hugo's head snaps up, his eyes going round with fear, focused on something beyond the building Emilio's pitched me behind.
"Bay!" the boy shrieks, clutching Bryon to his chest, as if hiding a child's eyes from tragedy. "Bay! Bay, please!"
"Hugo." Baelan wraps him in his shadowy wings, hiding him from the angels. "We need to leave." Something makes a very big bang behind me. "Christ! We need to leave now, Hugo. Call Scruffy and we'll escape on him."
"No!" Hugo elbows Bay's wings away, clawing at his father's face in anguish. "No, no, protect him! Protect Bryon! Don't – don't let anyone get close! Don't let them hurt him!"
"Hugo." Gently, Bay tries to pin his boyfriend's arms by his side. "We need to leave him. He'd understand. You need to do this to survive. And he'd understand that."
"You SELFISH MOTHERFUCKER!" Hugo's face contorts with rage. "I told you to PROTECT HIM! How FUCKING DARE you try to BACK OUT, you MOTHERFUCKING COWARD."
Bay starts as if he'd been slapped. His eyes turn slowly to where I know the angels are wreaking havoc beyond this building's shielding walls. And, as he stares there, I watch an emotion I've never seen on an angel's face before: cowardice.
"Hugo." A tear rolls down Bay's cheek, and his voice cracks. The Fallen angel looks shamefully at his shaking hands. "I – I'm scared. Please, Hugo, I'm scared."
Hugo's words might as well be venomous. "You get out there or I will disown you. You promised me you'd protect me. You motherfucking spineless weakling. I can't believe it. This isn't the angel I fell in love with."
Bay blinks fearfully, his glassy black eyes reflecting the flames the angels spread. "Hugo –"
"Get out there or don't talk to me."
Bay is quiet for a long, long moment, staring down at the ground, his eyes filled with terror, his lower lip quivering and petrified tears coursing down his cheeks.
"…Okay, Hugo."
Without waiting for a response, he lifts his wings, those graceful black scythes, and takes off into the air. Graceful and silent as a nighttime gale, he rises, unsheathing his sword and soaring off into battle. Roars of bloodlust pierce the sky the moment Michael's finest catch sight of him.
"Oh, God," I whisper, listening to the sounds of metal on metal in the staccato beat of a swordfight. My heart drops as the sound of swords suddenly stops, replaced by the sound of a body hitting a rooftop.
"We're going," Emilio decides, spinning me about so that I'm buried in his chest. His arms wrap around my waist and hold me tight against him – before the flight has even begun, feeling those muscled arms constrict around my torso, around my broken ribs and bruised muscles, I realize that this is going to hurt like hell.
Even hell hurts less.
The G-forces tug around me and sear at my ribs. In order to avoid crying out, I sink my teeth into my lower lip and allow tears to flow silently, wrapping my arms around Emilio's neck. From over his shoulder, I receive glimpses of terror – angels lifting people into the air and dropping them, fiery plumes eating the barricades meant to protect, humans running over each other to escape the angels as they sweep through this town and demolish it.
I scream a bit in my throat and bury my face into Emilio's neck, willing him higher and higher with each flap of his wings. I want to escape. Honestly, I want to fly. Fly far, far away – and that's what I hope he's trying to do. Because I'm a stupid wingless Nephilim, I want him to fly my away instead.
All of my dreams freeze as a voice calls up, piercing through the screams of panic – how I focus on it, I don't know, and I don't really care. Emilio's wings miss a beat, causing us to sink a few feet in the air.
"Emilio!" cries his mother. "Come back!"
I rip myself away from him just enough to find her, standing on a rooftop. Ladle in hand, reaching up to the sky, she watches her son go. How she got up there, I don't know, and how long she has until she's noticed by an angel is anyone's guess. Heroics are in order, it seems, and Emilio's tailored plan is about to be scrapped for good old fashioned improvisation.
To my horror, he keeps flapping.
"Mama!" he wails in my ear, the unfiltered grief of me causing me to shiver.
