Fragile Fury - (Glass Angels book one)

Fragile Fury - Chapter Twenty Four

The closer they drew to New York, the thicker the smell of burning became in the air.

     Anna was sleeping in Damon's arm and despite the ridged angles they were at, his muscles didn't ache. Jess sat behind him, her slender icy fingers hooked in his belt loops, he'd refrained from irritating her on their journey through a fear than she might have started freezing body parts, and ones he wanted at that.

     The tight knots in his stomach had started to ease, with the thought of being back at the Institute. He would have fought alongside Jordan if he could. But there was Anna to think about, enough people - granted somewhere dead - were risking their lives for her, yet there had to be some who would risk their life to keep her safe, by her side and not in battle. A few miles and they would be back. Anna would be safe mostly - if not completely - within its walls. He was sure the Fallen would be awaiting them, heard - somehow - of the attack in France.

     Cold air tickled the back of his neck, beneath his hair. “This doesn't feel right,” Jess pressed herself against his back, her face against his with her chin on his shoulder. He shuffled astride the dragon. He held Anna tighter. A slither of his insanity weakly wishing it were Jess in his arms. He stayed quiet. “New York,” she sighed. “I always wanted to come here. Diego - Vaughn - sent me books, and magazines. I made sure dad never found them. I wanted to see a show. On Broadway, those mortals acting and singing and dancing on stage-”

     “I know what Broadway is,” he snapped. He felt her flinch around him and move, the cool pressure of her body against him softer. “Sorry,” he sighed.

     “I was never supposed to come to New York because of a war,” She remarked, “never.”

     “Things change.” It was at that moment, while sat in a stunned silence, that Damon saw something he had never seen before. The sky before him, above the dirty streets of Ney York, was empty.

     Whether he had been flying himself, or on the back of a dragon, astride a stead or walking barefoot along the pavement, Damon had always been used to seeing the gothic cathedral towers stabbing at the sky like knives, ever since seen them for the first time. He knew they meant he were home, or as close to home as he would ever come. The knots that had eased in his stomach tied again, his back went ridged. He yanked a chain of Shadows rein, pulling him to the side, and took flight towards the mountains of Arkan, in the darkened depths; he hoped he could find Apollyon. She would of the dead, wherever they were, and maybe, she would know of Jordan.

Apollyon’s bony hands reached out for him, “I’m sorry, Damon.” There was an edge to her voice that cut him worse than daggers. He shrugged away from her.

     His jaw was set, his lips in a tight line. “No one fought?” He said through clenched teeth. “No one, no of the Shades fought?”

     Apollyon had pulled the thick layers of silk around her face, she hadn’t used glamour. “Damon,” she hissed, “They are Shades. They did nothing but fight!” She stalked towards him, a panther on the prowl, her eyes were as black as onyx, her cheek bones jutting out beneath her skin. Jess was quickly in front of Damon glaring across the small space at the Angel of Death.

     “Hey, corpse,” the breath came in an icy mist, “back off.”

     “Ah,” Apollyon smiled, amused, “The Spanish fearie. I have longed to meet such a spirit.” Licked her lips, the shadows beneath her eyes darkening, the glimmer of amusement dancing in her eyes. She spoke her words with the hiss of a snake. “I had heard rumours that you were quite something. You have a temper I see.”

      Jess shrugged one shoulder, keeping her eyes fixed on the angel. “The dead like to spread rumours. Now, explain to me again, what happened at the institute.” She flicked her eyes towards Vaughn who sat on a rock, with one knee pulled up, his foot resting on another. He was cleaning his sword with a torn piece of fabric. Her eyes softened.