Devil's Angels: The Satan's Son (Book 1)

 

Chapter 1: The Lightning Storm 

        I'm not your typical sixteen year old, but then again, who is? While most girls are daydreaming about the cute boy in their algebra class 5th period, or picking out their dress for prom even though it's like, one year away or so, I'm daydreaming about killing my father and picking out the perfect weapon to do so. 

        Before you back away slowly and sprint the other direction; let me explain myself. I'm an angel. Yep, an angel. I have the snow white wings and everything. My hair is bleach blonde, loosly curled and down to my waist while my eyes are a bright purple and big. I have high cheekbones, pure skin, a small nose and colorless lips. Angels aren't allowed to wear make up because the Angelics (our government) believe angels should represent true beauty therefore nothing to cover it up. I highly dissagree with this because I'm as ugly as a snail. 

        Anyway, my father is the head of the Angelics and is strict, annoying and a bastered. He looks like a male version of me. (well, all angels have purple eyes......) Victor Zanderson has ruled us for twenty years and has no thought of backing down. He is loved by all the angels, but they don't know the real him.

        The man who abused my mother and myself.

        The man who, when my mother finally gave in and told the Angelics what a monster he really was, called her a liar and got her banished to earth when I was nine.

        The man who killed my older brother who tried to make everything right and almost succeded, but then blamed it on my twin brother, who was banished. 

        Now it's just me.

        Julian Zanderson: me. 

        I want more than anything to expose what he really is, but the angels LOVE him. They think he's a true angel, but I think he's really a devilan. Devilans are children of the devil. If you said that word and was caught, you would be banished. 

        Yeah, there's alot of that here. 

        The only way I can think of getting rid of him would be to kill him. That's not very angelic of me, I know, but he deserves it. He deserves death. 

        I glance out my window and out at the dark, gloomy night sky. Most teen angels would be flying around and attending parties, but I'm not allowed to. I'm only allowed to leave my room to go to school and use the bathroom/shower. All my meals are delivered to me but who knows what. I'm a dark figure in my own life. And the sun can't shine in the dark because it's too scared to come.

        There's been alot of that in my life. Everyone is scared. Mom was scared for herself, but mostly our safety. Zandar, my older brother, was afraid of loosing his younger siblings and father catching him. Namn, my twin was afraid of exile, which was exactly what my father fed him with a silver spoon. 

        What am I afraid of? Only my father. I'm not scared of death or exile, because I'd be better off with that actually. I'm afraid of the face that sleeps in the next room, the sword he owns that cut off my brother's head, the hands that have slapped and punched when I was little. But mostly, I'm afraid of the mind that can think it's ok to do all these things. 

        Slowly, I get up and walk around my room. It's simple; a small bed, a wardrobe and a picture of my brothers, my mom and myself in a ink black frame under my pillow. Oh! There's also my assorted weapons hidden in the surprise bunker I found two years ago in the back or my wardrobe. I have seven daggars, a bow and twenty five arrows and one long, golden handled sword. I've collected these from the first day my mom left. I activate the bunker and run my hand over the daggars. They were always my favorite choice of weapon, and I never understood why. 

        A sound from the hallway made me flap my wings nervously and quickly shut my bunker. I whipped around. I concitraded, hid my wings and jumped into bed. I pulled up the covers over my face and closed my eyes. I was going to wait until the proper moment and strike. I was sick of living in fear of a mentally weaker being than myself. If I was going to have one thing angelic left in me, it will be the act of waiting. Then I'll strike as quick as lightning. 

        I am waiting. Waiting for the lightning storm.