Chapter 20
THIS IS WAR
Melek
“Idon’t see the problem here. We have our solution at hand.” Lord Asmodeus’s grating conviction goes in one ear and out the other.
Fingers on my thickening beard, I rub against the harsh stubble, faintly reminded of the aroma of sweet cherries. Not the artificial, synthetic, poor excuse for flavouring they make in the factories. She smells ripe and fresh, like I imagine the fruit should be.
My wife, the bane of my existence and the only reason for my being, put herself in harm’s way again.
She’ll do it again. I know her too well.
Twelve years of unrelenting stubbornness, unwilling to acclimatise to her new home.
Twelve fucking godforsaken years she’s tormented me with her ocean blue eyes and that tantalising scent.
Metal—the bite of a golden snake—glides against my skin. Our matching rings. Another reminder of her. I can’t bear to call her by her Halo-given name any longer. Not that I did in my mind. She’s always been my Storm.
Leaving her was a mistake.
“Lord Abaddon?!” This time, it’s Lord Azazel who speaks, the unofficial spokesperson in our council meetings, taking his position as a first-generation Airiel seriously.
The clink of a chain sounds next to him, a yellow, pointed-eared creature attached to the other end, head hanging down, lavender hair hiding its face.
It’s not the done thing to take the creatures out and about for all of the Haloians to witness, but behind closed doors, within our circle and during training, one of the lords will inevitably show up with one before they are set for slaughter.
Azazel is preparing this creature for the last harvest before the destruction of the Fairy Lands.
Its fingers shake, rattling the chains louder than before. Menacing grey eyes flick to the creature.
“One week. It’ll be ready. I’ll see to it myself.” I answer his question before he makes the situation worse—we can’t afford its solence spilt.
Chilling, dead eyes are on me, unblinking.
Azazel continues to wither before us, yet he remains.
Not only are his eyes grey, but so is the pallor of his skin and hair.
I know he partakes in the rituals regularly, drinking the solence, so it can’t be that.
I’ve only been able to deduce that it is his age.
Most of the first-generation Haloians died because they were killed, not because of old age.
If the war didn’t take their fathers, the men before me killed them so they could have their spot on the council.
“The deadline has already been pushed back, Melek. We don’t wish to see any more delays, especially with the new surprise attacks from the Fae.
This is our leg up on the magic they possess,” Lord Asmodeus states bluntly.
He’s trying to stay composed. I see the agitation in the way his fingers move up and down on the round table we occupy.
The other five lords are silent, watching us. Around this round table of hell, each man is tense with my continual delays. War isn’t an easy feat, and neither is manufacturing weapons of mass destruction against magical beings.
Bursting through the door to our meeting room of ashen walls and carpet, a snake eating its tail carved into the centre of the steel tabletop, a Halo keeper stops at the threshold, his breathing laboured.
“My lords, I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s urgent.
” The keeper’s hands fall on his knees, wheezing. Pathetic.
“Well, out with it, boy,” Asmodeus grumbles, impatient as always. If only death were as impatient to meet him.
Catching his breath on a sharp intake, light stone eyes reach for mine, and I know what is about to leave his mouth before he says it. Call it my sixth sense when it comes to everything Storm.
“She’s gone.”
Two words.
That’s all it takes for my natural instincts to take over.