Wings of Boden (26 page)

So there I was, standing on the dirt
driveway, swinging the whip by the target, cringing in anticipation
as I waited for the cracking sound that proved I might be learning
something. It would happen occasionally, no idea how. But,
whatever. The problem was, every time I would swing, I’d have to
jump out of the way because the flappin thing would come right back
at me.

Swing … cringe …
Wha-tish!
“Eek!” I
squealed and did a little hop and skip to get out of the way. That
was a
good
one; it cracked the air and sent bits of tree
bark flying.

“Yay!” came from behind me. Angie was on the
porch deck, while she encouraged me with comments such as, “Woo
hoo!” or “Nice one!” or “Got em right in the eye!” Although her
first comment was, “Watch where you’re swingin that thing, you
almost snapped my ear off!” Immediately following that comment,
she’d pulled a chair on the deck and sat.

That’s enough of this. I’m not a machine,
Dad.

After trekking back to Angie, I said, “I’ve
had it for today. That thing is evil. I think it’s after me.” I
dropped the coiled whip to the deck, flopped to a chair and rested
back on my wings.

Time slipped by in discussion with my sister,
until hues of magenta on the horizon caught our attention and
forced us into silent awareness. As I gazed up off the porch, the
most powerful sunset I’d ever witnessed bombarded my senses. Dad
was ending his speech to the team, the sound through the trees.
Earlier, while I was practicing, I’d caught bits and pieces of it:
A new world is dawning!—
wha-tish!
—Our time now! … The
regular speech lingo, I assumed.

Even as Angie and I lounged on the porch
deck, the guttural sounds from hundreds of males began to chant in
unison through the forest, climbing in volume: “Hah-Ooh!
Hah-Ooh-Ooh!” They finally finished with a deep bellow that shook
the pine trees: “StarWings, Hoo-Hoo!” The sound boomed through the
air. I was sure even the city below had to hear that.

And there they were, the team, lifting off in
waves out of the woods. Their stretching wings pushing the air down
with such force, sending the tops of the pines to sway in the
roiling wind. Wave after wave of muscle lifted into the sky, each
angel with a combat belt around the waist that held flight-serum
syringes.
My Source, how many were there?
Too many to count,
but I could’ve guessed around five hundred, blocking out the
horizon as they flew into the beginning of the first night
mission.

Wartime was now—that fact unburied from the
back of my mind and brought to the front.

“I didn’t know there were that many,” I said
to Angie while keeping my eyes to the sky.

“I know, right. It gave me shivers.”

“Well, I’m gonna go get cleaned up and
change. Then I’m gonna grab some chips and tea and watch off Mom’s
balcony.”

“Yeah.”

A half hour later, we were on the balcony in
our pastel flannel PJ pants, fluffy slippers and T-shirts, our
chairs near the open french door just in case, the lace drapes
feathering behind us. The fragrance of Mom’s flowers mingled with
the sound of wooden wind chimes clicking on an evening breeze. We
had settled in with a bowl of daisy chips and iced teas. I knew it
wasn’t supposed to be entertainment. But we had to watch, maybe
learn something.

In the distance, silhouette wings pushed
across the cloudless night sky. Pinpoints of stars formed
glittering constellations. A faint hint of light pollution lifted
from the city below. Angels were easy to spot, with their new
nightglow. The hunters were shadows, until they’d pass before the
half-moon with an angel on their tail.

I popped a chip in my mouth,
crunch
,
fearful but enthralled.

Minutes flew by as we watched flailing wings
over the city. Angels and hunters would lock and tumble in close
combat here and there. The occasional glint of a sword, I assumed,
or some other kind of weapon. My heart would drop every time I
noticed an injured angel spiraling downward out of control. Though
it may have been wrong, I selfishly hoped the injured one wasn’t
Dad or Jaydenn. The night began to fill with tension and I didn’t
know how much more I could take. Angie sat in silence beside
me.

“They’ll be okay, Ang.”

“Yeah, I hope. I don’t feel so good, my
stomach. I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

In the distance, two glowing spots were
approaching fast. “I think they’re coming here,” I said.

“Yeah, they are, aren’t they? I’m going
downstairs.” She was off without another word.

After flicking on the outside lights, we
stood on the porch deck, just outside the door. The glowing angels
approached. I tucked some hair behind my ear, waiting, worry
pooling inside.

