Knight Angels: Book of Revenge Read online

  With the cold water running over my fingers, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I stared deep into my eyes, wondering what it was about me that Max found so important. I’d never done anything worth noting, never succeeded at any real magick, nor did I know any besides creating a few sparks, and I’d never inflicted any Earth-altering change. I was just another person, plugging away each new day as I had the last. A strangling pressure occupied my chest at the thought. I wanted to do something amazing. I wanted to inflict change somehow, but how could I prove to the world that I deserve that? I wanted a real dream.

  The restroom door swung open beside me, my heart fluttering with the sound. I didn’t want to know who or what was sharing this small room with me. My gaze dropped back to my hands, trying to act natural. I was on edge here, and my heart could barely handle it. Watching from the corner of my eye, a girl advanced to the sink beside me. I breathed a sigh of relief—at least this being was visibly identifiable. Her scent wafted in her wake, sweet and innocent, and distinctly cinnamon.

  She turned on the faucet and slowly washed her hands, sighing dramatically as she concentrated on the task.

  I allowed myself to take advantage of the moment and glance at her more completely. She was blonde, strikingly beautiful, and strikingly normal—at least considering the way our waitress looked. Her lashes were icy blue, her cheeks kissed with pink as though she’d just stepped in from a snowy hike. Her skin glistened like plastic, so smooth you wondered if it had ever seen the sun.

  She began to hum, and like a thread of smoke riding on the scent of cinnamon, her future death flooded my mind. As I recognized what it was, one thing was obvious—she was not dead, just as Max wasn’t dead within his future death. She spun and spun and spun to the sound of her humming in a field so bright with the sun, there was very little contrast.

  She shut off the water, breaking the stream of thought. Turning, she looked hopelessly for a towel to dry her dripping hands, but there was none. “Ugh… I hate this place.” Her voice was like a song, even though she was complaining.

  I giggled a little, feeling just as annoyed by the absence of drying implements. I fanned my hands through the air in a failed attempt to substitute.

  The girl looked at me, smiling. “You can never trust a grungy café, can you?”

  I shook my head. “No. They’re always out of either towels or toilet paper.” I smiled back. “I guess I’d rather they be out of towels.”

  The girl’s platinum blond hair moved like water, glittering despite the dull neon light. “Yeah,” she agreed with wide eyes. “Thank the gods for that.”

  I was gawking, wondering how she could look so good given the atmospheric circumstances surrounding her. Her glittery eyes never stopped moving, so full of life. My own reflection showed bags under my eyes, and where she was pale in a beautiful porcelain way, I was pale in a sickly way.

  Her gaze at last rested on me. “I’ve never seen you here before. Are you new to town?” the girl added, giving in to shaking her hands as I was.

  “I guess you could say that.”

  She grinned politely. “That’s nice. It’s good to have you.”

  “Thanks, it’s good to be here.” I felt awkward and nervous, while she was teeming with confidence. “I’m Jane, by the way.”

  “Jane? That’s a lovely name, very human.” The girl cocked her head to the side, inspecting me. “What are you? Alchemist, clairvoyant…”

  “Seoul,” I finished the rattle of titles for her. “And you?”

  She grinned, displaying a row of perfectly straight and perfectly white teeth. “Pixie,” she said simply.

  Our growing warmth toward each other helped my shoulders to relax. “You have no death, it’s nice,” I admitted.

  The girl giggled. “I bet. I couldn’t imagine seeing that all the time.” She crinkled her nose, but still, it didn’t make her look unattractive. “I’m Navia, by the way.”

  She’d paused as though she’d forgotten her own name, but it was endearing. “Nice to meet you, Navia.” I allowed her name resonate on my tongue. “Neat name.” It was admittedly strange to talk so frankly with someone like this—someone so purely magickal.

  She tilted her head sweetly. “Thanks.”

  My hands were finally dry so I stopped fanning them, dropping them to my sides. “Well, I better get back. But it was nice to meet you.”

  Navia was staring at me with admiration, and I found it off-putting given her perfection—someone like her had no need to be amazed by someone as simple as me. “Nice to meet you as well, Jane. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

  I turned away from her, her cinnamon scent still invading my nostrils. I grasped the door handle and pulled it open.

  “Wait, Jane.”

  I stopped, looking back over my shoulder.

  She swiftly closed the distance between us, her hand outstretched, clasping a white slice of paper between her fingers. “Here, this is my number in case you ever want to see Winter Wood through a pixie’s eyes.” She thrust a thick card toward me. “It is a pixie town, after all.”

  “So I’ve heard.” I grasped it, seeing blue swirls circle around ten simple black numbers. I laughed to myself, finding it so formal and organized, just as she was. “Thanks.”

  Navia clasped her hands before her and stood on her toes, looking excited to have found me. “Don’t hesitate!”

  I turned away from her, tucking the card in my pocket and pushing open the door. “I won’t.”

  Even if I was delighted to meet her, the truth was that I already knew I wouldn’t call her. I had enough supernatural friends as it was. Besides, Max had a particular disliking for pixies. There had to be a good reason why.

