Cassiel Winters 1: Sky's End (32 page)

Holy fucking stars.

That is Lor. With wings.

Whumph!

He grabs me in his arms and wraps his legs around me, and I tense with him, as he strains against the force of the added weight. We sail downwards for a good stretch before he regains height.

I’m not going to die. I’m not going to die. I’m not going to die.

The heat from his body does little to protect me from the cold wind, which I just now register as whistling in my ears. Is he . . . is he a fucking bird-man? Impossible. Yet, here I am . . . flying at least 50 miles an hour.

Why can’t I breathe very well?
Not enough oxygen in the atmosphere.

In the frigged temperature, I begin to shake violently and now I just want him to put me down, anywhere. I don’t even care that he has wings, that I’m flying through the sky, a long-held fantasy of mine.

My breathing’s strained. My lungs hurt. There’s not enough oxygen on this planet period.

Vaguely I note a familiar noise but a second passes before alarm sets in. That’s the sound of battle somewhere below us. Gamma fire and ground velos.

Oh
. . . is it ESE and Thell’eons? I thought we had a stronghold!

Oh, no, wait, maybe Aeon are fighting humans! King!

I must get down. Learn what’s happening.

I strain to turn sideways to take in what’s going on but Lor has pulled me too tight to him. Instead, I close my eyes and will myself to trust this strange bird-man. Where’s he taking us?

Once the violence is a distant din, I recognize a shift in angle and speed (the pilot in me), and I prepare for landing. I hold on for dear life (I have never liked someone else at the helm) and when I open my eyes, I realize I’m standing, on my feet, still hugging Lor for all he’s worth in the middle of a narrow humanoid-made clearing that could only be spotted from high above.

No, scratch that. I’m not standing. He’s holding me up. My legs are wet noodles. Cradling me, he crouches down, his wings still outstretched. Wide-eyed, I peer up into his steady unfamiliar face.

I’m awestruck. Thoroughly awestruck.

He lets out a deep, amused laugh. This is the first time I’ve seen real emotion from him.

He pushes my hair out of my eyes, and stares down at me with a raw intensity like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

My hero worship’s quickly replaced by fear of this new intimacy and I scramble to get away but only manage to sit upright on the ground. I need a moment, or a long time, to regain my bearings. My lungs aren’t taking in enough oxygen and the pressure creates a mild ache and severe dizziness.

He lets me move away.

Vacantly, I watch his wings retract and he spins around deliberately showing me how they shrink to nothing and tuck away underneath a flat muscle expanse in his back.

Steady he goes.

Does anything faze this guy,
er
, alien?

I want to ask him more about this incredible aspect of his species but I’m more concerned about our whereabouts. Taxata’s fucking cold. Colder than I imagined 32 F to be. Every way I look there is thatched shrubbery. Wall-high tumbleweeds.

Shivering from shock or the cold, or both, I manage to get out, “Where? My people.” I inhale deeply, painfully. “E-E-ESE?”

He crouches near me and reaches out with both arms grasping my shoulders.

“They fight. Thell’eon. Not safe. Rest. Here.”

He stretches up and releases more of those sounds he made earlier through his nose and mouth. It hurts my eardrums.

Coo-yigh! Coo-yor! Coo-trrring!

“Wha-what—” I’m shivering so hard I can’t speak.

“My people. Come.”

“Ire h-h-here?”

“Ire everywhere,” he says casually.

Of course they are. If they’re all anything like him, I bet his species is thriving.

I watch him re-extend his wings.

“We go at night. To ESE. Night.” He points to the sky. “Best time,” he says, cutting off my protest.

I want to tell him we need to go now. I’ll die out here without an oxygen restorative and/or when the solar star sets. Take your pick.

“Come.” His arms open into an embrace.

I notice I’m sitting on my side on the ground, feeling my limbs freeze cell by cell.

I look down at my
Linor
bands. Oddly, the material’s warm. Somehow it’s fending off the cold. Weird.

Shocked, I look up and around.

I forgot he was here.

I forgot where I am.

Uh-oh.

I’m in real trouble without enough oxygen. When I focus on Lor, again, he’s beckoning me to him with his outstretched hands, mild annoyance sprawled across his face.

Must get warmth. Key.

My whole body’s rattling. I scramble closer with some effort.

