21. Winged Demon
Chapter Twenty-One
Winged Demon
Orán
I search for my brothers as I fly—reach for them with instinct older than thought—but feel nothing. No answering pull. No presence. Only distance.
The female in my arms grows ever more feverish. Her strength bleeds away by the second, and what power I use fails to last—unable to fully heal what has taken hold.
When sound leaves her—it’s strained, fragile. Speaks of pain.
Not a conscious sound, since wakefulness is a battle she fought honorably and lost some hours ago. Now, her eyes flutter faintly as if to open, but their leaf-like hues remain hidden behind eyelids heavy with sleep.
Sweat dampens the wavy, dark strands near her hairline, and her cheeks have gone from olive to blush overnight.
Unable to solve this great mystery, I cradle her tightly to my chest, as if my body alone might keep hers from unraveling. Then I head toward a mild storm system, hoping the cooler weather will offer her some reprieve.
Moments later, I adjust my hold and climb higher, wings stretching wide as I carry us into the grey clouds. The air shifts as we breach them—thick, cold, and wet. The world below disappears, swallowed whole by a dense, colorless void.
Hope—thin as it is—returns when her body softens against mine. Her breaths are evening out. Heat ebbs from her skin.
We travel in this manner until the cold does more harm than good—until the chill has her trembling in my arms, her teeth chattering loud enough to be heard over the wind.
Recognizing that, in flight, there is little I can do, I change course. I break through the cloud cover and begin my descent, surveying the surface for somewhere safe to land where I can tend to her properly.
Dawn is breaking. Dark blues are now infused with sporadic rushes of pink and orange. The sky lightens along the mountain ridge to the east, though it will be another hour yet before full sunlight graces the day. So I remain in the sky, where it is safest.
We pass over a once-prosperous city now lying in ruin. The remnants of life linger in the complex highway no one travels. The grid system of streets with mass traffic that never moves. Multilevel buildings stand hollow, haunted by the ghosts of those who toiled away their time here in vain.
Meaningless labor toward meaningless pursuits.
We pass silent towns, cratered pockets of earth, and husks that used to be homes.
Flashes come then—of the ages of man, generation upon generation.
Their humble beginnings. Back when land was not owned, only inhabited, worked, tended, and trusted to provide what was needed.
When survival and prosperity were worthy aspirations, when they muddled their way through creation and discovery—finding language, art, music—and held love and God above all else.
This—this was what set them apart? What elevated them above all other beings in His eyes?
When and why they turned from these, I don’t know, but it was when the shift first occurred, when God’s influence slowly began to disperse, as many turned from faith and looked outward instead of inward for Him.
Yet he waited.
Remained a solid presence in their lives.
Gave them untold chances to change their ways.
His love was never-ending until he had to choose between them and all the rest of creation.
Through Him, I saw what came before my rebirth and then witnessed the past few centuries unfold as they fell from his grace.
The magnitude of the waste here burdens my soul. The true meaning of life slipped from their grasp ages ago, and they didn’t even know it.
What might the world have looked like then? A question now without an answer.
Because now it no longer matters.
But the knowing remains—that this end was not inevitable. That it might have been averted had they understood the weight of what was placed in their hands… and remembered why they were here. Such understanding is not easily borne once known.
Aware that I have let thoughts such as these plague my mind for longer than they should, I press on toward the more rural outskirts until a forest comes into view.
Though even here, death is unavoidable.
Dead pines stretch up from the scorched ground, tall, leafless, and blackened—their trunks dusted with ashfall.
Broken syllables pull me from my thoughts—not words, not yet, but breath and sound slipping from her lips.
Then they took shape, stilted at first, and stammered, but cherished all the same.
“N-n-not the… the d-dark… n-not from l-l-light.”
Her voice is scarcely above a whisper.
“N-never…never r-resting.”
“S-soul starved….a-a-and…s-so h-hungry.”
Her fingers twitch weakly against my cloak.
“E-essence of life… d-denied.”
“No f-flesh… th-they… they won’t… find what they s-seek.”
Her head turns toward me, her cheek brushing my chest.
“D-deceit revealed… w-with… rise at hu-humanity’s false end.”
Her eyes flutter open. Unseeing. The whites are faintly visible, as if her mind is somewhere far beyond this moment.
“Power… born… from s-sacrificed babes.”