  Max:

  I leaned away from the desk. There was a file cabinet nestled in the corner of the room, boxed in by a pile of old books. Resting on top of the cabinet was a picture of a youthful Patrick standing before the ocean, a smirk on his face. I had never seen the picture there before, so perfectly placed as though on purpose. I stood, drawn to it, drawn to the weather in the sky behind him and the look on his face. I lifted the frame, looking into his blue eyes. He was maybe in his early twenties, his dark hair lush and covering the whole of his head. His glasses were tucked into the pocket of his simple plaid shirt. I could almost hear the roar of the waves behind him, the rush of the clean sea air.

  I flipped the frame over, surprised to see that there was a note written on the back:

  Patrick,

  Thank you for a wonderful weekend. I’m happy I found you, happy for the time we’ve spent together. I hope to see you again, very soon.

  -A

  It was dated 1909. Curiosity sparked my interest.

  ‘A’…

  For Annette? My mother?

  Why else would he keep it? It had to be her, but it was too early. I thought back, tried to recall my past life, though that was eighty-one years ago. The affair was exposed not long before Gregory murdered us, in 1928. Had Patrick and my mother really known each other for close to twenty years prior to that? I thought about my youth, remembering Patrick. Together, we spent days fishing and boxing, and as I grew older, he helped me discover simple tricks which became helpful when magick grew amongst the human world.

  I flipped it over and looked into the alchemist’s eyes once more. Extending my arms, I placed the photo back on the cabinet, at a loss of what to make of it. I stood with my head bowed, my mind beginning to tingle with a growing notion. Fleeing back to the desk, I opened the drawers for a second time and searched with refined determination. Love letters from my mother—I had seen them in his drawers a hundred times, though Patrick never knew that I’d seen them at all. I pilfered through the piles of crumpled papers, prescriptions and potion recipes. Finally, the familiar and worn red ribbon snaked its way through the rubbish.

  I hooked my finger through the loop of the bow and brought the bundle onto his desk. I untied it, letters slidding out across the battered surface. T
here were hundreds of letters, each organized by date. I sifted through them like a deck of cards. 1923… 1919…1913…1909…

  1909…

  I flipped open the carefully tucked flap of the linen envelope.

  Patrick,

  I refuse to forget the time we spent at the ocean, or the things you told me. You’ve enchanted me, stolen my heart in a way I thought was forgotten to me. You asked me to forget about us, but Patrick, I can’t…

  -A

  I looked back at the pile, finding the next letter.

  Patrick,

  You ask me to remain with Henry, but why? He is but a friend to me, an arranged marriage where the love has long since gone. You alone are my true love. I understand your concerns for involving me in your world, but I would do anything to be near you and live a true life as your wife. What grows inside my belly is not Henry’s, and I refuse to see it otherwise. I refuse to live the lie…

  -A

  I swallowed hard, multiple times, each time not able to accomplish breathing. I was about to choke, but there was nothing I could do to take back what I’d read, and what suddenly made so much sense. I placed the letter slowly on the desk, bowing my head into my hands as the sting of emotion tried to stir and spin my world. What grows inside her? I wanted to believe it was love that was growing inside her, but I cursed myself for being so naïve. I looked up at the picture on the file cabinet once more. Why hadn’t I seen it before? The clear blue eyes of the Alchemist; the same clear blue eyes I possessed.

  “He was my… father?” I spoke aloud, wanting to hear myself test the term—it felt wrong, and yet so right.

  My brows pressed together as my hands attacked the pile of letters once again. 1912…1915…1918…

  Patrick,

  Our children grow, my love. Our boys are just like you, and I wish you were here to be a part of it. Maximus reminds me of you, outgoing and bright, while Gregory seems reserved—thoughtful. Though I may not have you, I am thankful for the gifts you’ve given me…

  - A

  I threw the letter back on the desk—feeling lied to, like I’d been cheated time from my father—my real father. My eyes were then drawn to a letter written in Patrick’s hand. I picked it up, tracing the ink of the envelope, feeling the ridges where he’d forced his hand. 1927…

  Annette,

  I am pleased to send message that Maximus and our youngest, Erik, show promising signs of magick, but I’ve come to believe that Gregory lacks the gene. Max must have stolen the gift in the womb. Being twins will do that. My teachings frustrate Gregory, and I fear there is a darkness growing because of this. As much as I try to be neutral about their teachings, Gregory is beginning to notice that he is different. He’s too in tune with his brother for us to try and hide Max’s gift. I must tell Gregory. We must keep a close eye on our son; even the Element Pixies warn me of the things they’ve seen in the light of his soul...

  - P

  Overwhelmed with shock, I allowed myself to pull the emotion from Jane against my fears of allowing her to know. My eyes filled with her sweet tears. I clenched my jaw, the letter inside balled in my fist. Gregory had been lied to, and because of that lie, he’d cracked.

  The following year Greg had killed us all. The timing seemed too perfect. He must have found out about my magick and Patrick’s true relation to us. Why hadn’t Greg told me? Of all people, I, as his brother, could have helped him. Greg didn’t deserve to handle this alone. He didn’t deserve to hear that he was different and his whole world was a lie. I would have given anything to change that, to give him what I’d apparently had all along.

