On Broken Wings

Chapter 19

Cassius

Watching his back turn to face me ripped my soul to shreds. I was a horrible person, forcing him to leave me on my deathbed after making him swear he wouldn't. It was for selfish reasonings; I did not want him to see me when Death comes. I thought I would want him near, holding my hand and kissing my brow, but my plans changed when I realized just how it would affect him.

I let my tears fall, one after the other, until I was gasping for air, until the pillow beneath my head was soaked. Such a pitiful look, yet I could not stop myself. I let my mind be overtaken by memories, by things I wish I could not see for they only made it more painful to watch as Lucifer left.

He will save those lives, I knew he would, and he will save the Garden. He will save the cure so that no one else will die by the wretched hands of the Falling.

He will not save me.

A strange peace fogged my thoughts. My body grew light, light enough to be carried away by a wisp of wind. I think it was my eyes that went first. I inhaled, breathing in the sweet smell of nature and his scent, citrus-vanilla; heard the cooing doves that nested just outside our window. Felt the sunlight barely brush my skin, growing colder by the seconds.

And then I was gone.

Lucifer

My feet barely touched the ground as they thundered at an impossible speed. I did not recognize stones cutting into my soles, my toes caked in dirt. I followed instinct, somehow knowing where I needed to go without needing to think. It was as if an invisible thread was tugging me in the right direction.

I had not unleashed my power in centuries. It filled my veins, slithered around muscle and sinew until we became one. The world around me faded away into the back of my mind. I had one mission. I will not fail.

I heard the fighting before I saw it. Shouts of centaurs and my men mixed together, screams of those in pain. The twang of arrows released from bows and the clash of steel on steel. I halted upon entering the centaur camp clearing, standing at the tree line, assessing. A fire was burning somewhere, the smoky smell laying thick in the back of my throat. Smears of blood left the ground a slippery, muddy mess. This was not a measly fight. It was a battlefield—no, a slaughterhouse.

A centaur pounded past me, her deep tan flanks heaving. Actche, the chief. Smears of blood coated her body, and a wild, fierce look etched upon her face. She reared, dangerous hooves landing on a clay golem as tall as her, crumbing it to dust. Mammon's golems, I knew, born from his greed of knowledge and his adeptness for alchemy. He could control them like a puppeteer, an extension of his own body. So, it seemed he was here as well.

Actche whipped around. "About time," she panted, tossing me a spear that was on the ground. "Leave the golems to us. They're annoying, but weak." Her hind legs bucked to smash a golem behind her.

"How many?"

Her eyes darkened. "Three of them are here. Their names, I know not, save for the violet eyed one."

"Asmodeus."

She nodded. "It's not him I am worried about. The one with red eyes—he's dangerous."

My gut churned. Satan. "Leave him to me."

Actche did not respond, turning to charge at a group of clay golems circling a wounded centaur. She rounded up her underlings with shouts of concise orders, and they formed ranks, easily stomping golems into the ground. In the corner of my eye, I saw the sharp flash of weapons. A fighter with the feline grace of a cat, holding twin daggers, danced violently through bodies as if they were water. Asmodeus. I started for him, but Actche was already on his trail, a storming train of centaur warriors behind her. Their battle cries caught the attention of their brethren, and more quickly joined them brandishing swords, spears, and fists alike.