Still, he flaps upwards, not glancing back to look at his mother, even as an angel descends upon her in full battle armor. I watch her swing her ladle around fiercely, watch a sword slice it in half, before Emilio rotates and hides her from me. Her shriek echoes through the sky, and, only a second later, I see the angel take to the sky again.
"No!" I slam my hand against his shoulder, writhing wildly in his arms. "We have to go back, Emilio, we can't just let her die!"
"She's already dead." His voice is a rough growl in my ear, ridden with emotion and guilt. I feel a tear land on my shoulder. "There's nothing we can do."
"What?" My throat grows dry. "No! We can save them, Emilio, we can –"
"Dammit, Penryn, you're going to attract attention if you keep on –"
A vague flash of motion occurs in the corner of my eye, a furious roar rattles the sky, impact slams against us both, my eyes black, and, next thing I know, I'm falling.
I shout Emilio's name, clawing upwards, blind and helpless. Air whips with my hair and billows beneath my shirt. With each foot I fall, the more desperate I become.
The arms that catch me can hardly be considered soft. A cry of pain escapes my lips as the bad section of my back slams against biceps, as the shock of impact rattles through my ribs. Nearly blacking out, I curl in on myself, breathing tightly, daring not even to glance at my savior in fear that they might not actually be a savior.
"Are you alright?" he growls, voice thick and gnarled when compared to what I'm used to. For half a second, my sealed eyes open, and I catch a glimpse of flashing golden pupils.
I moan in response, shivering wildly as the fever claims me.
"Get out of here," Sariel orders, leaving my stomach behind as he drops like a stone in the air. "Josiah's already dragging Audiat back to the aerie. Wait for Raphael to find you."
Without waiting for an answer, he dumps me on the ground at the edge of the camp. I retch, standing myself up on my hands and knees, and spit blood at the moss beneath me. The awful coppery taste fills my mouth, thankfully not tainted by that nauseating flavor – just blood. In the corner of my eyes, I watch Sariel disappear in a golden flash of his wings, his feathers reflecting the fervor of the fire.
The fire…
It leaps from roof to roof like a monster. I watch angels circling high in the air, angels not protected by armor that must've arrived later, after the battle-angels razed our town enough, dump oil and gasoline upon houses, upon people. My stomach churns at the reek of scorched flesh. The terrible screams of men and women burning alive fill the air.
My heart lifts ever so slightly when I notice one angel diving the others – he's different than the rest, like an air ballerina with wings like shadows. Bay must've gotten past the armored angels, because now he's helping up above, taking out his anger and frustration upon those pouring gasoline down on us. Angel after angel falls to the ground after being subjected to his fury. I grin like an idiot, that small touch of relief slapping me silly.
Sariel dances in between the plumes of fire. I don't see much of him – partially because I don't want to watch – but he doesn't seem to be aiming at anything in particular. Angel, human, building – he attacks them all.
And Emilio…
I spit up some more blood, dragging my eyes away from the Spaniard.
Emilio dances in the air with an enormous angel as black as pitch, the only splashes of color being his lithe white wings and the two blue eyes that burn brighter than the fire. His father. Fear claws apart my stomach and rips up any hope Bay's appearance had given me.
Emilio's anguished cry rings in my ears. Is it possible that Titaniel had recognized Ms. De La Flor? That he's erasing the evidence of anything in fear of his scandal being revealed? If so, his desperation for a hasty cleanup will probably make him extremely sloppy…
I watch Emilio narrowly dodge a strike from one sword, only to get whacked by the broad of the second.
Or it could make Titaniel a dozen times more deadly.
On shaking legs, I rise, leaning on a tree. I don't know how, but I've got to help Emilio. Each step shuddering, I stumble back towards the human camp, eyes locked on the vicious battle going on between father and son. Swallowing, I watch Titaniel block a blow from Emilio, then land one himself.
I consider throwing Bryon's staff and distract the angel, but it'd fall into the flame, never to be found again.
Watching helplessly, I look around, waiting for some saving grace to help me. People stream past, trying to escape the flames that cling to their clothes, and the fire burns hotter, lapping hotly at my cheeks.
