Page 5 of Wrath's Call

Spoken like a true Greed demon,Drew repliedwith a chuckle, his tone laced with dry amusement.A humble caster is a good caster, after all.

I ignored the banter between the two as wafts of sickening mortal arousal filled the air, tinged with the scents of overly expensive cologne and brown liquors. The girl on the dais stumbled as she spun, flashing more of her nearly completely exposed thighs. Catcalls rang out through the air as did small initial interest slips, which drifted on bespelled winds to the cauldron at the base of the stage.

“I’d love to give her a test drive before we stuck her in the Exmouth camp,” a bespeckled man beside me said to his companion.

I glanced at Drew, who stood a few feet from me, studying the book of candidate profiles he held. He shook his head in disdain.

Boralis breeding camp. He said, and I fought back a growl. My demon hated many things about the Guilds, but the thought of forced breeding ranked near the top.

These witless simpletons had no appreciation for what my kind had bestowed upon them millennia ago, believing they could somehow selectively breed a superior class of casters to keep my kind in check.

Fucking fools. They couldn’t even tell what I was while standing in the middle of them.

My wings ached to flex from my back as a human pushed into me, his tipsy swagger as evident as the sickening aroma of his far too-expensive cologne. I growled low in my throat, causing the frazzled blond-haired caster of patience to stumble quickly away from me, clearly sensing that my tolerance of his intrusion had reached its end.

I’m going outside. I shot the mental words to my two companions, my sharpness causing a subtle wince in Drew. I turned, wading through the smoke that masked the marbled floors rippled with lavender and silver veins. Just another travesty of this ridiculous endeavor: I would have enjoyed studying the intricate tapestries, exquisite carvings, and rich gold ceilings that surrounded me rather than continuing to feign interest in humiliation.

I swept from the great hall, releasing the glamor I used to appear more mortal. I stalked down the wide candle-lit corridor lined with stone carvings made directly into the sandstone layers, protected from degradation by thinly woven wards. Each carving represented some defining event for one of the cardinal tiers: wrath and justice, lust and chastity, greed and charity, envy and loyalty, gluttony and patience, sloth and diligence, and finally, pride and humility. I didn’t pay much attention to them, as the angels had gifted the carvings upon the creation of this academy, and their tainted remembrance of such events turned my stomach.

However, one carving caught my attention - the depiction coming close enough to the truth that it burned the back of my eyes, memories of millennia ago playing out in my psyche. It depicted dozens of casters bowed in humble obeisance to the Archangel Vitus, casting blessings upon all those who gave themselves over to the virtue of humility.

What absolute bullshit.

The only truly accurate depiction was a prepubescent boy strung between two posts, his naked form covered in whip marks that would have killed him had he not finally absorbed the essence of humility to heal the damage Vitus had inflicted.

I absentmindedly scratched at my forearm, reminding me of the young boy’s failure to die with pride. Instead, he humbly clung to life to ensure the safety of the demons he was now in charge of. I often wondered if this was why Lucifer had chosen to banish the presence of any demons of pride from the Earthen plain, my failure to show faith in their essence deeming my plain unworthy of the greatest of all the deadly sins.

Sharp clacking of polished shoes clambered down the hall, my glamor rising on instinct. A tall man, a couple of inches shy of my six-foot-six frame, stood next to me. He reminded me of the confident human businessmen I was often forced to endure with his gray plaid suit and a neatly trimmed buzz cut. Unlike the males I had been surrounded with, this one did not leach the sickening ardor of mortal lust.

He ignored me, tilting his head thoughtfully to one side as his eyes roamed the detailed caricatures. He was entranced, his fingers reaching out to touch the child almost reverently, only to receive a brutal shock from the wards for getting too close.

He laughed, embarrassment marring his cheeks as he ran the injured hand across the back of his head. Finally, he turned his pale gray eyes on me, the faintest hint of lavender speckled within the irises. Great, a caster of the humility line.

"This place never fails to astonish me," he confessed with a hint of bashfulness, his distinct Turkish accent coloring his words. "I must admit, I find myself consistently captivated by this particular carving. It's referred to as the Trek of the Humble—an intriguing tale that has faded from the knowledge of most."

He paused, his eyes searching me inquisitively. “Do you know it?”

I ignored him, my folded arms and rigid stance making my disinterest in small talk clear.

“Ah, well, I’m sure you do; after all, it is truly a legend worth repeating.” His excitement for the tale was palpable despite the awkwardness he felt.

“Well,” he said again, straightening back up, “I will be off. Good chatting with you.”

If that was what he called a chat, I would hate to know what a full-blown conversation entailed.

I looked at the carving, the bile in my throat causing my blackened claws to extend. My demon rattled his cage, threatening to shred apart the carving and remake it in our image.

Instead of allowing my demon that reprieve, I made my way to the front steps of the keep, cut directly into the exposed yellowed clastic rocks of the mountain that cocooned the academy in a natural dome of protection. The courtyard beyond held a rounded cobblestone driveway, with a central water feature containing the sculpture of a caster, hands splayed before them, set to protect the humans carved into the base from the polished copper hellhound on the other side of the drive. Beyond the massive wooden gates engraved with the crests of the seven primary caster guilds lay a series of freshly leafed maples, trembling aspen trees, and red-needled pines for which the academy was named.

The red pines themselves had always been my favorite feature of this place and a far more practical gift than the carvings the angels had bestowed. While normal mortals without a tie to the supernatural world would see nothing but green trees, the red pines protected any angels, demons, and casters within.

As I approached the keep gates, the sound of an old engine broke through the stillness. It was intriguing, as the only other cars I had seen parked in the nearby Academy lot were exorbitantly expensive - a show of a guild’s wealth and strength using the human monetary system.

I deliberated whether to follow my instincts and investigate the oddity when the rotten stench of shifter mongrels overlapping thick aromas of brimstone and blood overwhelmed my nose. My demon pawed at his confines, affronted by the odors.

Drew. I called out through my psychic connection.What can you tell me about the shifter pack up here?

Not much; the Ravenwings tend to keep to themselves. The alpha is unmated, which is a surprise as alphas rarely rise to rank without a mate to balance them. They control a large swath of land about fifteen miles north of here.

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