Intuition: The Premonition Series (53 page)

My eyebrows draw together in pain. I lean even closer to his face, so that we are a mere hair’s breath from each other, as I reply between clenched teeth, “Or else, what?” I already feel physically horrible, my fever is getting worse and I’m running out of time to explain myself. I can tell by the dryness in my throat that I’m in big trouble as far as this sickness goes. It’s coming back on and I may not have much time before I start trippin’ again. I need to say what I have to say soon, before I can’t say anything at all. “I already know that I’m going to die here. I would just like to get on with it. I have some information for Pagan that I need to relay, and then you are more than welcome to make good on whatever it is you are planning to do to me.”

He seems taken aback when he replies, “Everyone is gathering. It takes time. It’s like everything else—hurry up and wait.” He doesn’t look as angry as he did a moment ago as he holds my arm less tight than before. Buns is right, they respect strength and despise weakness. I have to be strong or they will crush me.

I nod my head, grateful for the information. “Thank you,” I reply, but I can’t hide the relief in my eyes. He nods coolly to me, dropping his hand from my arm.

I shift and fidget for a while, trying really hard not to think of Reed, because when I do, the anxiety that I’m feeling builds to excruciating levels. I can’t feel him. If they have hurt him, I will take as many of them with me as I can on my way into oblivion.

I pass some of the time waiting by marveling at the intricately painted ceiling. It depicts angels battling among the heavens. The fresco is fairly gruesome in some respects because it shows, in minute detail, what divine angels are programmed to do to the fallen angels, but I can’t help being impressed by the artistry, even as I cringe inwardly. I’m not able to look at the ceiling for too long, however, because I keep losing my equilibrium and swaying on my feet. Unthinkingly, I reach out, grasping the silver-haired Power lightly, so I can right myself after dizziness almost makes me fall over. He looks alarmed when my hand touches his arm. I release it immediately.

“What is wrong with you?” he asks like an accusation, narrowing his eyes.

“Nothing,” I say quickly.

He scans me and hones in on my neck, just below my golden collar. “You are bleeding,” he states.

He can’t see Brennus’ marks because they’re hidden,
I think. “It’s just a scratch. I got it earlier—rough landing. We all can’t heal as fast as you do,” I say, trying to brush it off. He looks puzzled by this, but doesn’t comment on it further.

I would have watched him closer to gauge his reaction to what I just said, but I still when a small flutter dances in my abdomen. It is so slight that I think for a second that I must be mistaken. I wait agonizing moments to see if something else will happen and I am rewarded with another small flutter stirring to life inside of me. I can’t contain my reaction. My hand presses to my stomach and I exhale a gasp of air. I look up at the angels around me unable to suppress the pure joy I’m feeling.
He’s alive… my angel is alive!
I think as exaltation is reigning within me.
Reed’s here!I’m not too late.

I smile radiantly at the silver-haired Power angel. He is staring back at me as if I’m possessed, but the fluttering is building within me, so he is easy to ignore now. I begin walking away from my entourage, following the pull of the fluttering magnetism. I want to find him. Reed is here, so close now, but when I would’ve opened a broad set of doors that the invisible line to Reed indicates I should follow, I am stopped by a curt voice behind me.

“Where are you going?” It is the voice of the silver-haired angel. I hesitate in front of the door as I place my hand on its flat surface, wanting so badly to push it open and run as fast as I can toward Reed. But, I know I probably won’t make it more than a few steps before someone ambushes me, so I lean my forehead against the door.

Don’t be afraid to break the rules. They aren’t your rules and there is no justice in them for you. Do what you must and do it now,
a voice inside me says.

I turn back toward the angel and ask again, “What is your name?”

He hesitates, and then he says, “Preben.”

I smile at his answer because it means he sees me as more than just an evil spawn. “Preben, I’m ready to speak to Pagan. I can’t wait any longer.” I say, pulling my shoulders back and opening the door. Instantly, Preben is at my side and there are several angels in front of me.

