Page 41
My little sister looks up at me.
Mom was right. Her eyes are the same as they’ve always been. Brown eyes fringed with long lashes and steeped with the memory of sweetness and light, laughter and joy—trapped in this mangled, corpse-like face.
“It’s all right, baby girl,” I whisper into her hair as I hug her. “I’m here. I came for you. ”
Her face crumples and her eyes shine. “You came for me. ”
I stroke her hair. It’s as silky as ever.
Chpater 71
AT RAFFE’S FEET, Beliel lies on the dirt. He bleeds through gashes, bites, and missing chunks. The three scorpions latch their mouths onto his open wounds and begin to suck him dry like enormous leeches with stingers.
Beliel yells, clumsily batting away the scorpions with the last of his energy.
Beliel’s skin becomes parched and begins to crinkle. Soon, I know he’ll shrivel and his flesh will look like beef jerky.
Raffe glances at the angels watching them, then back at Beliel’s shriveling skin. Even with his mask, I can tell he doesn’t want to do anything drastic in front of the angels. But he can’t let his wings be sucked dry and shrivel. And even if he could get these scorpions off Beliel, more could come down from the sky.
He spreads one of Beliel’s stolen wings and holds it firmly in one hand. From his waistband, he pulls out the kitchen knife he took from the beach house. It reflects the torch flames as he raises it, just before he swings down with the blade.
Beliel, still not entirely paralyzed, shrieks as Raffe cuts through his wing joint.
The wing falls on the ground.
The angels watch, stunned.
Raffe lifts his knife again.
A few warriors leap toward Raffe with their wings spread back and their fists ready. They think he’s cutting off an angel’s wings and that they’re defending their own. I guess it’s one thing to let an angel fend for himself against a little girl and her pets but not against another angel amputating his wings.
But they can’t reach him fast enough. Raffe slices through Beliel’s second wing.
The snowy wing falls to the ground, still glorious and full of life.
Raffe kicks at the first angel to reach him.
He fights hand-to-hand with the first two angels who come at him. He yells at them, probably trying to explain what’s really going on but his words get lost among the roar of the scorpions above, the angry clamor of the angels, and the crashing of the waves.
He can hold his own with the first two but a third one pulls out his sword.
The only effective weapon Raffe has is his demon wings which are still hidden beneath the feathered disguise. He backs up, hesitating to show them to so many angels even though it’s unlikely that anyone will recognize him with his mask. But his attacker gives him no choice as he winds up to slice with his sword.
Raffe’s demon wings burst open.
The crowd becomes silent. The scorpion buzzing fades as they finish their flyby. And Raffe’s wing scythes slide out with a snick.
His scythes clang and deflect against his opponent’s sword. The sword flies into the air and lands on the lawn.
Raffe lowers his chin and glares at the angels with a menacing look. With his giant bat wings behind him and the scythes glinting red by the torchlight, he’s the perfect picture of the devil.
The two severed wings lie on either side of Beliel. The white feathers blowing in the breeze look surreally out of place on the blood-soaked ground. Raffe’s festive mask only adds to the horror of it as he looms over Beliel.
As everyone stares, the only sound is the buzz of the locusts flying away and the waves smashing against the cliffs below.
Then the sound of a hundred angel swords being pulled from their scabbards fills the night.
Chpater 72
MY BREATH comes out shaky and I don’t think I can feel my fingers. I can’t see a way out of this.
Raffe stands over Beliel, watching the warriors all around him. His eyes are fierce but it’s obvious that our situation looks pretty bad. Even if Raffe was in his best form, he couldn’t fight off an entire legion of his own people, even assuming that he wanted to.
Paige and I are just as surrounded as Raffe. My sister seems to have some new tricks up her sleeve but the odds aren’t exactly in our favor. I look around to see if there’s a gap in the wall of angels that I could sneak Paige through to safety but there is none.
We’re trapped.
They’ve fanned out around us, cut off every direction—land, water, and air. I guess this isn’t the first time they’ve trapped their quarry. They know how to move in for the kill, I’ll give them that.
Several angels step toward Raffe with their swords. He assesses them, then glances at his wings on the ground as if memorizing their location. He steps over Beliel’s head to get in front of his wings for the fight.
The scorpions watch Raffe with a wary eye but continue their life-sucking of Beliel as he shrivels. When the angel swords clash with Raffe’s wing scythes, the scorpions startle and fly away.
Beliel’s eyes stare blankly while the rest of him bleeds through gashes, bites, and missing chunks. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume he was dead.
Raffe tries to keep the angels from treading on his wings but there’s only so much you can do when you’re fighting for your life.