Above me, Emilio cries out with agony, and the sound of a sword through flesh. Blood falling from the sky makes the fire sizzle. White feathers spiral downwards like rain. I gasp in horror, and half of Emilio's wing plunges into the heart of the fire, lost in the blaze.
The Spaniard struggles to fly, his crippled wing clawing uselessly at the air, each new flap sending more red raining down. Titaniel had severed the wing at the joint, leaving the motions of that limb awkward and stumped – like a person with nothing beyond the elbow of an arm.
Emilio roars in frustration, his new nub working furiously to keep him in the air.
Titaniel rises a few feet above him, wings arched like fish hooks above him. Mercilessly, he slams the toe of his boot into Emilio's chest, sending the Nephilim downwards and into the same flame his wing had disappeared into.
"NO!" I scream, marching back and forth before the wall of fire in frustration. "No, no, NO!"
Titaniel turns his blue eyes briefly to me, but he does nothing more than rising into the air, joining his comrades in their spar against Bay.
"Oh, thank God." I jump out of my skin as Raffe drops down beside me. "I thought I'd lost you."
"We have to help him, Raffe, we have to –"
"We can't, not right now." He looks me over, checking for injuries, probing along my arms for breaks. "He'll be fine."
"What?" I shrug him off, shocked. "No – no he's not! He can't fly!"
"I'm getting you out of here, Penryn," Raffe says firmly, his arms closing like steel bands around me, mindful not of my ribs or my cuts or any injuries – he clutches me roughly, as if he'll never let me go again, and buries his face in my hair. Under any other circumstances, I'd enjoy it.
"No, no, you don't understand, Raffe, he can't –"
"He can't fly, I know," he finishes for me. "He's half human, Penryn, and that means he can walk. Leave him. You uncle will take care of it."
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. "…No. No, he won't."
"Oh, please." Raffe scoffs in my ear, dragging me back, away from the fire, back to the line of the trees – his wings are hidden beneath a jacket, probably thrown on last-minute to disguise his angelic identity. "You're being ridiculously. That boy is Bryon's favorite out of all his warriors. There's no way he'd leave him there to die."
"I don't think he'd have much of a choice…"
"What?" Raffe shoots me a puzzled, condescending glance. "What are you talking about? Look, Sariel is even here. You need to calm down, Penryn."
My frustration comes out in a sudden outburst of anger. "Raffe, I am sick and hurt and absolutely fucking helpless while Emilio is suffering and my grandfather kills more people than Michael's angels are! Don't you dare tell me to calm down!"
He stares at me as if I've gone mad. "Penryn! It's okay, I'm here now."
I flare my nostrils at him.
Raking a hand through his hair, Raffe sighs. "We've lost this battle, alright? So just take a deep breath and cut your losses now while you can. Hey, hey, Penryn." He puts a hand on my face and guides my gaze to his, even as an angel rakes over the fiery rooftops, dragging a man along with him by the heel. "Focus on me. Have faith in me. Can you do that?"
Have faith in him.
I feel like crying again suddenly, but I nod, and let Raffe herd me towards the trees. He glances up and down, watching the skies like an overprotective watchdog, and guides me through the chaos just like Emilio had.
In that protective little warm nook, I dip my head against Raffe's chest, my shoulders shaking. People run and shout around us, and some idiots continue firing on the angels, only to be plucked from their lines and hurled into the inferno. Raffe shoves men aside, throwing out rough elbows, pushing deeper into the woods and under the protection of the canopies. As his muscles flex around me with each new blow he deals, I feel myself drooping, the shock sinking in.
"Bryon is dead."
"What?" He glances at me with a furrowed brow. "Penryn, I think you breathed in a bit too much smoke –"
"My uncle is dead, Raffe." Numbly, I look up at him, into those confused eyes. "We held him in our arms and watched the life go away. He died on an exhale. And he won't be saving Emilio or anyone else."
"Penryn…" Raffe hesitates, allowing me a second to acknowledge that he hadn't even really faltered. "Is it Theobella again? Don't worry, we can beat her. You probably just saw Bryon give himself a nip on the inside of the cheek. It fooled me once, remember? Back when he was Simon? He'd shut down to save us if he sensed Theobella."
