Page 77 of Forging Darkness
I try to push myself upright, but I still can’t move my legs and my arms are wet noodles.
The metal ends of Thorne’s feathers catch the spectrum sun and a ray of light flashes across my vision, reminding me he’s still advancing.
I tell myself that he won’t kill me, but from the damage he’s already inflicted and the murderous set of his jaw, my brain doesn’t believe me.
Pure unadulterated terror rises up from the hollow of my soul and chokes me.
I’m going to die. The phrase repeats in my mind over and over.
Thorne rolls his shoulders, his silver wings arching at the same time, as he prepares to make his move. I stop thinking all together.
Throwing my hands out in a fit of rage, I release the full power of my wrath. It comes shooting out of me in the form of blazing globes of fire directed right at Thorne’s chest.
Without time to fully dodge the attack, he manages to curve his wing enough to intercept the brunt of the assault.
The balls of angel-fire explode in a shower of sparks. Some ricochet off Thorne’s wings and into the throng of spectators. Pain-filled shrieks follow after, and the swarm around us retreats several feet.
I’m not sorry if someone else got injured.
I slump back to the ground, completely and utterly spent, forced to watch Thorne’s retaliation from a cockeyed angle.
My breath wheezes in and out of my lungs and some wetness trickles from the corner of my mouth.
Thorne inspects the part of his wing that took the hit. He plucks a few silver feathers and inspects them, singed black and deformed. Melted in parts.
He lifts his gaze and surveys the crowd, which has grown suspiciously quiet. The barest hint of a smile plays on his lips.
“We’re done here,” he calls out. “Disperse.”
“She’s still conscious!” a voice booms from behind me. I don’t bother to try to see who it is because Thorne sends a lethal glare in that direction. No way would anyone argue with that look. I should know. I’ve received several of them over the last few days.
As expected, there aren’t any more complaints as the crowd thins. Thorne waits until there are no more loiterers before crouching down beside me.
“Not bad.”
“Screw. You.” It hurts to get the words out.
“No seriously, I was only holding back about twenty-five percent this time. And nice job with the angel-fire. Do you feel like you’re getting an understanding of where it comes from inside?”
I only have the energy to shoot him a glare.
“All right, let’s get you up.” With surprising gentleness, Thorne tries to right me to a standing position, but my legs aren’t working. I crumple like a rag doll, moaning when I hit the ground again and then cough up a clump of partially congealed blood. It lands on Thorne’s white sneaker. I’m glad.
When his face comes back into view, concern is written all over it. Rather than trying to help me to my feet this time, he scoops me up. An arm wraps under my knees and another behind my back. The world tilts then rights itself as he hauls me up and into his embrace. The weight of my wings drags my torso back, so Thorne readjusts so I don’t topple out of his grip.
“You broke my back, you jerk.”
“Among other things, apparently.” His face is a stormy mask as his eyes scan the training field. He always insists on using one of the pits in the very center, so there’s no way for a quick escape. It isn’t until Thorne swears under his breath, however, that I start to notice the attention we’ve re-captured.
Thorne takes long strides as he navigates through the training pits toward the tower that houses his apartment and the jail cell he likes to refer to as my room.
Fallen and Forsaken creep their way forward. Their gazes devour my broken state and come alive with interest. They’re like a pack of sharks circling their prey.
The bracelet around my wrist can only do so much to dissuade the monsters. A female Fallen as tall as any of the males goes as far as to lunge at us. Thorne quickly spins out of the way. Crouching, he flares his wings wide and then jumps, at the same time performing a powerful downstroke. We shoot into the air.
This ride is not as smooth as the last. My legs dangle uselessly in Thorne’s hold and my wings keep catching the wind awkwardly, throwing off his trajectory. The snap of cold air feels good on my overheated skin, and I’m enjoying watching Thorne struggle. We eventually touch down on his balcony—landing a bit rough as well—and he takes three steps forward before steadying himself.
Moving to his bed, he gingerly places me on top of the covers. I’m leaking blood everywhere, but once again it makes me happy to see something of his ruined.