Page 89 of Forging Darkness

There’s murder in her eyes. Yet another similarity between her and her son.

“Mother!” Thorne’s familiar voice echoes up and down the tunnel. “That’s enough.”

I struggle against the pressure of her wings as she glances over her shoulder. Her eyes narrow when they connect with something out of my field of vision. Someone doesn’t like being given orders. “I let you have a chance, but you failed.”

“We don’t know that yet,” he argues.

Her laugh is filled with dark humor as she gestures with her chin. “I caught her trying to free these slaves. I think that’s a pretty solid indication that she’s not willingly joining our cause.”

“I haven’t had the opportunity to explain everything to her yet.”

“I believe that. She seems disgustingly naive. But your time is up.” Her burning red gaze fixes back on me, and her nails elongate several inches. The pointed ends curve to create crescent-shaped sickles on each of her fingers.

Thorne steps forward and places a hand on his mother’s uninjured shoulder. His face is riddled with tension. “Mother . . . please.”

Some of the fire dims in the Fallen’s red eyes as she bird-tilts her head in his direction, then huffs out an annoyed lungful of air. “Fine,” she bites off. “You know what has to be done if she doesn’t agree.”

His lips press into a hard line before he nods once.

The pressure of her wings against mine lifts, and I crab crawl away. Bumping against the wall, I clamber to my feet. A quick peek at my wings reveals several of the feathers bent and misshapen, but no further damage.

The humans have all fled at this point. All except Angeline and her mother. I hope the ones who ran make it out of this place—I truly do—but they’ll most likely be rounded up and dumped back on that peninsula.

The child behind me doesn’t make a peep. Her mother is on her knees behind Thorne, wailing for her little one. I spread my wings to protect the innocent, defenseless child behind me.

The Fallen—Thorne’s mother—spins toward the open doorway. She casts her gaze toward the crying woman, and I think that’s all she’s going to do, except right before she steps over the threshold she flares her metal wings, disemboweling the woman.

On a gasp, I spread my wings even more, hoping to shield the child’s view of her dying mother.

The woman’s wails are cut off immediately. Agony paints her face as she tips forward and splats in her own guts.

“Mother!” Thorne snaps, but the Fallen’s mirthless chuckles are the only sound as she strolls away.

If I thought the young man’s beheading was awful, this is so much worse. I can’t take my eyes off the woman’s twitching form as a red puddle forms around her. Droplets of blood slip over the edge and into the water. A group of black eels whip into a frenzy.

I’m not sure if the woman is still alive. In fact, I hope she’s dead. A fast death would be a mercy.

Forcing my gaze from the grizzly sight, I look to Thorne, words tangled in my throat.

He rubs a hand down his face then turns and slams a fist into the stone wall hard enough that bits break off under his knuckles and crumble to the ground.

My muscles seize, ready for an attack that doesn’t come. I steal a glance over my shoulder. The child is still balled on her side, silent and most likely in shock. Blessedly faced away from the remains of her mother.

As my anger grows, the horror fades.

“Who was that?” I know what she said, and what my eyes and logic tell me, but I want to hear it from him. I want to hear him admit that murderous thing is his mother.

Thorne’s shoulder and back muscles bunch beneath his long-sleeved shirt. He places a hand on the wall next to the divot he just created and leans heavily against it.

“Seraphim. Mother of all seraph angels.” There’s a heavy pause before he admits, “My mother.” I’m about to lash out about his deception, but get stuck on the “mother of all” part.

“Allseraph angels?”

His head—hanging low—bobs in affirmation. “In a way. She is the first.”

Holy. Angel. Babies.

“Who is your father?”

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