The image became clear: Dad, with his arm
around a hulking team member. Dad was helping him fly, as it seemed
the bare-chested injured one had a broken wing. His slacks hung in
tatters. Blood splattered his body like red paint thrown on a white
canvas. Eyes twisted with pain, jaw clenching as they touched down
to the driveway.

Hunters were on the way in the distant
sky.

A cupped hand over my mouth muffled the
words, “Oh, Source.”

“Girls, get back in the house!” Dad growled,
lowering the injured one to the driveway.

Shock held me rooted to the deck for a beat,
until I turned to notice that Angie was already in the house … As I
stepped in and stood trembling, Angie was racing from the foyer
with the medical kit in hand, a wild look of determination on her
face. Mom, in her nightgown, streaked in with a stack of towels and
the practiced look of a veteran.

All I could do was stand, and watch.

What can I do? I need to do something. I
dashed to the window to see Dad facing off with a hunter on the
driveway. The vulture lunged forward, snapped his beak, but Dad was
too quick and dodged out of the way. Bub ran over and jumped paws
up on the windowsill, barking, barking, barking at the
hunter—
roaf, roaf, roaf!

I wheeled around. Mom was pushing the coffee
table to the couch, Angie sliding Dad’s chair across the hardwood
and out of the way. Mom rolled up the living room throw rug, picked
up one end, dragged it around the couch and dropped it. She
returned to the center of the room, went to her knees and began
spreading towels on the floor. Angie knelt beside her and started
to organize the medical tools in a neat row.

“We have to do something, Mom.” I yelped.
“The hunter is out there.”

Roaf, roaf, roaf
, said Bub.

Mom snapped her head up. “What?”

My vision went back out the window to see the
hunter lift the wounded angel off the ground, then swing him in his
black beak like a wet-blood rag. Dirt clouds puffed over the
driveway while Dad avoided the stomping talons.

Bub whined, scratched at the window glass,
barked,
roaf, roaf!
Whined and scratched.

Blood streamed horror in my mind, I cried
out, “No! We have to do something. He’s going to—” I froze in my
vision:

Vyn dropped out of the night, bare-chested, a
spear in hand. He must have hurdled off the balcony! His contorted
face showed fury. Light steamed from his nose. While fall-ing, he
lifted the spear vertical, thrust it down into and through the
hunter’s head, driving the vulture into the ground and staking it
to the dirt.

The hunter lay sprawled on the driveway,
twitching, limp black wings spread.

Vyn, rippling cords of muscle sheened with
sweat and glinting moonlight, just stood on the hunters back. Just
stood there, clenching his jaw, huffing light. A statue. A gleaming
warrior.

The scientist was gone.

Bub stayed silent beside me … a small
whine.

The hunter’s beak sagged open. Dad pulled the
wounded angel free. Mom ran across the driveway to help. Dad
hoisted the injured one off the ground, propped him up with one arm
draped across Dad’s shoulders. Mom took the other side. While they
began to move toward the house, Dad looked back over his shoulder
and threw a firm nod of appreciation to Vyn. Vyn replied with a jaw
clench, a male tip of his chin, and proceeded to scan the night for
hunters. Seeming satisfied, he jerked the spear out of the
vulture’s skull, and hopped off to the ground.

With a sniffle, I rubbed my moistened eyes.
Did I just see that?
Source, who is he?

The door swung open and slammed to the wall.
Dad and Mom carried the torn angel into the room, trailing blood.
They lowered him to the floor by the towels.

Bub ran over to sniff and examine.

Dad knelt down. “You’re gonna be fine, Luca.
Just hang in there. It’s just a scratch.”

A hand clapped over my gasp.
Luca!
My
mind slipped into anguish. Oh, Ginelle, Steff, this can’t be
happening …

Blood. So much blood.

“Go on, Bub,” Dad said, pushing Bub away.

Bub wheeled and took off out the door.

Luca was unconscious, or dead, I wasn’t sure
which. Cuts. Gashes. A wing snapped and twisted out of shape.

Frozen, weeping and appalled, I watched. Mom
and Angie were ripping rags, wrapping, pressing and stopping the
blood flow with frantic precision.

They were professionals at work. And I
couldn’t move.

