88. Angélique
88
Angélique
I stall my father for as long as I can, but in the end it looks exactly like what I’m trying to do and he finally snaps.
“Move aside now, or you’ll end up being collateral damage. And don’t think I’ll forget what happened in Versailles. When this is all over, I’ll remind you who is your master.”
I didn’t need a reminder about how awful that man could be, but the fact that he can’t see what is wrong about the way he raised me and still wants to have a hand in my life is absolute garbage. I planned to stay strong and hold my own against him in any case, but this makes it so much easier to decide.
“No.”
“You want to try to defy me again?” He asks with his now ever present sneer. He’s trying to stay collected—I can see it—but is failing miserably. His fists keep closing on nothing; the vein at his temple has been pulsing for what feels like ages now, and I can see a slight twitch in the way his wings move at his back.
Or maybe…did I damage it enough that he didn’t manage to heal it completely?
This thought fills me with glee, even if I can’t be sure for now.
What I’m sure, though, is that I’m not going to let him pass.
But what the hell is Elhyor doing?
I was hoping he would be here by now.
I get my daggers out and take a defensive stance.
“I’m not trying,” I say, as calm and collected as I can be.
I wanted to be free; this might be my chance, and I’m not going to let it pass.
“You ungrateful little piece of shit,” Micha?l snarls as he launches himself at me.
He thinks he can surprise me, but I’m ready. I parry every move of his sword, forgetting everything about what is around us. I’ve been trained for this my whole life; I can’t let my guard down or let him in. I know daggers aren’t what most people would pick as their weapon of choice, but I’m not tall for a shapeshifter, and I’ve long admitted to myself that I couldn’t handle a sword like most men. So, I’ve perfected my speed and today is the day I can show off that it was the right thing to do.
Micha?l is fast, but I’m faster and the fact that he’s angry—or disappointed, I can’t differentiate it with him—makes him sloppy.
Don’t get me wrong, he’s a hell of a fighter and would kick your average warrior without even sweating even today with this kind of mindset.
But I’m not average and I notice the way he rushes through the moves, how he uses brute force to finish instead of using his whole body.
I notice all of that, and yet he manages to hit me on the collarbone and circles me before launching in the air.
That’s when I realize three things:
one: yes, he’s mad, but he’s been toying with me this whole time;
two: nothing is wrong with his wing and he healed perfectly;
three: all hell broke loose while we fought and there is not a square meter on the parvis that isn’t covered with blood or body parts.
Sweat beads at my temple when I raise my head to face Micha?l. He’s hovering over me, in full control of his wings, and pierces mine one after the other.
It sounded like the right idea to piss him off, to have them out, to taunt him with them, but now I’m starting to regret my decision.
I know how to fight, alright, but I should have taken into account the dead weight at my back, because as long as I don’t know how to use them properly, they’re a dead weight.
I’m starting to tire; I fumble under their weight and finally decide to retract them.
I might be the sloppy one in the end.
“I could do that all day,” he taunts from above as I parry a hit that would have definitely hurt my shoulder.
Obviously, he can do that all day; now that he’s not on the ground anymore, it looks like he’s using his whole body in a different way and my only way to fight is to defend myself. Even if I jump, I’m not going to be able to reach him because he’ll fly away, so it feels like he’s just waiting for me to tire.
I know I’m not going to hold my own for too long and yet I’m still fighting despite the fact my body is starting to function on fumes.
Where the hell is Elhyor?
I know it’s been more than an hour since he left. It’s longer than what we agreed, and I’m starting to lose hope.
Just when the thought crosses my mind, a huge roar resonates from across the bridge that leads to the quartier Saint Michel—the quarter of Saint Michel. That roar is followed by a mess of yells and screams for violence.
I don’t turn my head in the direction of the noise. I know Elhyor is coming. The extra noise is surprising, but I can’t let it pull my focus from Micha?l.
I was taught better than that.
But it seems some people have grown complacent because I see Micha?l flinch, and his eyes dart in the direction people are coming from. It lasts less than a second, but it’s all I need.
I jump, grab Micha?l by his ankles, and pin him to the ground with my daggers.
The shock of what I just did registers in Micha?l’s eyes before it turns into fury.
I jump out of his way and bellow to the sky, “NOW” and arrows rain on him. Remember those tearing arrows?
That is what is hitting him and forcing him to the ground, and I won’t lie—I’m looking at them, tearing at the skin and the feathers of his wings, with unabashed glee.
Am I an asshole? Maybe. But I don’t care. He deserves it.
“This is over,” I tell him. “I’m not your pawn anymore. No one will ever be your pawn anymore.”
I can see the pain on his contorted face. It’s obviously not because of my words, but I’m still satisfied.
He gives me a hard glare, but doesn’t answer me. I think it’s because he’s mad at being bested and because he knows I won’t let him survive, but I’m mistaken. I realize my mistake when I see him reach for his pocket.
With bloody fingers he reaches for his holo. In my luck, it doesn’t turn on because it doesn’t recognize his fingers because of all the blood.
I freeze.
I know what he is trying to do.
I know what button is on this holo.
I won’t let that happen.
Before he can say a word to activate his holo and turn it on, I grab the dagger that was embedded in his left foot and spears it through his throat.
His eyes bulge out of their sockets and blood spills from his lips as he chokes on his own blood.
My eyes stay on him until I see the light in his eyes drain, and he finally lays lifeless in a puddle of his own blood.
I remove my daggers from his foot and throat and finally give a look to the war ground that is the parvis.
It’s a mess. It’s bloody and there is a pile of bodies on the side of the rue du cloitre — cloister street —wings peeking out here and there.
I’m relieved to see that they’re mainly bird wings until I remember the doubt I’ve seen in the eyes of some of Micha?l’s guards.
No one deserved to be piled there, no matter what way the madman used to get them to fight for him.
But that pile isn’t the only thing I see. A few bodies fall from the sky, but when I look up, I see that no one is fighting anymore. The few bird shifters that are still up there are fleeing Notre Dame, and the ones that are on the ground are pinned with spears to the ground.
None of the people holding the spears have wings, though.
I feel an arm slide around my waist.
“You’re late,” I tell Elhyor when he kisses the side of my forehead.
“I unexpectedly found friends. Or maybe they’re the one who found me,” is his only answer and I don’t need to ask what he means when I recognize the lady that took over Libération when Elhyor killed their leader.
“Well, I guess it means we’re rebels now,” I say with a chuckle.
“I guess we are,” Elhyor answers with a smile, “let’s go home."