I get down on the ground and snatch a snowy wing before anyone tramples it. I quickly fold it and hand it to Paige.
“Hold this. Don’t let anything happen to it. ”
I duck to the other side of Raffe and crawl on the ground to grab the other wing just as an angel is about to step on it. Above me, Raffe slices and blocks in a frenzy of motion with his demon wings.
I crawl backwards with the wing to get out of the way. I fold the wing and give it to Paige. The wings are light but they practically cover her whole body as she holds them in her arms.
I guide Paige back away from the fight. But our way is blocked by a warrior who glares down at us.
In the torchlight, his wings look more like flames but I know that they would be burnt orange under a streetlight. It’s Burnt, the one who kidnapped Paige out of spite.
He looks the same as he did in Doc’s surveillance video—bitter and mean. He takes a step toward us.
“There you are,” says Burnt as he reaches for Paige. “You finally came in handy for something, didn’t you? It’s about time someone took that reject down. ”
I push Paige behind me and yank the bear from my sword. I’m almost glad that I get a chance to fight him. I have a special hatred for Burnt, the Kidnapper of Helpless Little Girls.
Chpater 73
BURNT LOOKS at me like I’m a mosquito. “What are you going to do? Pummel me with your teddy bear?”
I pull my sword out and get in my combat position.
He actually bursts out laughing. “You’re going to fight me with your tin sword, little girl?”
I can almost feel the rage pulsing from Raffe who is fighting several warriors.
Burnt casually swipes at me with his sword.
I automatically meet his steely blow with my own. The dream training must have worked, at least to some degree.
Burnt looks surprised. But that doesn’t stop him from immediately winding up for his next blow. I can tell he takes this one more seriously.
His sword comes down like a sledgehammer.
I swing my own sword to meet his.
The shock of the impact rattles my bones all the way down to my ankles. My teeth clack so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out.
Amazingly, I’m still standing.
But just barely.
It’s clear I can’t take too many direct blows. Now I know why none of my dream training involved an opponent with a sword.
Burnt expected me to go down with a single blow.
He lifts his sword again, looking annoyed.
I duck and scramble under his sword arm. Probably not a recommended move but there’s a reason why you have to wind up for a hit. With me up close, he can cut but can’t do a lot of impact damage.
I try to kick out his knee but he’s ready for me and spins out of the way. Unlike the other opponents I’ve been fighting lately, Burnt is neither drunk nor an amateur.
He swings for another blow.
I duck. I feel the wind of his blade along the top of my head.
I’m off balance and don’t have enough time to set myself up for a good defensive stance.
I have just enough time to raise my blade to block.
He hits me again with bone-smashing force.
When the impact hits, my skull rattles so much, it feels as if it’s vibrating off my spine. I almost lose the sword but miraculously manage to hang onto it.
I stagger and fall to my knee.
I vaguely register Paige screaming behind me. Paige may have a killer bite but she’s no match for a warrior angel with a sword and I’m glad she knows it.
A part of me sees Raffe wading through blades and blows, trying to make his way to me. But there are too many opponents ganging up on him.
Waves of fury swamp me. What I thought was rage pulsing from Raffe is actually coming from me.
No, not me.
The sword.
Burnt was part of the gang that cut off Raffe’s wings. Because of that, the sword had to leave Raffe. Now, she’s stuck with me, a weakling little human. She’s had to suffer insult upon insult since then, including being laughed at. And now, the final humiliation—Burnt’s about to beat us into the ground with no more than two or three blows.
Boy, is she pissed.
Fine. I’m pissed too. This bastard took my sister and look what happened.
We might as well go down in flames together. At least we can vent some of our anger in a final push. I hope I can hit him somewhere where it really hurts.
Burnt has the nerve to impatiently motion for me to get up. He’d probably never live it down if he swung his killing blow while his scrawny-girl opponent was down.
I wind up all that anger as I take my stance and get ready.
Burnt and I both draw back our swords.
With all my might, I yell and swing at the same time he does.
Paige cries my name. Raffe shouts as he shoves warriors aside, trying to reach me.
When the two swords crash, the impact neither rattles my bones nor has me tasting blood. It’s as if all the force stopped at the blade before it vibrated down to me. As if all that tremendous killing power got redirected.
Burnt’s blade shatters.
It sounds simultaneously like glass smashing and someone screaming. A jagged piece hits Burnt’s wing, slicing right through it.
I keep swinging and my blade cuts through Burnt’s chest.
It’s a clean stroke that leaves no mark until the blood seeps out in a line from one arm to the other.
He crumples.