Chapter 32 - Wings of Lies

“Are you out of your mind?” I yelled, winding up to smack him again.

Aspen snatched my wrist before my second hit landed. The smack wasn’t hard, but it stunned him. Oliver scrambled to push between us like he would save me from the big bad prince who told me to leave him in Etherea, cuffed and without his powers.

Just as I noticed Oliver’s eyes glowing green, I threw out my hand to block him from Aspen. But Oliver ended up touching both of us. Aspen’s murderous blue flames evaporated, and we both fell into our fears.

I stared at myself in the full-length mirror, body clad in a white dress that hugged my innocent body and flared out into glittering tulle. Sparkly white shoes from last year pinched my toes, and crystal artfully tamed my dark curls. My mom wanted me presentable. My father was coming to visit. He only visited once a year, on my birthday, like today. And the sparkly white display was all for him—his favorite color.

I glowered. It’s not that I didn’t like white—although the sparkles I could do without—but I hated that this was all for him.

“Honey, are you almost ready? Your father will arrive soon.” My mom’s voice was tender, but I could hear her nerves in the lilting sounds.

Biting my cheeks, I gave into my distress, and immediately soothing calm pushed it away as she placed her hand on my shoulders. “Come on, honey.”

I smiled at her, grateful for her influence. She smiled back, a sadness lingering there, and popped out of my room to tend to dinner. The horror of what was to come sank in.

Once a year, he came, inflicting confusing emotions on both of us. Of course, I wanted the father I hardly knew to love me and care for our family. But he was never here, and when he was, well, I wished he wasn’t.

I couldn’t remember much from when I was younger, whether the trauma was stuffed in the back of my mind or he was a nicer father, but as my birthdays passed, his abuse became worse.

For me, it started as hitting. Anything that displeased him was a hit. But then he needed to take more—like throbbing hot slices out of my back. And if I struggled or cried, he’d call me a wimp and make another permanent line, taking his sweet time as he drew out the agony. Only that still wasn’t enough. He had to have another outlet.

My mom.

At first, when he abused her, it was just hateful words spewed behind a closed door. They didn’t think I could hear it. But when the walls were paper thin, it was hard not to. Things changed when I winced from my mom’s hug. She forced me to show her the lines carved into my back. He hit her the following year after confronting him about it, black and blue bruises smattering her jaw. Yet my warrior mom never did anything back, which I didn’t understand. She was strong and fierce. Part of me hated that she never fought back. So what held her back from retaliating or leaving?

I often imagined running away on this day. This oh-so-special day. That was what my friends at school told me. What a lie.

I reached my hand back to trace the scarred lines, forever tormented by his brutal abuse. My stomach rolled at the thought of my mom talking to him for a second time. She said this birthday would be different. But if she didn’t stop her own abuse, how would she stop mine?

“Lucille, your father has arrived, and the food is done. Come set the table for me,” she called.

I walked down the picture-lined hallway, secretly happy that every frame was only of us two. She took down the ones of the three of us a few months ago. He may taint all my birthdays, but it was only one day.

Our quaint kitchen held drying herbs and chicken decorations. I teetered between laughter and eye-rolling every time the hallway opened to the chicken-themed objects. Even the wallpaper sported black and white roosters. My mom had an obsession. Since we were too close to town to own them, she made up for it with statues, antique signs, bowls, butter dishes, and whatever else she found on her trips into town. I will give it to her, though; she had an eye for design. Any other person would be accused of being a hoarder or an old lady antiquer, but not my mom. It was tasteful, and yet still a hilarious obsession.

I grabbed our nice, white plates—ones without chickens on them—and set the table. My father disliked my mom’s obsession, claiming it defied her principles. Enjoying silly human pleasures and emotions was beneath her, he often remarked. According to him, it was the very reason we found ourselves in this situation. I didn’t fully grasp his meaning until last year when his gaze fixed upon me.

This year, who knew what damage would be done?

