Page 39 of Wicked Angel
“We will,” Jeremiah said, joining our conversation. Tall and golden-haired, he moved with the natural grace that had made him top of our class at the Academy. My crush on him had been a poorly kept secret among our friends, though he'd never seemed to notice. “With Archangels Rhodes and Soren leading us, how could we fail?”
I glanced toward the front of our formation, where the two archangels stood in deep conversation. Rhodes, tall and imposing with his silver armor and wings that shimmered with an almost metallic gleam. And beside him, Soren—older, with kind eyes that had always seen more than they revealed.
My mentor, Archangel Ylena, had warned me against volunteering for this mission. “You're not ready, Ariella,” she'd said, her voice stern with disapproval. “This isn't a training exercise. Earth is dangerous, and rogue angels even more so.”
But Rhodes had countered her concerns with praise for my potential, and in the end, I'd been chosen when another Cherubin couldn’t. Now, standing at the threshold of Elysium with my squadron, I was determined to prove Ylena wrong and Rhodes right.
“Formation!” Rhodes called, his voice cutting through our chatter. Immediately, we arranged ourselves in the practiced pattern—archangels at the front, Seraphim flanking, Cherubin bringing up the rear.
Soren stepped forward, his ancient eyes scanning our faces. “Remember your training,” he said, his voice resonating with power. “The traitor is dangerous, and if Molraz is with him, doubly so. We contain, we capture, we return to Elysium. No heroics.”
“Yes, Commander,” we answered in unison.
Rhodes lifted his hand, and the portal between realms shimmered into existence before us—a vast, swirling doorway of light and energy between wo silver pillars. “For Elysium,” he said, his voice solemn.
“For Elysium,” we echoed, and as one, we stepped through the portal.
The transition was always disorienting—the sudden shift from Elysium's perfect light to Earth's dimmer glow, the weight of mortal air pressing against our wings. We emerged on a mountainside, the night air cool and fragrant with pine.
“Spread out,” Rhodes commanded. “Search the area. The traitor was last seen near here.”
For two days, we combed the wilderness, following what seemed to be a trail of angelic energy. I flew with Rachel and Jeremiah, our eyes scanning the forests below for any sign of the rogue angel.
“What do you think would make an angel betray Elysium?” Rachel asked on the second night, as we rested beside a quiet lake. “To work with a demon, no less?”
“Power,” Jeremiah suggested, his expression grim. “Or disillusionment. Some angels grow weary of guardianship, of watching over humans who rarely appreciate their protection.”
“It still doesn't make sense to me,” I said, staring up at the stars. “Our purpose is sacred. How could anyone turn their back on that?”
“Not everyone shares your dedication, Ariella,” Jeremiah said with a small smile. “That's why you'll make a great guardian one day.”
His words warmed me. The truth was, ever since demon hunters had come into the picture, guardians had become less hands on. We mostly observed from afar, only interfering when really needed.
Suddenly, a cry echoed through the night. One of the Seraphim, flying above, had spotted something.
“Movement at the abandoned mine,” he reported, hovering before Rhodes. “Definite angelic signature, but strange. Corrupted somehow.”
Rhodes's face hardened. “That's him. Let's move.”
We flew in tight formation, following Rhodes toward a yawning cave mouth cut into the mountainside. The entrance to an old human mine, abandoned decades ago. Darkness seemed to pool around it, unnaturally thick and shifting with strange currents.
“Something's wrong,” Soren muttered, his wings flexing with tension. “This feels?—”
Rhodes cut him off. “We have our target. Seraphim, take the flanks. Cherubin, guard the entrance. Soren and I will confront the traitor.”
We moved into position, my heart pounding against my ribs. This was it—the moment I'd prove myself worthy of the mission.
We'd barely settled into formation when a man emerged from the shadows of the cave. He was tall and wide, with a short black hair and a trimmed beard. His intense blue eyes stared at us with curiosity.
And malice.
“Who are you?” Soren asked, tensing.
“Molraz,” the man said, his lips curling in a wicked grin.
My stomach dropped. He wasn’t a man. He was a freaking higher demon.
“What’s going on?” Soren sputtered.