Great wings, which smell like sweet grass, wrap around me, tucking me in close. Instant warmth. My body gladly complies and presses rather perfectly against his, my face tucking softly in his throat. He lays us on our sides on the ground. His arms hold me gently, but firmly, against him, and soon, after the burning sensation of near hypothermia passes, I’m so drowsy I can’t keep my eyes open.
This is bad. You need to ask him questions. About how we will get to my people. About his people who are coming. And what else? Oh yeah, warn him not to get fresh. But I’m so
. . .

I inhale deeply, noting a mild pressure in my chest, and try to yawn. I’m home again.

Finally.

I feel like I have been gone for decades. I’m where I belong. I know this now, and the brand new sensation of solace is powerful.

I squirm even tighter against his body, as if that were possible. I sigh, utterly relaxed, and press my lips to his throat. I kiss him softly on his Adam’s apple, relishing being liberated and loved. I squirm higher, kissing and licking his stubble, trying to wake him up with my intense love, with my longing. He fills some void in me. To feel him next to me is . . . completion.

I press myself against him, and his body responds in just the way I’d hoped. He presses against me hard, and I’m reminded of his manliness, his power. I squirm up higher kissing his chin, and soon his full lips, boldly, sending a clear signal of my desire with my tongue and a tiny sigh. I writhe under his hands as they hesitatingly roam over my back, my waist, my hips.

He tastes me back finally, like it is our first time. Then he drinks freely. I try to keep up, inviting him to take what he wants, so I can take what I need. His stubble rubs my mouth and chin raw.

I lean back, feeling like I need more air.

And, in the same instance, he rolls us over and hovers above me. His hands gently roam up my shirt, resting around my breasts. I lift my shirt eagerly all the way up to my neck. After a moment, soft kisses trail down my neck and soon his warm breath hardens my nipples. I arch up into his mouth, sighing with pleasure. He teases and licks and bites me, squeezing my other breast gentle-hard with his fingers, inflaming my senses. I moan out loud, grabbing his head, bucking up into him.

“Or’ic,” I whisper, hoping he’ll rise up and give me what I need right now.

But he’s stopped.
Why?

Wait.
His hair is course.

Why does he have hair?

My eyes pop open.

What-what the fuck?
I lean back and try to focus on the darkness. It’s not King! Or, Or’ic, I mean. No. Did I—? Why did I think I was with Oric?

Lor’s offended eyes fire down on me. He’s hovering above me.

I thought he was . . . who?
What’s wrong with me?
I can’t breathe hardly at all.
Am I hallucinating?
I push him away with what little strength I have.

He complies and moves off of me into a crouch. His wings are still outstretched around us but only loosely. The cold wallops me like a bucket of water. I fumble, trying to bring down my shirt. He doesn’t look away. He drinks me in. I have never been appraised quite like this before. “I-I thought you were—”

“Or’ic,” he says with disgust.

“No. Someone else. King. I-I am sorry!” My cheeks flame with shame. A knot squeezes in my stomach and my nose and eyes begin to tingle. I won’t cry. Instead I try to take a few deep breaths, but I can’t. I panic, hugging my arms around me and close my eyes. I’m so lightheaded. I can’t get my bearings, very dizzy, and now it’s worse than before I fell asleep.

For the first time, I realize it’s night.

The sound of wings and quiet-footed landings penetrate my brooding. Many. Dozens. Or more. I inhale sharply and, panicked, I try to scramble out from Lor’s wings, but he grabs on to me.

Delirious, fearful, I want to say,
Something’s falling from the sky!
But nothing comes out.

“Stay,” Lor orders me sternly. His face is once again the dangerous murderous alien who killed the Thell’eon. He uses his wings to conceal me. I can’t make out much in the darkness. He launches into a melodious vocal repertoire with what I finally surmise must be his people.
Remember. He said there are Ire here.
Their language’s gorgeous, velvety singsong poetry. I get lost in the music. Beautiful.

A coldness nips at my skin. Lor’s wings are retracted, and rest partially open at his sides. I hear a strange hiss and then the word “sift” being sung softly by the dozens of Ire who surround us. I spin around on the ground, unable to stand. Men and women. I make out both genders. The women have light-colored wings, which stand out in the dark. Their features have the same exotic flourishes as Lor’s, but they come in all shapes and sizes, like humans, less like Thell’eons standard Extra Large. The Ires are admiring me, and, slowly looking to Lor for permission, they all come forward, bend down, and touch me. Mostly my face, but my hair and shoulders, too. It’s weird. They wear admiration on their faces. I want to tell them to save it. That’s when it sinks in.

