Rage of Vendetta (The Vendetta Series #2)

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

An old Nephilum man stands before me, hands clasped behind his slightly bent back. I'd say he's in his late sixties, but you never know; he walks with the ease of someone at their athletic peak.

"Ariel, is it?" he says, his voice somehow croaky yet rich at the same time. "Welcome to our humble abode."

I refrain from rolling my eyes. Any small movement causes the skin on my neck to scratch against the sharp edge of the wire.

Around me, all I can catch with my neck poised so still is that the place looks a bit like a mix of a medieval throne room and a high-end ballroom. Stone walls and high ceilings with bright, hanging lights. The place is lit in every corner with hundred-watt bulbs. It's a wonder they haven't drained the country of electricity. A lone window with an elaborate frame design sits on the wall opposite to the door. The right wall is home to dozens of small oil paintings, and on the left wall is another smaller door I guess goes into the rest of this Nephilum institute.

I was led away from the rest of the group when we were brought in, and now they stand huddled close to the doorway, the Nephilum training all weapons at them. Vee can turn the guns another way, but with so many of them, one can easily escape her hold and shoot true. That would be a disaster. I am too far away to intervene if someone goes trigger-happy.

"Master Cyreel," the Nephilum holding my wire says haughtily. "What should we do with the other demon-bloods in tow?"

Said demon-bloods in tow call their complaints loudly and arrogantly, making Cyreel's pinched face go sour and mine to smile serenely.

"Leave them here for now," Cyreel says, his calculating, swiveling eyes never leaving my face. I have to bite my tongue to hold in some snide remarks I'd probably regret. "Well done, Donald."

I snort.

Two more Nephilum on either side of Donald are holding my shoulders, as if the wire isn't enough to keep me from yanking away. I do prefer to have my head on my shoulders.

They tighten their grip.

"Why are we here?" I ask, wrinkling my nose. Something about this doesn't sit well with me. How is it that the Nephilum have a base only a five-minute walk away from the first rest stop we found?

"It is not obvious?" Cyreel says, tilting his head to the side. "I see you know nothing of your angelic heritage."

And I'm not planning to find out more. My eyes travel from his face to behind me, searching for a way out. There's only one window.

"Such a pity you were trapped on that island for so long," Cyreel is saying to me. "We could have claimed you early on as our own, despite-" he leans in and smells me, "-your demonic essence."

It takes every fibre of my being to not jump away in disgust. My face twists into a grimace.

"Can you not sniff me like a dog?" I exclaim.

"You need to treat your leader with the respect he deserves," he says sharply, the marks on his wrists glaring black in anger. Who still talks in third person?

I grit my teeth and unintentionally lean forward a little. The wire bites into my skin. "You are not my leader."

"The fabled Child of Eve is essentially still Nephilum," he argues. "And I am ruler of the Nephilum here."

It seems that pride is a Nephilum weakness. I can work with that.

"How do you decide who's ruler?" I ask. "Did you kill your way to the top?"