“In a hurry to die?” Preben asks, but he doesn’t stop me. He nods to the divine beings in front of me. They turn and begin to lead the way down the darkened corridors. All of the hallways we march through contain exquisite paintings that can only have been achieved by the sure hand of an angel. They are intricate and the brush strokes contain power and majesty, but I can only give them cursory glances. The fluttering in my stomach is becoming more pronounced. I know that Reed is near and I’m savoring the delicious ramp up to the extreme high that will come the moment I see him.

After marching down endless corridors that wind throughout the Chateau, Preben leads me into a round, vaulting room; it’s enormous in size and scope. They can have an aerial battle in this room and not hit anything because there is no ceiling on the room. The room is capped by a glass-domed rooftop; it covers this particular turret several stories above our heads. As I look above me at the stars speckling the sky, they seem to be just beyond the glass panes in the dome. I feel awe at seeing something so lovely. “That’s amazing,” I whisper to Preben as I inch forward into the room. Preben’s silvery-blue eyes fill with confusion as he attempts to figure me out.

I ignore Preben’s stare and scan the room for Reed and Zee. Reed must be really close now, but there are so many angels in here, that finding any one person is difficult, even with the fluttering radar I possess. This is an arena with hundreds of seats that line tier after tier of balconies almost all the way up to the glass-dome rooftop above. Scores of angels are flying back and forth from tier to tier, industriously conversing in their language, so that the room is filled by several different symphonies all playing at the same time. Beautifully woven tapestries cover the walls in vivid hues and depict scenes of epic angelic battles on Earth and in the skies, making the Bosch paintings I admire so well look primitive by comparison.

As we walk further into the room, the symphonies all cease and growls erupt from every level of the hive. The hair on my arms stands up again, but instead of fear, I mostly just feel angry. Being instantly reviled is getting old, so I’m anxious just to say what I have come here to say and be done with it. My head is pounding now with an ache from the fever, but the fluttering in my stomach is helping me get through the physical pain that is seizing the rest of my body.

“It would have been better if we had waited longer in the reception area. Now you have to listen to all of them,” Preben says near my ear. He scans the crowd; it looks a little hostile in some quarters, and in others, the angels are registering shock and haunted stares.

“You mean, they are growling at me?” I ask with faux shock. “Maybe they are just fashion critics and don’t like my outfit,” I say in an easy tone.

“What’s not to like?” he asks with an appraising smile, before leading me to the middle of the room where there is a raised platform for the “accused.” It’s somewhat dramatic, but since it is their drama, I will have to play along.

Preben continues to stand by my side, along with several other Powers. We are waiting around for presumably the seats on the raised platform, higher than our own, to be filled. It’s shaping up to be some kind of tribunal. I’m a little surprised because I thought I’d be speaking just to Pagan, but apparently that is not the case.

“Am I on trial, Preben?” I whisper. He shrugs noncommittal about my status here. “What are my rights?”

A grim smile forms on Preben’s lips. “You don’t have any rights,” he replies in a solemn tone, not looking at me, but facing forward.

It feels like he just stabbed me in the chest. “Even the Geneva Convention has rules to handle prisoners of war,” I whisper back, watching him frown.

“There are rarely prisoners in our war and those few have only one right: the right to pray for death,” he states.

“Ugh. Why couldn’t I be born entirely human? In my next life, I’m insisting upon it. No more of this evolving crap. No one listens to you and everyone thinks you are evil. It’s exhausting, Preben,” I say wearily, and I see by the way he is smiling that he is finding my rant comical. “You know what I hate the most, Preben?” I ask him. His gray eyes dance and he shakes his head. “I hate when all you guys laugh at me like I’m making some kind of joke. It’s not funny.”

Several of the Powers guarding me begin laughing, but Preben tries hard not to show the smile creeping up in the corners of his mouth. I make up my mind then to stop asking questions. It’s pointless, anyway. They aren’t going to tell me anything.