“Lucille, come take my coat for me.” His tone suggested I should’ve already been there to relieve him of the heinous duty. Placing the last fork down, I walked over to my father’s imposing form, refraining from tensing at being near him. The white tweed coat scratched my fingers as I placed it on the hook beside our door.

His gray gaze fondly flicked to my mom, who placed food on the table, then to me with distaste. He never smiled. I doubted he ever laughed. I knew he oversaw some angel military and had to be strong, but my mom was once a part of the same military, and she smiled every chance she got. It made me wonder how the two came together in the first place. I had asked, but like the topic of my birth, it was never talked about.

“Anything new?” he asked, sitting in the wooden chair at the table, waiting to be served. It was the same old song and dance—the same questions, the same actions, and, for dessert, abuse. I could probably recite this conversation by heart now.

“No. Shields are still holding well, and there’s been no unwanted attention,” my mom replied in a monotone, as if she, too, risked dying of boredom from the same conversation. I’d come to an age where I continually questioned why she put up with it—with any of it. She may have only found out about the cuts last year, but how many years was she abused? And yet, here we were.

“Good,” he said, waiting for my mom to finish piling food onto his plate. Once he had his food, we were allowed to sit and serve ourselves as he ate.

“Lucille, how is your training?” He asked the same question, and he expected the same answer.

“My training is going well, Sir. My powers are in check, and Mother has been educating me as required.”

“Lucille, why do I sense a lie in your words?” he demanded.

“I’m not lying⁠—”

He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the plates. “You are. I can sense it!”

Out of my peripherals, my mom’s back stiffened. The gray in my father’s eyes flashed white like lightning, signaling a brewing storm. He turned to my mom.

“What is she lying about?” he said, quiet words laced with a hint of a threat.

“I put her in school,” my mom said, holding his gaze.

“You did what?”

“She still trains every other day, and we keep her powers suppressed. She needs socialization and to be with kids her age.” she pleaded. A plea that my father ignored. There was no way she’d have a conversation about his abuse now.

He stood, napkin slapping the table, fork clattering against his white plate. “You knew the deal we agreed upon.” Each sound out of his mouth was a step in her direction. The blush in her cheeks faded to an ugly white fear.

“You will take her out of school. You will move. She is not allowed to associate with the creatures of Earth, or else I will take you both to The Council of Righteousness.”

The whites of my mom’s eyes were wide with horror. I didn’t know what The Council of Righteousness was, but it wouldn’t be good for us.

Red flushed my father’s face in his rage. “She should’ve never been born,” he spat, latching onto her upper arm. “Look what your selfishness did to us!” The echoes of his bellows were a shock to our systems.

Faster than I’d ever seen my mom move, she stood and slapped my father, sending him stumbling back. My eyebrows raised in surprise, not because my mom couldn’t hit. My mom did the training my father always spoke of. She was well-versed in the art of war from her previous life, yet she never used it against my father.

Until today.

Shining flame overtook the deep gray of his eyes. The air deadened as it pulled toward his fury. Ears popping, the pressure changed and turned to a brilliant white flame on his hands—Glory, like mine and my mom’s.

In the book I stole from my mom, I read Angelic Glory only had one purpose and one purpose only.

To burn away evil without mercy. To snuff out life. It consumed the object, burning brighter and hotter than any flame created on Earth. Another translation in the angelic texts was Heavenly Virtue. It’s what singed my stuffed animals not once but twice.

This “Heavenly Virtue” was pointed in the direction of my mom.

My heart dropped to my feet, and a new feeling crawled under my skin. He wanted to eradicate the only good thing in my world.

His flame shot out with a flick of his wrist, and I screamed as the ball of fire changed directions. It would’ve never hit her, even if she hadn’t moved. And she did move, faster than my eyes could follow, barreling into me and knocking us to the floor. The large ball of flame disintegrated into particles of light.

My father didn’t want to kill my mom. Only me.

“She will be taken to the Council of Righteousness, and we will finally take care of your mistake. We will see if you told me the truth all those years ago.” The words echoed in their absoluteness.