“L-lor. I’m not your s-sift, right?” I choke out, desperate for more air and warmth. I search around for him, trying to stand up unsuccessfully.

No strength. I end up sitting back on my heels.

He comes around and crouches down, close in front.

“Ire not Thell’eon,” he says, spitting on the ground when he says Thell’eons.

Relieved, I say, “G-good. Air. Need air.” I once again use broken English, forgetting that might confuse the translator. If I don’t get an oxygen restorative soon, my brain cells may be permanently damaged. I could die.

His people crouch around us quietly watching him. I forget all my troubles, distracted by the intensity of the emotion that gushes out of them. They revere Lor. He must be a great leader for them to love him without even knowing him. And I can tell he loves them back. All of this is shared, openly, on their faces. They literally wear their emotions, and isn’t that lovely?

Wait. I need to focus. Danger. Danger. He needs to understand the danger I’m in . . .

He’s trying to catch my gaze. Shivering, distracted, guilt smashes into me. Why?
Oh yeah
, because I ravished him. Sadness floods in. I want to get home. I’m so close now. And Lor will help me. Yes, he will. He smiles, his eyes alight with boundless energy and . . . suddenly darkness.

Something’s wrong.
He’s already stood up, they all have, and they’re moving forward as a group. His people are making tiny off-key, disturbing, singsong sounds, and I watch Lor ready weapons quickly. The Ires form a line with me behind as though to create a wall that protects me. I make out two shadows coming forward, one holding an Ire woman hostage, pointing a Thell’eon weapon at her head, yelling.

Lor stands strong, feet wide apart, his back to me.

My brain can’t quite absorb all of this right away, so it takes a second or two before I pick up on something so familiar it is foreign.

A voice.

A voice that, just now, I realize I wasn’t sure I would ever hear again.

King.

Chapter 30

“Release her, or this one dies!” shouts King. It’s really him.

I find the strength to sort of stand up.

“King!” I want to run into his arms, but I’m unable to maintain a standing position. The Ire, fluttering their wings in short, agitated bursts, are creating quite a commotion.

“King, no! These are my f-f-friends,” I project, but I’m not even sure I’m speaking coherently anymore.
Freezing. And oxygen deprived.
I don’t know how much time I have left before I’ll pass out, or worse.

I can’t quite see his face, but I gather from the silence that there’s a tense standoff.

“Cassiel. Is this true?” King asks.

“Y-yes,” I say, shivering. “Lor, please!” I crumple again, unable to stand.

Someone must concede first. Next thing I know, I’m being held up and examined by King.

Everything will be okay now
.

His face looks harder than I remember. Those sculpted cheekbones, those fierce eyes, examining me. I’m surprised by how he seems a stranger to me. He pushes back my hair, and checks my face, my body, my hands, and my face again. Then my branding catches his eye and he pushes my hair out of the way to examine it closely. My stomach drops, but, searching his face, I decide he’s not surprised or disgusted.

Instead, he shakes his head. Relief, no it’s disbelief and admiration, animates his perfect face.

“You escaped,” he mutters.

I focus on his appearance. He looks worse for wear, like he has been running through barbed wire. He’s wet with sweat and coated in dirt and there are deep scratches all over him.

“Are-are you okay?”

“Me?” he asks with disbelief.

Then he kisses me hard on the mouth, but it isn’t a romantic kiss. More like an imprinting.

I can barely respond.

King’s smiling fully.

“Yeah. I am great. You, on the other hand . . .” He’s fumbling for something while I rest against his shoulder. He smells like sweat and windburn.

A pinch on my arm creates an intense need to yawn. I inhale deeply a few more times. It’s unearthly good. My ears, which are horribly plugged, I just realize, pop. My head begins to clear.

An oxygen restorative.
Thanks the stars!

He helps me stand up and soon energy gives me strength. I’m revived. Unable to believe my eyes, I hug him, and he hugs me back, his hand cupping my head, drawing me toward him. We’re about to kiss when I remember the Ires. I jerk away in time and turn to see Lor standing in front of his people, his arms crossed at his chest, wings open but loose behind him, observing us without expression.

“Lor.” Embarrassed, my hand falls down and clasps King’s. I realize I’ve never actually held his hand. I feel shy.

“This is Lt. Damian King.”

“Lor helped me escape,” I add to King.

King stares at Lor. He squeezes then releases my hand, never taking his eyes of the Ire, who looks quite unreal with the moonlight behind him, creating a quite a magnificent silhouette.

Lor stares back.

That’s rude. Why are neither of them addressing each other?