I’m still getting occasional growls from above, as I scan the arena for Reed, but he is not up there. I’m sure of it. Even though I’m sure he is close.
He must know that I’m here. He can probably feel me, too. I wonder what he’s thinking right now.
I close my eyes and focus on the fluttering inside me.

A stir of musical language comes from the balconies as several angels fly in to take their seats at the bench in front of me. It happens so fast that one second they are not there and the next they are seated and staring at me. In a situation like this, I expect to see some elderly men and women sitting before me to judge my crime. But, instead, to see the youthful, beautiful faces of angels before me is really quite staggering.

They look more like the elite, popular panel of student council members, there to discuss the decorations for prom, than to decide whether I’m a Nephilim and part of the Fallen army or something else entirely. Well, that is not entirely true, because the student council would have more clothing on than just sarongs. They are more like the elite male swim team, seated in front of me, adorned in towels.

I count the all-male panel and come up with nine. They are all Power angels, judging by their wings that are varying shades of grays, browns and greens. One thing is clear about them all as well: none of them look the least bit bored. I whisper to Preben, “Who are they?”

He has lost his smile and looks deadly serious now. Preben’s eyes rake the panel from left to right before he says, “That is the war council.”

“What are their names?” I ask. Preben’s eyebrows pull together— he doesn’t know if he should tell me their names.

“It’s best that you let them ask the questions. Just try to be quiet until they speak to you,” he mutters, like I’m a child who is trying his patience.

I frown. “Fine. See if I help you out at your next trial,” I reply snidely, watching him suppress another grin. He seems to think about what I asked him, and then he shrugs.

“The one on the far left is Yesan,” Preben says, indicating the angel with pale skin and dark brown wings. “Next to him is Andor, and then Alvar,” he says. These two look almost identical in an elfin way. They both have long blond hair, tied back, and deep brown eyes. Their olive green wings have khaki stripes in the primary feathers, giving them a camouflage appearance. It makes me think that they would be wickedly stealthy in the forests where I used to train with Russell. We would never see them coming and maybe that is the point. I would think that they are twins, if I didn’t already know that they are created, not born as humans are born… as I was born.

“Ursus is next,” Preben continues without hesitating. Ursus is as big as the bear he is named after. His skin is dark, but it’s so smooth and perfect that I bet other divine beings are jealous of his beauty. His wings are soft gray at the base of the feather, until a couple of inches from the edge, where they turn dark grey, making the contrast between his skin and wings startling and lovely. “Followed by Gunnar and Cillian,” he says.

Preben pauses, and then looks down the right side of the platform, saying, “That is Reign, then Shaw, and last there is Rio.” Reign and Shaw both have varying degrees of brown hair with light brown wings, but Rio is striking. He has black hair and charcoal-colored wings that may even be a shade darker than Reed’s. His eyes are dark brown and his skin is sun-kissed golden brown, making him appear Latin or Spanish.

“Thank you, Preben,” I murmur, trying really hard to memorize all of the names of the angels on the war council.

The council waits for the room to become quiet, and when it does, the angel in the center of the platform begins speaking in Angel. I listen to the beautiful cadences that his lilting voice weaves, but I have no idea what he is saying. My fever must be getting worse because I feel disconnected again, like I could float away from all of this and leave it behind. A small nudge from Preben makes me look up at him. I frown at him in response to the frown I see on his face.

Preben scowls then, saying in a stern tone, “Cillian asked you for your name.”

I try to focus on the panel in front of me as I clear my throat and say, “I apologize for any misunderstanding, but I do not speak your language. My name is Genevieve Claremont.”

Immediately, I see that they think I’m lying. They believe that I can understand their language because Cillian again speaks to me in Angel. I listen really hard to him, trying to decipher something, a phrase, or a word that I know, but it just sounds like music to me. I drift away again and receive another nudge from Preben. When I look at him questioningly, he says, “They want to know how old you are and where you come from.”