-CHP-11

Thousands of miles away in the dead of night, a young man rolled in his bed. His deep sleep reeked of the haze of alcohol. The scent of something strong rose over him.

The young man, still a boy in so many ways, tossed in his bed, hard frame and sculpted body shaped in ways a boy should not have been—a hard life. Soft lips formed words in the night as he tossed, dragging jet black hair over his face. A haphazard braid uncoiled in the thin covers.

“Sai,” He whispered through gritted teeth, tensing for a moment.

His teeth, straight and white things, marred only in appearance by sharp canines and bicuspids, gnashed in his sleep. He gasped and rolled over, blankets falling lower down a sculpted chest and arms marked with playful tattoos. He heaved a breath and bit down, his teeth catching his lip, puncturing it.

It woke him with a start.

He sat up, confusion in his sea-blue gaze. He glanced about, taking in his surroundings. Stone walls, brick floor, and no windows met his eyes. The bed he lay in creaked beneath his bulk, and he felt over it. His lips twisted, for he had been accustomed to much finer. This… this thing… was barely more than canvas stretched taut over a frame.

“Sai!?” He called out, dragging himself from the bed to stand on woozy feet. Alcohol swam in his veins, as usually, it did. It felt right and good but missing something.

It was silent before, but the sort of silence that people make when trying to be very quiet came after.

“Where the hells are you, woman?” He smeared at the blood on his lips again as it ran over his chin and neck. He stared at it with confusion.

He ran the bloody hand through his hair, back over his head, freezing for a moment, looking around, then at his hand. His look of confusion wrenched into disgust, then confusion again.

“The hells have I been doing?” He said before he reached his chest, then looked over at himself. Something really didn’t feel right.

His door swung open, crudely carved wood on tooled hinges. They creaked slowly, and the boy’s head turned to meet his intruder.

A man a few years older than himself stared up at him with a strange look over his face. Blonde hair hung limply over his shoulders. Pale blue eyes met the sea blue of the boy.

“Zaien!” the bloody boy said to the man at his door. His expression of confusion brightened, then melted away, then went bright once more.

“Not used to the teeth, are you?” The man, Zaien, spoke cautiously to the boy.

“Teeth?” he asked. He ran his tongue over his canines, then his lips. “Sutz!”

“Yeah,” Zaien said softly as he approached the boy.

“How’d I die?” the boy asked with a sudden realization, worry dominating his expression.

“You don’t remember?”

The boy shook his head.

“You got really drunk….”

“As I am wont to do!” The boy grinned, then faltered, and he winced. He held his head in his hand. “Sutz min ahl! Idiot!”

“Yep.”

“Where is she?” The boy finally asked, wilting before sitting back onto his cot with a creak. His bare shoulders bent over, and hair cascaded over him.

Zaien went quiet, his posture suddenly stiff. The silence grew until he spoke. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? Sorry? For what? Zaien!?” His head whipped up, eyes ablaze as blue light glowed from within, lighting over his bloodied hands and face, eyes desperate and pleading.

“We never found her.” Zaien backed towards the bedroom door.

Briel’s eyes searched and pleaded with Zaien’s. “No. She’s alive. I felt her just a moment ago!”

Hope flickered across Zaien’s face. “Where!?”

“I don’t know, don’t… don’t,” He stopped, hesitating, then rolled his arms over, looking at the bronze of his skin. He looked to the soft pink skin of Zaien, then to his tattoos, and with dread, he rolled his shoulders to free his wings, enormous bulky black things with tremendous reach and lightly rounded white wingtips.

He stared at them with his mouth slightly agape.

“Zaien? What is this?” He asked before feeling over his teeth, then over his wing, then behind himself with horror. The boy’s hand grasped around a thick tail that slid freely from a slit in the woven loincloth he wore.

“For this too, I am sorry.”

“You have got to be kidding me!” The boy shouted, spitting as he let vile swear words bite forth over his lips.

“I know. I know!”

“A bloody prince!? An Acerrai!?” the black-winged boy snarled.

“I know. I’ve been helping you,” Zaien said as he closed his eyes tight in dismay.

“Helping me what? Not throw myself from a cloud!? Sai won’t even look at me like this! Sutz Vrahe, dasch Acerrai!”

“Only half,” Zaien spoke with reservation quietly.

“Half breed!? Half what? What’s the other half? Please say Phoenix because I could really use some good news!”

“No.”

“Anael or…” the boy paused, cautious.

“Of course.”

“Where are the birth parents of this body so that I might thank them appropriately for making this travesty?” he scathed.

“The royal blood is on both sides. Your damsire is not with us any longer. Your sire did not handle it well and is not around, as such, any longer.”

The dark-haired boy nodded with understanding.

“In this life, I am the seraph,” He spoke quietly and closed his eyes.

Storming feet made their way down a hall and into the room. Harsh breaths met the cool air as a white-haired man stood in the doorway. His eyes gleamed a leucitic blueish silver, and white brows furrowed over them. He wore a long-sleeved tunic that fitted his narrow chest. Where stood the broad form of Zaien and the bulk of the boy, this man was significantly thinner. He was six and a half feet of wiry knotted muscle, sunken cheeks, and a long face.

“Acryan?” he asked.

The boy looked up, and a grin plastered across his face.

“Ah! We have the party pooper! Hello Shythe, it has been a wh-.” The boy spoke jovially, halting.

The white-haired man, Shythe, drew a hand back and slapped it so hard across the boy’s face that it echoed down the halls. A moment of rage flashed in defiance over the boy’s expression before he spluttered.

“Ow! What the hells was that for?” a new voice responded, the accent neutral, the pitch higher. He looked to Shythe with that same anger and defiance.

“Briel?” Shythe asked.

“Yes? Oh… Wait… Oh,” The black-haired boy sputtered.

“Well, was bound to happen sooner or later,” Shythe spoke coldly before looking at Zaien.

“He says that he can feel her, and she was calling out,” Zaien responded.

“No more drink for him. He’s awake now.” Shythe looked coldly to Briel, the boy. A sharp handprint stood out over his tanned cheek.

“Need any explanations?” Shythe asked as he turned his head over his shoulder.

“None, master.” He spoke quietly. His eye twitched at the response.

“Good. Go back to bed. You’re training tomorrow.” Shythe walked out of the room and away without a word, disappearing behind a flash of light.

“I bit my lip,” Briel said as he stroked his tongue over the injury.

“You did,” Zaien crossed his arms and sighed.

“Go ahead and say it; I know you want to.” Briel hung his head and grimaced.

“Nice to see you again, Grandfather.”

Briel growled beneath his breath and slumped back onto the covers.

Zaien moved to sit beside Briel on his bed. The old frame protested and sagged, interrupting the quiet silence between the boy and man.

“Do you remember what he felt?” Zaien asked.

Briel went quiet. His breath shallowed, and eyes closed. Deep thoughts cycled behind his eyes, and he could only shake his head. The cry that rang out for him echoed, a strange shrieking thing. He’d heard women screaming before, heard death cries on the battlefield. Still, the cry in his mind he heard upset him worse than any of those.

He hung his head. “I just know we can start looking.”