Rising, page 9
part #3 of Girl With Broken Wings Series
Look who’s chained to a chair by the Zoo Pals, Gabe’s voice sneaks in.
Shut up! I think back as I pull the pick from my right sleeve.
Gabe’s face breaks into my thoughts, and a familiar rush of guilt stills my fingers. Tarren will keep him safe, I think and reapply myself to the task. I’ll need to disengage the double lock first and then release the single lock to get out of the cuffs. No problem. The picking process is almost the same; it’s just the direction of the rotation that changes.
I slide the hooked edge of the pick into the small hole of the lock. Easy, easy, I hear Tarren whisper to me. Take your time. Do it right. I move the pick gently, setting it against the inner pins. I twist the pick counter-clockwise. My hands shake, and the pick loses its perch as I swear and reapply. The positioning of the cuffs is so awkward, but that’s no excuse for my clumsiness. Fear changes everything. I’ve picked this cuff upside down, blindfolded, behind my back – anything Gabe could think of when he trained me. But right here, in this moment when it really, really counts, my hands are sloppy and unsure.
I press again, and this time I hear the soft click of the double lock disengaging. My breath whistles out over my chapped lips. Now I just have to disengage the single lock on the cuff. My fingers feel stiff. My brain is interfering too much. I reverse the turn of the pick, pressing clockwise.
A toilet flushes upstairs.
No, No, No! Has it really been that long? A faucet turns on.
Click. A heavenly choir couldn’t sing a more beautiful tune as the single lock releases, and the cuff practically jumps off my right wrist. I lift my arm up and rotate my wrist, feeling so, so, so much better about life.
The door to the basement opens, and Birdie’s soft footsteps trot down. I quickly switch the pick to my left hand and put my right wrist back in the cuff, setting it so that if no one looks too closely they wouldn’t notice the cuff is loose.
When Birdie retrieves her gun, and recommences pointing it in my general direction, I’m the picture of a helpless prisoner. This is it; I can’t wait for her to turn a blind eye again. Team Animal Farm could be back any second; and god help me if Puma Mask decides to start getting creative.
I move my left hand, just a little, inserting the pick into the lock.
“What are you doing?” Birdie waves the gun erratically at me. The safety is still on.
“Just stretching my wrists,” I tell her, keeping the pick tucked into my palm so she can’t see it. I make big eyes at her even as every muscle in my body clenches with adrenaline.
“Stop it. Stop doing that.” Her voice shakes.
“They’re really sore,” I say apologetically as I twist the pick and hear the first lock disengage.
“I said stop!” Her aura flushes with ruby hues of fear, and now my muscles clench for an entirely different reason.
I push against the hunger, struggle to keep my attention on the lock pick. Just the single lock left and the cuff will be off. As soon as my wrist is free, I can swing the chair around and block any shots Birdie might get off. I’ll be able to get by her easily, probably without even hurting her that much.
I feel the faint flicker of auras approaching.
“No!” I gasp out loud.
The front door upstairs crashes open, and their auras flood into the house. Energy. Food. Hungry. My body shudders involuntarily with need, and the pick slips through my fingers. I watch helplessly as it clangs against the chair and dive bombs into the carpet.
“What was that?” the girl stammers.
“What was what?” I ask. Damn, damn, damn, damn!
“I heard—”
The basement door opens. The girl squeaks in fear and pulls the trigger. The safety keeps the tranq dart firmly ensconced, but she wouldn’t have even come close to hitting me anyway.
“Finch, everything good down here?” a new voice calls down.
“Uh, yeah,” she responds, “no incidents.”
While her head is turned, I put the sole of my boot over the pick and roll it back toward me. Damn, damn, damn.
Heavy steps creak on the stairs. I recognize Puma Mask’s aura even before he makes his appearance, that arrogant grin affixed to his face. He nods at Finch, and deep, wine-colored purples respond in her aura.
Puma Mask’s biceps strain as he carries a thick metal chair across the basement. He drops it down with a heavy clatter next to me. Where do you even buy big metal chairs like that? They wouldn’t exactly show up in a Pier 1 catalog.
