A seraphic novel - Book 2
After the devastating loss of their friend Christoph, life for Cecelia, Evie, and the rest of the Elite Wing has been anything but normal. Struggling to find balance between the mundane and the supernatural, they navigate a...
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Evie's life had turned into an endless cycle. Training, school, recording studio, food, research, more training. Training, food, school, Max Lounge, more training. It was exhausting, exhilarating, and absolutely insane. Evette Renee Angelique Lamoureux, a human girl from Avalon, New Jersey, was now preparing to fight a war against demons. Not just any demons—the Arch Dukes and that absolute douchebag, Samael.
But that wasn't even the craziest part. Right now, her best friend was trying to kill her.
Evie ducked and slipped as Cecelia launched a flurry of punches at her. "Use your cross to counter!" she heard Erik shout from the sidelines. His voice was all business, his usual playful tone replaced with the hard edge of a drill sergeant.
She danced around the ring, her body screaming for rest, but she pushed herself harder. She had to. She was freaking human, after all. There was no room for mistakes, no room for weakness.
Cecelia faked high and then went low, landing a solid punch to Evie's stomach. The wind was knocked out of her, and she stumbled, clutching her midsection. "You got me, you got me good, Cece," she managed to gasp, holding one gloved hand up in surrender.
"Damn, I'm sorry, Evie," Cecelia said, her face filled with regret. "I didn't mean to hit you that hard."
"Arms up, Eves, breathe," Erik called out, his eyes sharp and focused on her every move.
Evie grumbled under her breath. "Shut up, you beautiful bastard," she coughed out, trying to catch her breath.
This had been her life for weeks. Erik, her boyfriend, had turned into an absolute drill sergeant. Fueled by the fear of what they were up against, he was determined to mold her into some kind of assassin or warrior. He meant well, sure, but damn if it wasn't borderline obsessive. She missed his goofy, prankster side. The Erik who'd leave silly notes in her bag or try to scare her with fake spiders. This Erik, though undeniably hot in his intensity, was also kind of scary.
Evie peeled off her gloves and collapsed into the corner of the ring, slumping against the turnbuckles. "Food break. Tacos. I need tacos," she declared, raising a hand in the air as if summoning the taco gods.
"Hell yeah, I'm one hundred percent behind this idea for tacos," Cecelia chimed in, wiping sweat from her brow and already mentally checking out of the dojo.
"Fine, fine," Erik chuckled, his stern demeanor cracking just a bit as he stepped into the ring. "Taco break it is."
The training dojo in the Elite Wing's apartment had become their second home. It was fully equipped with everything they needed: punching bags, weights, a boxing ring, and even a small corner dedicated to meditation and strategy. The walls were lined with weapons—blades, staffs, and anything else you might need to face off against demons. The place had an intensity about it, a sense of purpose that was both daunting and inspiring. It was where they trained, where they pushed each other to the brink, and where they bonded over shared fears and small victories.