That’s when I notice the gun, I mean really notice the gun, in King’s other hand. It is Thell’eon.

How in the . . .?

Now that my senses have returned, I scramble to fit the puzzle pieces together.
How can he operate it? How did he get here? How did he know I was here? Wait, in the dark, his clothes, they look . . . Thell’eon Weak One clothes! Had that been him at the arena during the Candidacy?!

“I will explain later,” King says, taking in my astonishment. “We have to go now, on foot. Thell’eons are not far behind.”

I look back at Lor, planning on explaining my need to leave, but his back is to me. He’s speaking to his people.
No
, now he’s done.

They stretch out their beautiful wings and take flight.

Dust forms in tiny plumes at the acceleration of their wings as they rise up en mass, a magical sight.

Lor’s gone.

Just like that.

Didn’t say goodbye or acknowledge me in any way.

I’ll probably never see him again.

I thought we were allies.

King grabs me, jerking me out of my shock.

I look at him.
Is it really him? I can’t believe it!
He pulls me with him.

“Come on,” he says, dropping my hand and breaking into a run.

My stomach drops.

Not safe yet.

Thell’eons. Coming.

I catch up to King quickly, as he’s slowed by the thick brambles. They part fairly easily, actually, but they are pointy and sharp and I know King’s being cut to shreds. We can only see about three feet in front of us, thanks to moonlight, but he relies on ESE UPS to guide us.

We do this for a good half hour, maybe more. I’m exhausted, but he’s intent. He doesn’t look at me once, just asks a few times if I’m okay. I lie to his back and say “yes” but the truth is I’m spent. I need a break. The oxygen restorative’s only working so well.

Relieved at his sudden stop, and crouch, I do the same, drawing close. We’ve worked up some protection in our exercise against the cold. He drapes an arm around me.

It feels so wonderful, to be free with him again, despite our circumstances. I whisper in his ear, “How much farther?”

“About 500 yards,” he answers, between breaths.

He checks the UPS, and tells me no one appears to be in pursuit. We can take a five-minute rest. He passes me a hydration and takes one himself, never taking his eyes off of my face.

“I tried to land the ship as close to your crash location as possible,” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow, “but there were no clearings.”

Ship? We’re heading to his ship?
But wait.

“You . . . you shot me down? Was it you in that Thell’eon vessel?”

He opens his mouth like he’s about to apologize, but my hug surprises him. I know he was only trying to get my attention with that shot because I was asleep.

“I knew it was you! At the Candidacy! You and Lt. Lazarus came for me!” I whisper.

His smile’s quickly replaced by a frown.

“Lt. Lazarus was there?” he asks. “When did you see him and I together?”

That they weren’t together is a surprise, and weird. “At-at the tests for Horde Candidacy. He was in the audience. You left and he-he followed,” I say quickly. Based on the expression on his face, I add, “You weren’t together?”

He shakes his head. Silence reigns. Finally he speaks, quietly.

“Well, in a way, we were together. I was there to find him. SOSA sent me.” He stares at me, unblinking. “To confirm that he’s a Thell’eon spy working undercover on Earth. He disappeared after you were taken.”

The shock of this news battles for a leading spot with my disappointment that King didn’t come for me.

He’s gauging my reaction.

Get over yourself! Focus on the important thing here.
I recall Commandant Abernathy saying there were Thell’eon spies on Earth. But Lt. Lazarus? My H2H instructor? Daz’s supposed friend, who was questioning where he really was.
Um, also the same person who was there at Proxy when you were supposed to meet Lt. Daria Preston, AND whom you saw leaving her quarters after she was killed in another dimension. Did he murder her that night in this reality too? Why?

King’s watching me closely.

“I-I saw him, in another dimension, leaving Lt. Daria Preston’s room. The night she was murdered.” I kind of blurt this out suddenly, realizing that King won’t know what I mean by another dimension.

But he surprises me again.

“Have you sifted him again?”

“How do you kn—?”

“Have you sifted him elsewhere?” he asks sharply.

After a moment’s hesitation, I confess. “I sifted Lt. Lazarus looking at Daz’s mission report.” I leave out the part about him and Daria being in the report first. I’m not sure why. “But that happened in another di—” I attempt to explain.

“Doesn’t matter,” he cuts me off. “Most rifts open up into nearby, similar universes with only minor variations.”

How in the blazes does he know this?

He stares at me. I can’t get a read on him at all.

If what he says is true, then that means that he was probably in Daz’s report with Daria Preston in this dimension, too.