“The pool…the pool lies.” She jerks once, her head thrashing as if whatever she’s seeing unsettles her.
A tear slips free, disappearing into her hairline.
She speaks names then—softly, reverently.
I hold them. Store them away as carefully as if they were placed directly into my hands. Because something shifts. The muted tones momentarily vanish from her aura as if her soul has all at once flooded with light.
Then…
“Beware. Sisters. Great redeemer and deceiver. T-they come.”
“Children with no shepherd. Proverbs thirteen twenty-four.”
Her fingers tighten around my cloak.
“Handmaiden of God. A gift… of many forms. Bound to conquer the fate of three, unite and reign with mercy.”
I brush her hair back from her temple, tucking it gently behind her ear.
“Do not stray… and forget not…
“…a soul’s…”
She turns more fully into me, her forehead pressing to my chest as if seeking shelter.
“Currency.
“Or the golden hour… salvation will be lost.”
Her voice fades to nearly nothing.
Memories or mad wanderings… or prophecy?
Instinct answers.
The latter.
Silence stretches between us—long, heavy—until a faint whisper slips free on her next breath.
“Worthy marked.
“Scales. Will. Balance.
“Guard… him. Saith God.”
Tension leaves her body all at once, and she goes limp.
I commit each word to memory so I might reflect on it later when there’s time. But a few of the phrases give me pause. The names and…
Reign with mercy.
A gift… of many forms.
Handmaiden of God.
Could this be her?
A priestess who carries knowledge she should not possess… power she should not wield…
A woman who has captured something so many have not—enough of my long-dead humanity that I find myself incapable of letting her pass from this world.
I scan the ground below and spot a small clearing ahead—a strip of earth still living. I angle my wings and descend, slowing, quieting them as much as possible, unwilling to let their beat drown out her voice should she speak again.
I touch down gently, folding my wings as soon as my feet meet the soil. The sudden quiet feels heavy.
Shrugging my cloak from my shoulders, I spread it across the ground and carefully lower her onto it. I lie beside her, close enough to feel every uneven breath, while shutting out the broken world around us.
Her pulse stutters as does her heart.
I press my palm to her chest and reach inward, scanning her body. Her tether to this life is withering.
Something is wrong. Beneath her skin—something moves. It threads through her bloodstream, rapid, invasive, spreading like a disease through her blood cells. Foul. Toxic.
I close my eyes and move my hand more slowly over her body, healing as I go, searching—trying to find the source.
It is not confined to her blood. It has taken hold in her organs as well. There is divinity there… but it is fading.
As is she.
I pause over her stomach. What I feel there disturbs me greatly.
Without hesitation, I pull open her cloak and begin working through the layers of clothing.
Her skin is warm again. Her stomach is flat—save for a small rise between her navel and hip. I know what it is the moment I touch it. My hand recoils.
Shock fills me.
I steady myself and continue, opening her clothing further, pushing the fabric aside. I find more—what I sensed but could not see.
Hidden.
With focused precision, I trace the seams of her garments, discovering the concealed compartments.
Two small vials sewn into the lining.
More—small capsules embedded beneath her skin.
I draw the dagger from my belt and make careful cuts through the fabric, freeing the vials. Then, smaller, precise incisions to remove what lies beneath her skin.
Once freed, I hold one to the light, watching the liquid shift within the glass.
A silvery substance.
It glows faintly. Glitters when it catches what little light remains.
Recognition hits.
“God’s tears.”
The glower I give her is one she does not see. A tide rises and falls within my chest—turbulent with everything crashing through me at once. Frustration. Indignation. Righteous fury.
“You had these the whole bloody damn time?”
There is no response. Not that I expect one. Still, it is a conversation I intend to have—when she is capable of answering.
I eye the vials again, skepticism settling in. Tiny black speckles drift within the liquid. Those should not be there. They do more than darken it. They sully it.
The taint, not the disease, is here.
I caution myself against rashness. Whatever it is may not be responsible for her illness, but my sixth sense still tells me it’s not entirely good for her either.
If I am right, then she is not unlike Pollock and me.
Altered.
But where we were remade, this is something she has taken into herself—something that has changed her from within.
We are not the same. Yet… not entirely different. God’s essence touched us both.
I was reborn from it.
She has likely fed it into her system—again and again—to prolong her life.
Is it possible that without it, she will not survive?