Page 33 of Stealing Embers
Steel speaks slowly, enunciating each word. Branding them in my mind. “What it means, little angel-born, is that I am a very powerful Nephilim and you should not mess with me.”
Even though he can’t see, I nod in the darkness.
Okay Steel, message received.
Chapter Nine
By the time someone comes to tell us the campus is clear, I’ve calmed down enough to phase back into the real world, but the lower half of my body has gone numb. After Steel’s little intimidation power-play, we lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. My legs were once again folded against my chest rather than more comfortably spread across him. I wasn’t about to let Steel know how awkward the position was for me. He’d probably find joy in my pain.
When the signal comes—a slight flicker of light and a noise that sounds an awful lot like an owl—Steel starts crawling without a word.
Don’t worry about me, it’s cool. I’ll just bump around until I find the opening.
My limbs protest when I order them to move, and I bite back a pain-filled noise. Needle pricks run up and down my legs as the blood flow returns to normal. Gritting my teeth, I feel around until I find the opening and follow Steel’s lead.
Eventually, a stream of light filters through the tunnel and my eyes begin to pick up a few details.
Steel stops and words fly out of my mouth without forethought. “Is this when I get to shove your butt?”
His head jerks around. In the cramped space and low light, I make out the narrowing of his eyes before he faces forward and resumes crawling.
“Grump,” I mutter under my breath.
I shouldn’t have said anything at all because the next moment, I’m choking on the cloud of dust he kicked in my face. His low chuckle at my hacking cough tells me it wasn’t an accident.
In my head, I call him every unflattering name I can think of, but hold my tongue. I don’t relish another dirt bath.
Some hand gestures behind his back will have to suffice.
At the end of the crawl-shuffle, someone reaches down a hand to help me up. The strong grasp pulls me free of the tight space and into the early morning light.
I blink against the rising sun, my eyes watering at the brightness. Streaks of orange paint the sky from the east and set the red brick and terracotta façade of Seraph Academy aglow.
This is the first solid look I’ve gotten of the aboveground portion of the academy. I was unconscious when I arrived yesterday, and the building had been shrouded in darkness last night when Steel and I ran for cover.
The structure rises six stories into the air. Two wings extend on each side, giving the academy a u-shaped configuration with a manicured lawn in the middle.
My gaze bounces over each of the architectural elements. The elaborate Gothic building boasts turrets on every corner of the roof, stone carved balconies along each window on the upper three floors, and intricate carvings that run up and down the stone walls. I can’t decide if it reminds me more of a fairy-tale palace or medieval fortress.
I rub at the grit in my eyes and cringe at my dingy appearance. So much for the fresh change of clothes they provided me.
Touching my head, I realize I’ve lost the blue baseball cap Sable gave me. It may be back in the hole we just slithered out of, or on the floor in the academy sublevel somewhere.
I brush my long hair—now covered in cave dirt—over my shoulders.
Looks like I’m scheduled for two showers in a twenty-four-hour period. That’s practically unheard of for me.
“Glad to see you’re unharmed.”
Sable has two dark-haired adults with her. A man and a woman. Teachers perhaps?
All three of them look like they’ve been in a tussle—hair every which way, some torn clothes, superficial scratches and bruises—but I don’t see any serious injuries.
I spot Steel’s retreating form over Sable’s right shoulder as he stalks to the main entrance of the academy. Two small figures, a boy and a girl, burst out of the oversized front doors and run at my reluctant bodyguard.
They’re both roughly the same height, landing somewhere between Steel’s chest and midsection. The girl has stick-straight black hair that reaches almost to her waist. The little boy sports a haircut and color that mirrors Steel’s. If pressed, I’d guess they’re only eight or nine, but I’m certainly not an expert at determining children’s ages.
When the little ones reach Steel, he bends over and scoops them up, holding one in each arm. They squeal in excitement. Their muffled noises reach my ears—two animated voices followed by one deep baritone—but they are too far away to be heard clearly.