Dad held Luca’s limp hand. “You’re all right.
The girls are gonna patch you up, brother. You’ll be on your feet
in no time, whistling like a bird.” Dad angled an almost
imperceptible look at Mom. She returned an unsure glance, ripped a
rag.

Bub padded in, sniffing the blood trail.

Vyn stepped in, stared at the fallen one. “Is
that Luca? Is he gonna be all right?”

Not a word … they just kept working their
crimson-soaked hands….

“No problem,” Dad said, lounging back on his
wings in one of two beds in the White room. “We have to keep
StarWing blood in the family, right.”

The White room holds a purpose—two beds, a
stainless sink, locked cabinets, the closet full of IV racks and
other gadgets, the refrigerator with Source knows what inside it—an
in-home clinic.

Morning shone through the windowpanes.
Antiseptic smells filled the room. Luca and Dad had IV tubes
hanging from their arms. Bandages covered most of Luca’s body.
Pillows propped up his legs. A chain contraption hung from the
ceiling, holding up the sling that supported his broken right wing.
A myriad of small, red-rimmed cuts covered his tough face. A long
scar fell across his right cheek, stitched like a zipper.

Still in my PJ pants and T-shirt, I stood in
the doorway in timid curiosity, the taste of mint toothpaste in my
mouth. I could hear the sounds of Angie’s shower coming from the
bathroom down the hall, and Mom preparing breakfast downstairs.
Tucking some hair behind my ear, I asked Luca in a hushed tone,
“Are you okay?”

“Oh yeah. Just a scratch,” he replied with a
wince; then whistled. “See, like a bird.”

I tried to smile.

“I can’t believe I have quarterback blood in
me now,” Luca said. Dad laughed.

Memories strolled into my mind. Back when I
was a little girl, whenever I would toddle into the house with a
scrape or scratch, Mom would say, “Go up to the White room honey,
I’ll be right up.” And I’d come up here, climb up on the footstool
and perch on the end of a bed. Other times, I would pretend to be
sick and Angie would pretend to take care of me. She would take my
pulse with those arm-squeezing pump things, check my temperature,
and use the gag-inducing tongue sticks. She’d bring out a metal
rack and pretend to put an IV in my arm.

Now, a kind of holographic memory appeared in
the room—the apparition image of me as a little girl sat on the end
of a bed, Mom’s image taking care of me. Mom’s image walked over to
the cupboards by the stainless sink. She came back to the bed,
placed a bandage on my knee, then touched her lips to it and said,
“It’s all better now, Ellie,” and I smiled my little blue eyes up
at my mother.

Last night, Mom was a whirlwind of action.
She had worked the room with controlled and calm precision, voicing
out orders and requests. I had no idea she knew so much. Angie and
I would bring her whatever she needed: clean towels and linens,
fresh water and bandages, and drinks to keep us all hydrated.

“Come on in here, Ellie,” Dad said, leaning
up and propping some pillows behind him.

With a strange, disembodied feeling, I
stepped over and stood at the foot of Dad’s bed as he said, “I need
to tell you something about Vyn.”

“Yeah,” Luca groaned, “tellem I owe him a
great big one.”

After answering Luca’s request with a
half-grin and a little nod, I turned back to Dad as he went on,
“Vyn is what I like to call a sleeper, Ellie. See, he’s a warrior
through and through and he doesn’t even know it. It’s been a long
time since I’ve seen power like that. I will never have to worry
about him taking care of you. See, he’s a guard. They’re a rare
breed these days. You’ve got yourself a real male there.” He paused
to consider. “There’s a few things I can’t tell you. You’ll just
have to be patient. He’s still growing. I’m sure you’ve seen him in
that guard position. He locks up, doesn’t he?”—Dad grinned at my
nod—“Honey, he’s not locked. And if anything ever threatens you
while he’s in guard, well, that position is a warning. And it’s
deadly serious. He will destroy anything that messes with you. He’s
always been part of this family, Ellie, and I’m proud to call him
my son.”

His words lit me up with pride and a smile
from wing to wing. “Thank you, Dad. That means so much to me, it
really does.” I walked to the side of the bed and bent for a
hug.

“Okay, okay,” he whispered, patted my back,
stood me up. “Now you know what we’re up against, don’t you?”