“How do you know . . . what I am?” I ask in a hushed whisper.

He doesn’t say anything.

I look away, unable to bear the weight of his gaze.

Finally, after he gives himself another hydration, he says, “That intel you stole off the Thell’eon warship told us about what sifts are.”

He must have put two and two together. My weirdness. The Prime coming for me.

“And all about Aeons,” he finishes.

We share a look.
Good. So ESE knows about them now.

“I almost killed one!” I add, more to impress him than anything.

“It got away?” he asks, worried.

My face drops.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, touching my chin.

“Is that why ESE’s here? Is it mounting a defense against Aeons?” I ask rather desperately.

He nods, but wears an absent look. He checks his UPS. “We must get moving again.”

“Does ESE know? About me?”

He shakes his head.

No.
Or they would have launched a rescue mission for their very own human sift. And yet, the fact that no one was coming for me, not even King at first, guts me.

“Well, what did everyone think had happened to me?” I ask louder than I should, exasperated.

“Shh.” He’s frowning. “Hathaway confessed to activating the device. ESE thought they came for you because . . . because the Prime had taken a . . . liking to you.”

“And they weren’t going to rescue me?”

He shakes his head. “I am sorry, Cassiel. I fought for many days with them. They questioned your trustworthiness since you did not inform them of the device you stole. You did not inform me either,” he adds, coldly.

“I-I’m sorry,” I say, immediately regretful. “I was angry about your loyalty to ESE.”

This seems to surprise him. “I wanted to leave with you before all this began if you recall,” he says, doing his angry-calm thing. “But you wouldn’t let us!”

“I know. I’m sorry!”

You don’t know how sorry, I want to add, but he’s eager to get moving.

“Wait.” I grab his arm, keeping us crouched. “Why didn’t you at least tell them what you suspected about me, that I was a sifter?”

He seems at a loss for words.

“We don’t have time for this,” he hisses finally. “We must go!”

“No.” I stay huddled low to the ground, a knot tightening in my stomach. “Answer the question.”

His lips are clenched into a thin line. He does not like to be told what to do, but I don’t care. He seems to collect himself, and coldly answers, “Cassiel, I could not be 100 per cent certain.”

He shakes his head. “ESE was just wrapping their heads around this incredible information about beings having perceptive abilities,” he whispers, probably louder than he should. “I would not have been able to convince them of my suspicions. You didn’t trust me, to share the truth about yourself with me, remember? And that’s when Lt. Lazarus left. So I made arrangements to follow him thinking it was the best lead we had.” He softens, adding, “It was the best way to come for you.”

I brighten at this admission.

He checks his UPS and is about make a move.

But I have to know. I never seem to ask the questions I need answered. And I want that to change. “King, what were you and Daria Preston doing in Daz’s report?”

He looks at me, mouth open, then his brows draw together. Probably because I have just admitted to having concealed this ‘sift’ episode from him.

He kneels back down from his half-standing posture, glares at me, unblinking. “We were doing our own investigation, to try to learn where he was. I was worried where SOSA had sent him!” He snarls this last bit. Then he checks his UPS.

“So what was it you and she were doing that ‘Daz would have wanted?’”

“To check on him,” he insists without skipping a beat.

Is this true?
Lt. Lazarus was the last one in the report according to my sifting.

“King, they have him!” I blurt out, deciding to believe him. He’s the one here trying to rescue me after all. “Thell’eons! Some Prime Aardon has Daz. He’s agreed to trade him for the sift. That’s why I have to find the other sift in the rift! That’s why I flew here!” I whisper urgently, gripping his arm.

“What?”

“Yes.” I nod. “It’s true! They showed me Daz! We can save him.”

“Good, and we will, but we must LEAVE NOW!”

He moves to get up, but holds up his hand instead, motioning for silence.

I don’t hear anything.
Oh, wait, yes
, the high-pitched ringing in my brain that comes with the dread of returning to a Horde. Or’ic would have made it to the planet by now.

Oh, please don’t let it be Thell’eons.
You never can hear those fuckers.

King’s about to stand up again when he changes his mind, and not a moment too late. He sprawls on top me, shoving me into the ground as a ray of Thell’eon gamma bursts fire over top of us.

Oh no! Is King hit? No.
He’s still alive, pressing down on me, firing back. While he does this, he lifts off, and shoves me, shouting at me to run toward the extraction point. I do, pushing through sharp brambles, all the time fearful beyond fear that he will be hurt.