  Jane:

  As I walked back to the table at the café, I stopped abruptly in my tracks. My heart ached like never before as an overwhelming feeling of loss and betrayal washed over me. What was Max up to?

  I blinked a few times, feeling my eyes go dry, my own tears being sucked from me. I wanted to cry from the sting of it, but I couldn’t. Whatever Max was doing was hurting him—and me. Never before had he taken so much emotion like this. All I wanted was to run to him, comfort him. I forced my feet to move, making my way back to the table instead, caught in a foggy battle as to what was the right thing to do. Wes, Emily and Jake were deep in conversation, their hands animated.

  “I think I should go check on Max,” I blurted.

  Emily stopped talking, her eyes wide. “You’re sweating like a pig. Is everything alright?” She leaned toward me. “Why are your eyes so red?”

  I nodded, wiping my brow. “Yeah, it’s just that Max is over at the Alchemist’s place, and…” I let my voice trail. My thoughts were thick, my mouth rambling.

  Wes nodded with understanding, the first compassionate look I’d gotten from him in a while. That look alone relaxed me a little, making me feel as though there was hope for our friendship. The relief was quickly washed away as another wave of deep sadness fell over me, knocking the very breath from my lungs. I brought my hand to my neck, rubbing it.

  “I’ll be back, okay?” The words were hard to say, my stomach knotted with anxiety.

  “Want me to go with you?” Wes made a move to get up.

  My hands flew out. “No. No. I’m fine.”

  Wes slowly sat back down. Emily and Jake nodded.

  I pushed away from the table and hobbled to the door, finding Max’s sadness had become so deep, so self-damaging, that he’d nearly taken the very fight from my soul. Looking like a crazy person, I flew out of the café and made my way across the street. Guided street light to street light, I staggered until the sign with the mortar and pestle hung over my head.

  I burst into the dark shop. “Max?” My voice was shaky and weak.

  I heard nothing. Roaming the room, I searched frantically behind the front desk. No one was there. Bracing myself against an old stool, I saw a narrow hallway that led deeper into the shop. I staggered along, hands gripping the wall for support. I was too exhausted to stand on my own, almost too exhausted to go any further. There was a door about five feet ahead of me that had been left ajar. A warm light glowed from inside, followed by the sound of sobs.

  Letting all my weight transfer from the wall to the door handle, I burst into the room, swinging on the door as it braced me.

  Max looked up with alarm. “Jane.” His face was so aggrieved that I forgot my own suffering.

  “Max,” I whispered, making my way toward him. Exhausted, I laid my body against his, his body hunched against a large desk. Paper and envelopes had been thrown all over the room—freshly disturbed.

  Max said nothing as he stroked my arm, his face strained with emotion I’d never seen from him before.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered, once some of my strength had returned.

  I felt his passion as he looked into my eyes, as he saw what he was doing to me. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.” He’d managed to gather himself, hiding the signs of his internal struggle.

  My head slowly stopped spinning, and I glanced around the room. Bookshelves lined the walls, as well as glass beakers, pictures, and paper. I grasped onto Max’s shoulders and moved further onto his lap, needing to be near him in order to remain strong. He was holding something in his hand—a picture frame. I pried it from his grasp and turned it to face me. There was a figure within the frame. I was overwhelmed with the many elements of the figure that seemed familiar to me, though I’d never met the man.

  “Is this the Alchemist?” My eyes washed over and over his features, the very breath knocked from my lungs when the blue of his eyes cut right through me. There was an ocean inside the alchemist’s gaze, an ocean I’d seen many times before. “Max,” I whispered, able to put the pieces of emotion and visual evidence together.

  “He’s my father,” he muttered, refusing to meet my gaze.

  “Yeah, I…” To me it seemed so obvious, but to Max it clearly hadn’t. “You never knew this?” I asked carefully.

  He shook his head. “Why would I? I was told otherwise, made to think of Henry
as my father since the moment I was born. If that’s all you ever know, why question it? Patrick was a man I didn’t meet until I was a young boy. I simply didn’t see it because when you’re young, your brain doesn’t work like that.”

  “Oh, Max.” I placed the picture on the desk and wrapped my arms around his neck.

  Max leaned his head against mine. “What I really don’t understand is that Greg found out about it, yet never told me.”

  I pressed my lips against his neck, his minty musk invading my nostrils and claiming my senses. “Of course he wouldn’t. Greg is a liar.”

  I felt Max shake his head. “No, I don’t think that’s it. I think he was protecting us—Erik and I. I don’t think he wanted us to find out and feel betrayed as he did. I actually think it was an act of love, not hate.”

  I sat up straight. “Then why did he try to kill you?” I protested.

  Max shook his head. “I don’t know. I just know that when he set the library on fire he didn’t expect Erik and I would be there, but we were. At that point I think he figured there was nothing he could do. Perhaps he thought that by killing us we’d never have to find out.” I felt his grip on me tighten, a thread of grief pulling from inside as it reeled toward Max.

  Max caught me as the feeling shook my bones. With his hand on my chin, he tilted my head up. Looking into his eyes, my lips lacked any sign of a smile.