1.5

-5-

            Wisterian awoke to the sounds of screaming.  He flew from his bed, his white wings fluttering behind him, and ran to the patio door, which, though locked closed when he had gone to bed the night before, now stood wide open in the rising dawn of the morning.

            He ran out onto the patio and froze in horror as he turned toward the cries, his eyes landing upon a screaming, writhing mass of fire.  He had time to think, Oh my Gods, someone put that man out of his misery, before the mass of fire exploded and then was simply gone.  In it’s place was scaring on the marble tiles that was outlined in the shape of a body.

            He heard the footfalls coming from the opposite direction of the patio.  Whichever one of his warriors it was screamed. “What in the name of Loki’s beard—? “

            And then he heard silence.

            He looked upward, over the scorched outline of the corpse and met the gaze of his General of Arms, an angel by the name of Balean.  He swallowed and then turned his own gaze to the closed glass doors that belonged to his young son’s apartments.  On the side closest to Wisterian, neat as you please, two great black wings had been very carefully propped so that they would stand and draw attention.

            “Oh my Gods . . .” Balean said as he ran forward over the scorch marks and to the wings.  He lifted them and held them out to Wisterian.  As If I can’t see them with my own Gods be damned eyes.  “My Lord . . .”

            Wisterian shook his head and darted forward.  When he reached the doors to his son’s apartment he began pulling on them violently.  Relieved to find that he could not open them, and relieved to see his young son’s back, his body curled in a ball away from him, he rolled his eyes closed and swallowed.

            “Go check on Iladrul.”  He barked to Balean.

            Balean nodded.  “Yes, my Lord.”

            Swallowing his distaste, Wisterian reached for the wings and touched them.  They were as soft as his own, but that didn’t surprise him.  His best friend was a demon.  And he had often stroked the bone of Jamiason’s wings as they lay together.  Or, he thought, someone who used to be my best friend.

            He shivered at the thought that next filled his mind.  He didn’t know what demon these wings belonged to.  They could belong to Jamiason as easily as they could belong to any of the other demons who had been exiled after standing up for their rights at Council.  What if . . . ?

            He didn’t want to believe it but there was only one way to tell.  He lifted one of the wings to his nose and breathed in the scent of them. 

            Not oranges, he thought.  And he was relieved.

            The relief was momentary.  If one of the demons had attacked it could very well have been on Jamiason’s orders.  Like Wisterian, he was the King of his race.  And like it would be Wisterian’s son who would rule the elves, it would be Jamiason’s son—or what passed for Jamiason’s son—who would lord over the vampires that the demon race had created once Jamiason expired.

            He shivered again.  It was no secret that the demons, who were now cursed to live only in the darkness of the night and to feed off the blood of the earthbound, were jealous of the angels.       

The demons’ plight was anything but fair.  Wisterian was the first to agree with them.  While the demons had been damned, the angels had merely been exiled.  And while the angels could freely breed and create children in the natural fashion, the demons were forced to feed the chosen souls their own blood to pass to them their curse and, thus, damn them too.

            Fair or not, Wisterian and his people had not been the ones to decide the angels’ or the demons’ fates.  Wisterian and his people were merely the race lucky enough to be ruled by the Heavens rather than the Hells.

            He looked upward and realized that Iladrul was watching him with wide, frightened eyes.  Frowning, he threw the wings to the ground.  He hadn’t realized that he was still holding them to his face, breathing in their scent, trying to determine which demon had dared to attack his people in the rise of the morning sun.

            He forced a smile and raised his hand to his son.  Iladrul, reluctantly, raised a hand in response.

            Thank the Gods, Wisterian thought as his eyes danced over his son’s small, fair face, that for once in your young life you actually listened to me and did as I demanded.