“I’ve got some good news for you Buffy,” he says with obvious malice. “You’re going to get some company.”
I watch as Milo and Rain struggle down the stairs, carrying an unconscious figure between them.
“We’ve found your partner.”
Chapter 13
“He’s a handsome one,” Puma Mask says, that chilling smirk in place. “You two an item?”
The unconscious angel who Milo and Rain handcuff to the chair next to me is, in fact, not handsome at all. His body is short and thick, and his face is comprised of a weak chin, heavy brow, and a nose that looks like it was squashed on by a five-year-old. The only attractive parts of him at all are his clothes, a tailored blazer and slacks, and a glinting Marc Jacobs watch on his wrist.
He groans and rolls his head.
Rain’s aura jerks as he steps back from the angel. “Should he be coming around this early?”
Puma Mask shrugs. “They’re all different.”
“Then let’s put another pair of cuffs on him.”
Puma Mask frowns. “A pair on each wrist is enough. They’re not that strong.”
“We don’t have any more cuffs. I told you we needed more. Lots more,” Milo says.
“If I say two pairs are enough, they’re enough,” Puma Mask insists.
I’m not liking this one bit. This angel looks strong. Beneath his fancy clothes, I can see the outline of hard muscle. Rain looks at me, and I see a reflection of my worry in his eyes. Careful, I mouth to him. He frowns and looks away.
The lock pick burns under the sole of my boot. All I need to do is pull my wrist out of the right cuff, grab the pick from the floor, and disengage the single lock of the left cuff. I could do it in under twenty seconds…if all my captors would be good enough to turn their backs.
I can fight with the chair. It’s heavy but manageable, and with one hand free, I could swing it in front and use it as a weapon. But could I take them all out without winning another tranquilizer? And what about…
The angel groans again. His hands flex, and the skin peels away from his palms in an X pattern. Crapola. His eyes open, and he looks around.
“Unnnnnnnnnhhhh,” he mumbles.
“Finch, upstairs,” Puma Mask orders. He watches the angel rouse and bites his lower lip as his aura hums with those sick greens.
“I…I want to stay,” the girl says, though her voice clearly betrays apprehension.
“It’s not going to be pretty,” Puma Mask assures her with pride.
“I know…I want to see…how you….” The girl trails off. Her aura is pumping heavy shades of lust, and Puma Mask’s cocky grin indicates that he is well aware of her puppy love.
“What the fuuuuuuuuuck?” the angel groans and tugs against his cuffs.
“Someone needs to monitor with Bear,” Puma Mask says. “Tiger, upstairs.”
“It’s Chain,” Milo spits back. “I’m not doing the fucking code names. And I’m not going up. I can handle myself.” He eyes Rain, like clearly if anyone should be sent away, Rain is the better candidate.
I watch as red hues of anger lick at the edges of Puma’s aura. I look again to Rain, wondering why in god’s name they let the psychopath be in charge. Is this his house? Did he get the tranq guns somehow? Did they just pull straws?
“Dissention in the ranks?” the angel slurs, “That’s not good.”
“Go,” Puma Mask orders Milo in a voice edged with petulance. Milo glances at Rain who shrugs, before flipping a middle finger at Puma Mask and stomping up the stairs.
“A well-oiled operation you’ve got here,” the angel says. The slur is quickly dropping out of his voice. I notice the seams of his blazer stretching as he clenches his muscles. I quickly try to catalogue all the possible abilities he could be getting ready to unleash on the unsuspecting Totem members – fire, lightening, acid mists. Maybe he can just cause people’s brains to explode in their heads. Gabe once told me about an angel that spit gobs of burning goo.
Puma’s grin widens. “Oh, you’ll see just how—“
The angel lunges against his restraints. Finch lets out a cry, and auras flare with fear all around. I’m right there with them, my breath hitching up in my lungs and my adrenaline spiking. Even Puma Mask steps back.
The metal cuffs groan, but hold, sending the angel slamming back into the chair, almost toppling it over.
“Boo,” he says and chuckles.