"He was shot, Raffe. He didn't bite himself."
Again, he looks skeptical, but thankfully, he shuts up. "Why are you shivering? Are you cold? You feel… too warm."
"Emilio said I had a fever." I huddle closer to his chest, recalling the man's fall from the sky. "I'll be fine."
"I'm taking you to the infirmary when we get back," he mutters darkly. "By the way, I'm politically against this strike. I in no way support it. It's not a very popular vote, just so you know."
"Well, it shouldn't be a vote at all." Bitterly, I pucker my lips, glaring down at the leafy ground. "Normal people don't like to kill other people."
"We're not exactly normal." Raffe plops down on a log, pulling me onto his lap. "Listen, we've just got to stay here until the flames die down. Then, I'm flying you back, alright? The she-aerie isn't safe for you when you're still hurt. We'll organize a flight back to some safe Nephilim base and –"
"The Nephilim want my head." I shrug weakly. "None of them believe in my ability to lead, and the only way that Ogden can officially inherit the throne is if everyone in the Young family capable of leading is dead. It'd be a death sentence."
"Penryn, you need to calm –"
There he is again. Telling me to calm down.
Cutting him off, I whip out the last memento I have of my uncle – that splinter of staff. The piece from the very top, where he'd rest his chin and where he'd slam discipliningly into those that were rowdy or disrespectful. The dark wood gives way to the pale coffee brown of the splintering end, the tip like a stake to spear a vampire. He should recognize it. It should be some sign to him that I'm not lying. After all, he was the one that sculpted the staff that served Bryon so loyally right up to his final hour.
"Bryon is dead," I growl, shoving it into his hand.
Gingerly, Raffe takes it in his hands, his breath jarring with recognition. For a while, he just stares, dumbstruck. Then, just as mine had, his fingers trace down the lines in the wood, tracing where he'd carved it from the tree, circling the knoll and following the sharp edges of the splintering end until the last point. A moment longer, he holds it, seeming bewildered by it.
"I suppose he'll want me to carve him a new one." Raffe shrugs. "His staff broke, Penryn. It's incredibly old, and it's honestly a bit strange this didn't happen before now. That doesn't mean he's dead."
"You're in denial," I sigh, leaning against his shoulder. "I'm not. He's dead. The sooner I accept… the easier it'll be to move on. This isn't the first time I've lost a father."
"And this isn't the first time I've thought someone I cared for had died, and, trust me, when you gave me a heart attack, it was far more convincing than a broken stick." He stares at me broodingly, his eyes dangerously reckless. "Penryn, no offense to you, but you've told me that your uncle was killed before and it scared me to death. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to go through that again unless I'm absolutely certain of it."
"Have it your way." Miserably, I take the piece of the staff back. "I can't convince you."
Raffe is silent for a second, perhaps mulling it all over. "…So, I've never baked cookies, or anything, but I'm willing to give it a go if you are when we get back."
I snort. "That'd be a sight to behold. Raphael, the Great Archangel, making cookies. The only thing better would be a pie. You could wake pies and make the dead."
He glances down at me, beyond puzzled. "Let's go with that, I guess."
Leaning against him, I close my eyes, listening intently as the sounds of the fire roar and the screams slowly die down, the clash of metal on metal becoming less and less frequent. Raffe wraps his arms around my waist, gripping me tighter against him, and presses his lips to my hair.
My shock gives into exhaustion – the echoing cacophony of death dulls after only a few seconds of being safely nestled to a warm, safe body. Every muscle in my body relaxes, and I almost reluctantly sink into a sensation of utmost security; though anyone else'd think I was mad, I think comfort in the arms of an archangel. Even I, with my tired mind, can process how strange it is.
A lump of cold, hard grief forms in my throat. It's not the sort of bump in the log that dislodges itself after a bit of crying. Rather, this is an irritating little ailment that doesn't mend itself with a fresh flow of tears or a warm cup of joe. It'd add an edge to my words if I try to speak, so I don't. I go slack in Raffe's arms and allow myself to almost slip off into sleep, leaning my head back on his shoulder.