His words should’ve broken me. Instead, they fueled my bitter hatred toward him. No matter what I did, he never gave me any love or warmth. If I turned back time to when I was seven, when I still hoped I’d receive my father’s affection, then I’d be a crying heap on the floor. But ever since he hit me, an untethered seed of hate grew with each encounter. The fact that he wanted to punish my mom for creating and loving me made me realize I was capable of deep loathing.

The air around me deadened. My ears popped, and my mom’s hands erupted in the same white light.

“Over my dead body.” She stood, acting as a barrier between me and him.

“There will only be one dead body at the end of this. And darling, it won’t be yours unless you’re found guilty again.” My father threw a white ball of flame at her face. She dodged it, realizing too late it was a distraction. Blurring behind her, he grasped her hair and yanked her to the ground right before slamming her head against the floorboards, knocking her out cold.

Rage burned through me. How dare he. Tasting copper, I let my cheeks go and clenched my teeth instead, glaring up at his face as I sat on the ground. I hated him. From the tops of his buzzed blond hair all the way to his pristine white shoes. My soul cried out for revenge to make him hurt as much as he made us hurt. The seed of hate blossomed into something tangible. An itch I never felt before scattered across my hands, and a coldness invaded my mind.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” My father pointed to my mom like I caused her unconsciousness.

And what do we have here?

I jerked. “What?” Not sure where that voice came from.

My father’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me repeat myself!”

Not out there. I’m in here. It felt like a frozen finger dragged down the inner workings of my head as the male spoke.

In my mind? I asked, shuddering.

Yes. What’s your name? he asked.

Lucille. Who are you?

My head ripped to the side as my father smacked me, causing me to miss the male’s words.

“I told you I would not repeat myself!”

Tears stung my eyes, and the seed grew further. My anger made my skin itch more severely, and a crackling noise started.

He will regret that. The angry voice matched the pulsing rage in my blood.

Slowly returning my gaze to the gray eyes of my nightmares, I glared. “You can’t blame me for your sins.”

I shouldn’t have said that. My father was pure, an angel of renown who did no evil and brought justice to the worlds. Sin was reserved for the weaker, the lesser, for demons. Never him. Or so I was told. I knew saying the word would tip him over the edge, but I was so angry I wanted him to suffer. To prove him wrong.

The hand came faster and harder than last, sending my head into the floorboards. Dots pixelated my vision, only to disperse to a hand filled with white flame. My mind dropped to even colder temperatures, making my body shiver.

Touch him. Now. A cold fury seeped out of each syllable. The stranger’s rage was a welcome companion, watching and wanting what I did.

Revenge.

So, when he told me to touch my father, I grabbed ahold of his glaring white leather shoes and screamed.

I screamed for all the words he spoke to me about how worthless I was, how I was a mistake he never wanted. I screamed for each bruise I received from his hands, for each puckered scar on my back. I screamed for all the mistreatment my loving mom received. And I screamed from the pain.

The freezing temperatures in my mind were a different kind of agony. One I wasn’t in control of. The penetrating cold had to come from the stranger, but as much as I wanted it to stop, I suffered through it for the satisfaction of what came next.

Snapping my hands back, I glanced up to see an expression I’d never witnessed. My father’s gray eyes widened in shock, completely encased in ice.

It’s temporary. It won’t hold him for long. You need to leave. The chill in my mind no longer hurt. Instead, it was a soft snowstorm that raised goosebumps on my flesh.

I can’t go—my mom. I thought, scrambling on my hands and knees around my father’s frozen figure.

Then hurry, he said with no bite to his words, only urgency.

I placed my hands on my mom’s shoulder and shook her gently. “Mom. Mom. Wake up!” My head swiveled back to the frozen statue, noticing a white light shining through. No, no, no.

Hurry! he yelled.

“Mom!” We were running out of time. The ice dripped down into a puddle. We couldn’t be here when he freed himself. If he smacked me only because of words, I couldn’t imagine what would happen after my attack.

My hands shook harder, rolling her limp body across the hardwood like a rolling pin. “Mom!” I begged.

Leave her. She’ll survive, he said. But I could hear the grains of regret putting doubt in my mind.