“Funny,” Puma Mask says. “I’ve got a joke too.” He steps forward and punches the angel across the mouth. The loud impact rocks the angel’s head back. Puma Mask smirks and shakes out his hand.
The angel looks back at him, all the humor gone from his face. “I give back twice what I get,” he says, the heaviness from the tranquilizer completely gone from his voice.
“Well that would be kind of scary…except you’re chained to a fucking chair,” Puma Mask says, though he can’t hide a waiver of doubt in his voice.
“Oh, am I?” The angel looks down at his wrists, red and beginning to purple from his lunge.
Super strength, maybe it’s super strength, I think, eyeing the bulge of well-defined pecs beneath the angel’s shirt. All angels enjoy physical enhancements that easily match and sometimes exceed top human athletes. Tarren explained once that certain angels develop extraordinary physical capabilities beyond even this. I may be strong enough to flip over a car, but if this angel is rocking some super strength beneath his blazer, he could probably juggle sumo wrestlers without breaking a sweat.
The angel’s eyes sweep across the assembly. “So you’re the big bad Vigils, huh? Look like a bunch of little bitches to me.”
“Vigils, is that what you call us?” Puma Mask is obviously proud.
No, I think, Vigils is what they call us.
“The interrogation,” Rain says to Puma Mask.
“This is the interrogation,” he snaps at Rain.
“Those masks. Very sharp,” the angels says. “Got a good Halloween vibe going. Oh, and love the sweatshirt, sweetheart,” he calls out to Finch.
Puma Mask lets another fist fly, this time bringing blood to the angel’s lip. “Don’t talk to her. Don’t talk to anyone but me.”
Ignoring him, the angel looks me over. “And what exactly are you?”
“Just me,” I reply lamely. Please don’t let it be super strength. Please, please, please not super strength. My muscles are tensed, waiting for my brain to come up with a brilliant move that will kill the angel, incapacitate the humans non-lethally, and get me out of this basement without a reintroduction to the trippy land of Transqville.
Yeah, and maybe my coat, scarf, and guns will be waiting for me at the front door too.
“Looks like someone mistaked your mug for a punching bag,” the angel says as his brown eyes fearlessly rove my body. “But the rest of you ain’t too bad. A little too human for my taste, but I can fix that right up for you, baby.” He licks his thin lips. “If you say please.”
“This is my interrogation,” Puma Mask says, clearly peeved. He cocks his fist back again.
“Is it?” the angel asks softly. He lunges again, and this time the room fills with the screech of breaking metal.
Chapter 14
Fast. The angel moves so fast.
Puma Mask barks something unintelligible, but the angel is behind him, those thick arms curled around his head.
A swift twist.
Loud crack.
Puma’s aura disappears like a torch doused in a barrel of water.
I’m moving too, pulling my right arm up and free from the unlocked cuff.
As Puma’s limp body crumples to the carpet, the angel lunges at Rain, who gives a cry of alarm and struggles to pull his gun from his holster.
The angel is on him, open palm connecting to his aura.
Oh no you don’t, fucker!
I take two long steps forward, swing the chair around with both hands, and slam it against the angel’s head.
The bastard collapses on top of Rain. Pain flairs in my left wrist, cascading up my arm. I stumble back, the chair dragging with me. Holding my cuffed wrist, I kick at the left arm of the chair. Once, twice, each kick sending sharp, lacerating chords of pain from my wrist to my shoulder. On the third kick, the arm of the chair comes loose, and I slide the cuff out.
Adrenaline holds fear and uncertainty at bay. Thoughts, regrets, and strategy can come back later. I need a weapon, preferably a gun, in case the angel isn’t dead.
Rain untangles himself from the angel and climbs to his knees. His face is as colorless as milk, but the angel didn’t drain much from him. His aura is still strong, churning so fast and hard that my thoughts scatter like a deck of cards caught in a tornado. Hands. I look down, and yep, they’re pouring heat, open, and throbbing. Damn. No time for this. I grit my teeth and force the skin to unfurl back over my palms, pushing the feeding bulbs down into their chambers. They resist; my entire body resists. So close to breaking.
Steady, Tarren whispers in my mind.