"Penryn," Raffe whispers quietly. "Open your eyes."
I moan softly in my mouth, curling in closer to his heart in an effort to regain sleep.
"Penryn."
Peeved, I crack my eyes open. With a gasp, I sit up and stare out.
"I think someone called in the cavalry," Raffe says gravely, watching the glowing tide of blooming plants sweep down the mountainside, a graceful white beast floating above it.
"Fredrick," I whisper in awe.
Raffe sighs heavily. "I wish you'd explain yourself every now and then, because you go around ruining perfect moments like that for me."
Ignoring him, I watch White Wolf sweep over the valley. From the moon, he comes, as swift and silent as a midnight gale. I don't see his wings all that much, only when framed against the fluorescent garden below or the astoundingly bright constellations above. His body, however, is so purely white that it hurts my eyes, whiter than the moon or even snow.
The wind roars through the forest as he soars overhead, yanking at my hair. His lips at my ear, Raffe gasps, but he doesn't utter a word – the sight of White Wolf overhead, wings framed by a sky of sparkling diamonds, is too beautiful for words.
The moment White Wolf drifts out of view, his plants flood our clearing. My heart throbs with the beauty of it all as the trees grow glowing moss and as flowers blossom around our feet. Humming with appreciation, Raffe leans us back slightly so he can cup the petals of a golden flower, allowing its fluorescent pollen to sprinkle over his palms.
"It's beautiful," Raffe sighs. "I can see why one might enjoy living on the ground if it was like this every night."
My heart pangs. "For Bryon, it probably was."
Raffe falls silent – he's probably learned that the whole Bryon-topic is one he shouldn't approach with a ten-foot pole.
In the distance, the crackling, snapping rage of the inferno begins to die, the red tongues of flame that'd forked up to the night sky above even the trees dying with each flap of White Wolf's wings. As the trees crown themselves in luminescent flowers and fruits, the red flare of the fire dies down, and the beast sinks out of sight, like a creature returning to the night.
"The angels," Raffe whispers, his lips moving against my hair. "I can hear them. They're fleeing."
My fingers wrap over his hands, squeezing them gently. "Really?"
"Yes, Penryn." He laughs quietly, leaning against me, the puff of his breath tickling my ear. "That hell's over now. How about I get you somewhere warm to curl up, maybe someplace where I can enact your cookie-archangel fantasy, and then we can chow down on those delicious morsels and watch Mean Girls? I have the DVD back at the aerie."
"No…" I sigh with relief, clutching his hands. "No, not yet. We… we have to make sure everyone's okay first."
"Counterproposal." Raffe nuzzles through my hair and rests his lips at the nape of my neck. "What if we take a few minutes to clear our heads, then head back to the camp, and then I make you cookies?"
I resist the urge to swivel around and peck him on the cheek. "Sounds good to me, Raffe. Just… cuddle me, okay? And then never speak of it. Ever."
"My lips are sealed as long as I get some cuddles too. And, Penryn, don't worry about your uncle, or anyone else. They're stronger than they seem. Even that big teddy bear of a demon was getting some good blows in there. Keep a level head."
Hushedly, I laugh. "Speaking of teddy bears, you don't need to treat me like a kid, Raffe. I've gotten this far into the apocalypse."
"Even my best soldiers have come slinking into my quarters because of a nightmare, Penryn." Raffe's voice is stern. "You're no different. And this? It's going to give you bad dreams. So relax, shut up, and let me cuddle your stress away."
Dearest guest: I had exams, too, so don't flip your shit.
Not having fun with these chapters. Was Bryon destined to die? Yes. Was Mama De La Flor destined to die? Yes. But do I want to kill them? No... well, a little bit, maybe, but mostly no.
Oh, and: do I want to kill who's coming up next chapter? DEFINITELY NOT.
POLL: Raffe's right to be skeptical about Bryon's end. After all, he just found out that the Nephilim King has been faking it for years. Any guesses on how he might react to his age-old enemy's demise?
Ciao,
~wolfluvermh