I felt stabbing icicles and gasped. “What are you doing?” I said.

Leave her! The sliver of regret I heard earlier vanished. It reminded me of my father and how he spoke, expecting everyone to hang from his every word and do anything he asked.

I ground my teeth together. I won’t leave her.

The stranger didn’t understand. My mom was all I had. She held me when my first dog ran away, calmed my nerves on my first day of school with humans, listened to every story I came home with, wearing a smile on her face, and guided and soothed me when bullies tried to mock my strange eyes. She read to me every night, and on special nights, we had hot chocolate. She was my teacher, my rock, and the kindest person I’d ever met, except when she taught me hand-to-hand fighting, which I sucked at. But my mom was always there, calming my emotions and Glory with her soft touches. I would never leave her because she never left me.

The gnashing of teeth echoed through my thoughts. How old are you?

Eleven. Today, I turned Eleven and hated every second of it.

He said a harsh word I couldn’t understand. Fine. We do this the hard way. He paused, thinking. Grab the heaviest pot on your table and smash it into the back of that despicable angel’s head the moment the ice melts.

I started at his words. What?

There is no room for questioning. You have already made your bed. It’s time to grow up and lie in it. Now, make that angel bleed.

He was right. But that didn’t make it any easier.

I tried to hold onto my anger as I grabbed the cast iron skillet filled with cold potatoes. The pan required two hands. Feet slapping into the wet puddle, I stood behind my ice-encased father. Parts of him remained iced over, while others were thoroughly soaked. The white of his clothing hung close to his muscular frame. Potatoes slopped onto my sparkly flats and into the water as I raised the skillet. Winding back, I waited. Drip by drip, my father thawed. Each drip made me flinch.

I couldn’t do this.

He hurt you first, he said.

But… The doubt continued to seep in. My wrists shook with the weight of the iron. Hovering over his neck, sweat forming with my increasing heart rate, the last of the ice melted. And it might’ve worked. Maybe we could’ve left with no one the wiser, but the moment the glistening sheen fell away to soppy clothing, I hesitated. In that moment, I truly realized the value of my mom’s lesson on hesitation.

His movements blurred. My body slammed into the pans and plates of food on the table. A broken plate cut through my dress and into my back, staining my no longer pure white dress with blood. Black and white spots dotted my vision from the force of my head hitting the pot. My father used one hand to pin both of my wrists down. He moved so fast I didn’t even notice the large white feather gripped in his hand coming for my arm. Its needlepoint was dipped in black, like a quill, and as if my arm was the missing parchment, he stabbed it into my skin, dragging it up and down.

“You will never have access to your powers again, and once the Council of Righteousness is through with you, I’ll not only be rewarded, but I’ll never have to see your sinful face again.”

Shrieking from the hot agony, I tried to squirm out of his hold. But I didn’t stand a chance.

He sawed at my skin with his feather, warming my mind and taking my energy.

Fury that didn’t belong to me erupted without its piercing cold. I will take pleasure in seeing him burn in hell for his sins. Mark my words, child, his days are numbered. The stranger’s voice weakened the more my father carved.

I will find you again, my sweet Lucille. And maybe by then, we’ll both have an explanation. The last of his words faded.

A deafening bang echoed through the air. My father fell to the floor, taking his angelic feather with him.

“Lucy? Lucy?”

I gazed into her glossy eyes, now green, tears mirroring mine. “Mom?”

“Oh, heavenly. My sweet girl.” She hugged me and pulled back. “We need to leave.” My mom hauled me off the table and dashed into the bedroom. Tired and dizzy, my legs gave out. I scrambled back from my father’s unconscious body, winced at the pain in my wrist, and looked at the damage.

A bloody Binding Rune cut into my soft flesh, taking away all my powers. I was practically human.

My mom rushed out of her room with two backpacks and a pair of keys.

She hauled me from the floor, shoved calm emotions into my body, and dragged me as quickly as she could through our front door and to our only vehicle. Not a word was said, not an explanation of where we were going or what had just happened. She pushed me into the passenger side, buckled me, ran to the driver’s seat, and we left.