I stalk over to Rain. He sees me coming, makes it to his feet, and pulls his mask off. His brown hair is wild, and his aura heaves with spectacular reds. He stands between me and the stairs.
“Go on,” he says in a husky voice.
I want to. Oh yes. Feeding bulbs straining against the weak seams in my palms. Control, control, control, I chant to myself.
I strike Rain – a fast, sharp blow to the side of his head with the palm of my right hand, just as Tarren taught me. It works beautifully, and Rain drops like a stone. I catch him, and for a moment there’s nothing else in the world except me and his aura, all those inflamed reds stroking my palms. The reds seep away, returning to a pure sky blue.
Want to, want to. The monster inside me purrs. I let him down gently, trembling hands, and back away. My bones almost hurt for that sweet energy.
Deep breath.
I turn and look into the barrel of an extended gun. A shaking gun.
Tears stream from beneath the girl’s bird mask, and her whole body quakes as she presses the trigger on the gun again and again. Her aura is a cloak of glowing red. It’s somehow appropriate that fear, anger, and pain express as different shades of the same color.
“Safety’s on,” I say as I walk toward her. “I used to make the same mistake.” The girl just keeps pressing the trigger. I snatch the gun out of her hand. Her knees give out, and she slides to the floor.
“See?” I click off the safety, point the gun at the angel who is trying to push himself up off the floor, and shoot a tranq dart into his neck.
The angel gropes drunkenly for the tranq, tears it out, and then collapses backward. Nighty night you bastard. May angels kick thee in thy balls.
Another aura approaching. Oh no you don’t!
I swing the gun around and point it at Milo. He creeps down the stairs, chain now wrapped around his knuckles.
“Good try,” I say. “Sit down, nice and slow. I don’t want you breaking your neck on the stairs.”
Milo stops but doesn’t sit. His aura hiccups with agitation, but his voice is calm and focused when he speaks. “One-on-one combat, you and me.”
“What?”
“No weapons.” He drops the chain onto the stairs. Behind the mask, his eyes are hard as black diamonds. Was he always like this, or did Poughkeepsie good and truly ruin him? No good deed…
“No.” I shoot a tranq into his chest.
He looks at the dart with disgust. “Coward,” he slurs.
I run up the stairs and grab hold of him as his knees buckle. My left wrist howls at the pressure of his weight, but this is a good thing. The glowing coals of pain keep my focus away from his aura. Okay, not away, exactly, but I get him down the stairs and on the ground without snacking on him.
Sprawled bodies litter the basement room. The only movement is the girl, who crawls slowly toward Puma Mask. Okay, okay, what next? My veins hum with adrenaline, and my thoughts are all cutting ahead of each other in line as I simultaneously try really hard not to lose my shit.
I need to kill the angel, but there’s still another Totem member upstairs who couldn’t have conveniently missed all the sounds of chaos going on down here. He’s probably calling for backup or loading up a double-barrel shotgun.
I nibble on an open wound in my lip and realize how much I need Gabe and Tarren right now. Tarren would know what to do, because he always knows what to do or at least barks orders so convincingly that you’d never guess otherwise. And Gabe, he would be giving me a smile right now and probably cracking an inappropriate joke, because he takes death and danger just as seriously as everything else in life.
I’m going to mess this up. Actually, already did. Someone’s dead. I taste blood on my tongue. Damn. I’ve opened up my lip.
“Garret?” Birdy whispers as she gets to Puma Mask. “Garret,” she says again and touches his hand.
I kick my brain out of its own pity party. Do something, I think. Just do something. Anything.
The angel isn’t going anywhere, and whatever smidgeon of fight Birdie had in her is gone. I need to deal with the unknown Totem member upstairs. Decision made.
My legs pump as I run up the stairs, skipping three steps at a time. My ankle doesn’t like it, but takes my weight. When I reach the landing, the basement fills with an anguished wail. I know that terrible sound. I made it the night Ryan died. Three months ago, when Gabe’s heart stopped while I drove in a mad rush to Dr. Lee’s cabin, I screamed then too. Long. Loud. All feral animal.
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