Him. The house. Everything we owned.

We left it all. I had no words as my mom broke all the speed limits to escape, hoping he wouldn’t catch up.

I gasped, jolting upright from the horrible memory Oliver put me through. Beside me, Aspen writhed on the ground, not yet out of his own hellscape. He didn’t moan or cry out. But the reflective lines leaking out of his tightly squeezed lids were evidence of his pain. A pain that I shared with him as I remembered a mom who loved me and betrayed me and a father who wanted to kill me.

“Wake up, Aspen.” He jerked on the forest floor. I could feel his pain and couldn’t stand it. “Oliver, wake him up, stop this.” But Oliver was on his hands and knees over a pile of puke.

“Oliver?” holding my side, I cringed as I stood and approached him. Whimpers interrupted his heaves. “Oliver?” I touched his shoulder.

“I forgot,” he said in a broken whisper.

I sank behind him and gasped as I pulled him away from his puke. He let me, slumping against my chest. His weight made my ribs throb, but with the heart-aching noises coming from his mouth, I couldn’t help but let him rest against me.

“He was just a boy. He came to our house,” he whispered.

“Who? Who did you see?”

“My mother,” his voice cracked. “Being burned alive by Marcus’s flame.”

Goosebumps pebbled my arms, and I stilled, knowing exactly what memory he was talking about.

“I never saw it happen. I was—she pushed—” Oliver heaved in between his cries.

“She pushed you away, and you hit your head on the wall,” I whispered. I glanced at Aspen. The small blue-eyed boy was Aspen. That’s who she wanted me to save.

Oliver jerked up, eyes puffy with tear streaks on his cheeks. “How⁠—”

“I have the power to dream-walk into memories,” I admitted. “I saw that one before you tackled me in Damatha Forest.”

Stricken, he stared at me. “How is that possible?”

Aspen moaned. I jerked my head around, pushing Oliver to get off me so I could return to Aspen. I moved to crawl back to him, and Oliver grabbed my arm.

“What are you doing, Lucy? He’s the enemy. We need to bind him or run or kill him or something! I could hit him again, but it’ll take the last of my juice after hitting both of you when you shoved in front of him like a lunatic!”

“No! We’re not killing him or binding him and leaving him here.” I shoved Oliver’s hand away. “But we might need to cuff him. The bounty hunter had some. Go search his clothes.” There was no way I was going near that male. I shuddered, crawling over to Aspen as Oliver rifled through the dead angel’s stuff.

I reached out to Aspen, about to touch his face, when he snatched my hand, jerking me toward him. My ribs screamed, and I whimpered. He immediately let go of me, only to grab me again.

“Fuck,” he spat as he fought against the glow. “Lucille, you need to leave. Cuff me and run.”

Oliver stepped next to me, jangling the cuffs in his hands. “I agree with the princeling, except I’m not sure why?”

I ignored them both, scooting closer to Aspen. “Let me touch you. It’ll help,” I said, pressing my hand against his face.

Aspen clenched his fists. “It won’t work. Not after what the Nephilim did.” He flung his head back, crying out as every muscle in his body tensed. I wasn’t even touching the rune, yet I felt the searing electricity attempting to take over. “I’m not supposed to remember my mom’s murder. It’s her failsafe. Anytime I tried, the rune would attack and weaken me until I forgot and obeyed again. But you made me remember the whole fucking thing, and it’s battling me,” he said through gritted teeth.

“So, what do we do?” I asked, putting my thumb on his rune. It shot into my hand, sending a path of unbearable heat through my entire arm. I screamed and let go.

“Stop touching me, Lucille!” he said softly before snapping at Oliver. “Put the damned cuffs on me, Nephilim.”

With wide, puffy eyes, Oliver glanced at me and then back to Aspen, trying to understand the situation but failing miserably.

“Do it! Before it’s too late,” Aspen bellowed, flames flashing in his irises.

Startled, Oliver dropped to the ground and locked his ankles together, then pocketed the key. “Now what?”

“Now you take Lucille and leave,” Aspen moaned like the cuffs that took away his power made the struggle worse.

I grabbed for his fist, but he pulled out of reach. “I’m not leaving you here.”

“I can’t promise you what I will be like when it takes over. You need to go.”

“No.”

“Luci—” His eyes rolled as he fell back, writhing on the ground.

I snapped my gaze to Oliver as he retched into the grass. “Why did you do that?”

“How many people has he watched get murdered?” he moaned as he grabbed my arm, lifted us off the ground, and pulled me away. I almost jerked out of his hold, thinking he was about to run with me, when he said, “I’m just getting you away from the stench of my stomach acid. Relax. I’m buying us time to make a plan.”

Defeated, I gingerly sank to the ground. “What kind of plan, Oliver? I have no idea what to do or where to go anymore.”

He looked at me funny. “What do you mean? We’re going to Magda’s.”

I scoffed, wincing as I unlocked my cuffs and handed them to Oliver. “Here. That’s how you reach your sister. They’ll allow you to cross their border, but it’ll suppress your powers. I don’t need to go to Magda’s anymore. The memory of why I was taken returned. My mom poisoned me. She’s working with Marcus. She doesn’t need to be found.”

Oliver stared at the cuffs, quiet. Then he took a step back, refusing to accept them.

“Oliver?” I asked, surprised. “Take them. This is what you’ve been dying to find. Go get your sister back.”

“You’re right. For ninety-five years, I’ve been trying to find a way to Melanie.” He lifted his gaze from the cuffs. “But we made a deal. We’re going to Magda’s, then you can give me the cuffs. Your mom isn’t working for Marcus, Lucy. You need the rest of your answers.”

“How would you know that? Do you have another super-dandy power I don’t know about?” I asked, throwing out my hands and regretting it instantly.

“No, but I saw your fear too, Lucy. I saw your scum-bag father. I heard creepy iceman, which we will have to revisit later. And I saw your mom. I saw the love she had for you.”

I rolled my eyes and stared at Aspen. Oliver stepped forward, gripped my chin, and forced my attention back on him.

“No! Listen to me. I may not have a mother anymore, but I know what love from one looks like. Jumping in front of a fireball for you and standing in front of you, ready to duel it out with another Archangel, is love. So whatever memory you restored in your head isn’t the whole picture. You’re missing something, and we are going to that damn decapitating witch and getting you answers,” Oliver stated, practically stomping his foot.

“But what if it’s all true? What if my mom’s⁠—”

“What if my sister’s dead? What if, even with the cuffs, I can never get to her? What if, what if, what if? I get it more than you know. But the difference between you and me is that I’m willing to face any outcome just to know I tried for her. But you, Lucy, based on what I saw by touching you, you have a habit of ignoring your fears or having your mom suppress them, which was why you were shit at controlling them in the beginning. She did you no favors even if you were hiding from a scum-bag father.”

I didn’t want to listen to his rational words, not after what I saw. I didn’t want to go to Magda’s and face the truth, whatever it was. My mom sobbed in front of my face and poisoned me with Marcus.

“Lucy, you went straight to the worst what-ifs and forgot to ask, what if your mom’s in trouble? What if there was no other option? Are you really going to forget about her and go on your merry way? Was surviving this shit place all for nothing?”

I didn’t want to face my past—my abusive father or my mother’s betrayal. But also, I didn’t want to remember how badly Aspen made me yearn to escape. Every time he met me in those woods, I longed to leave my mom behind and experience life in a different world. But the guilt wrecked me after thinking of everything my mom had done for us, which she always soothed away when I walked back from the forest.

Her touch was a comfort and a cage.

But it wasn’t just her betrayal that hurt. It was hating myself for wanting a different life and partially resenting my mom. If she truly was an evil mastermind, then all the guilt and self-loathing I had for myself was a lie. But if Oliver was right, and my mother was in trouble, I needed to help her like she always did for me, no matter how misguided her help might’ve been. If he was wrong and we found her… I didn’t know what I’d do.