) Sorry it's kind of long; my first chapter is 14 pages long. Criticism is my best friend. Enjoy!
Prologue:
2 days ago.
Aasim Abdul Wajid lay on his back in the barren brown field of Afghanistan. The young soldier, only 23 years of age, gasped in pain as he felt for the wound in his side. The bullet penetrated deep into his abdomen, leaving him with fifteen minutes of agony before his last breath. He touched something wet and sticky, and as his hand came into sight he stared wonderingly at the vivid red stain on his palm. Never had he imagined that he would die in battle. He’d drafted himself voluntarily, thirsty for victory, but all he found was a world devoid of compassion, devoid of anything but the instinct of self-preservation and pain. War had turned these brave young men into animals.
The blasts of gunshots assaulted his ears as he strived desperately to stop the flow of life leaking out of him. “Help!” he croaked, wincing as a searing heat tore through his body. But his cries were lost in the voice of war. The gun he had delightedly praised was now lead weight in his arms. Tears came into his eyes as he thought of his mother, the way she had sobbed when they parted, the bewilderment and worry in her eyes as she clung to him, her beautiful smile in her hijab as she heated up his milk in the mornings.
He could feel the energy leaving him, and he gave up his fight for life. Through his blurry vision, he could see the patches of blue in the sky, and he wondered if God was listening, if he would forgive his sins. “Ash hadu ‘anna laa illah ha illah-allah wa ash hadu anna muhammadar rasulullah,” he whispered. There is no god, but God and I witness that Muhammad is his messenger.
Suddenly he could see a light above him, and his vision cleared instantaneously. He no longer noticed the screams of the dying around him, the thuds as bodies hit the earth. He felt weightless; the only tie between him and reality was the mild tingle in his side. All was white, and in front of him stood a man, or was he an angel? The light surrounding him was too bright for Aasim to see. He quickly averted his eyes.
“Wh-who are you?” Aasim stammered, trembling with fear.
“I am your God,” he boomed. God? Where was the Angel of Death?
“Am I… am I dead?”
“Ah… My son, that choice is up to you.” He could sense the smile in His voice. Aasim sent a confused glance at Him. “Do you believe I am God?” Was this a test of faith?
“Y-yes,” it sounded like a question.
“Do you dare doubt me?” There was a trace of anger in His voice. “Will you doubt me no longer if I raise you from the dead?”
Aasim believed that power belonged only to God, and those He favors. He thought about all of the things he had never done in his life; he’d never had a wife, nor a family. He had not a chance to rid himself of his sins. Until now.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Then you shall be again woken.” The light swelled, and in a flash of blindness Aasim opened his eyes.
First Chapter:
Two men perched on the mahogany seats at the very back of Emerson Preparatory School’s eighth grade classroom. Their burly shapes stretched the fabric of their dark suits, and their eyes roamed the sea of students through black shades. The contrast of size between them and the chairs was comical. Despite the fact that there were 38 other students in her class, fourteen-year old Tara Cartwright could feel their gazes linger on her. She took a discreet peek at their grim faces, directly behind her, and then whipped her head back toward the blackboard when their eyes flickered to her.
It was the beginning of June, and even the expensive air-conditioning system of her school couldn’t pierce through the wave of heat surrounding her. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she could feel her damp wings cling uncomfortably to her back in her navy sweater. Tara gritted her teeth at the heat, and then squirmed in an effort not to free her wings and fly. She could already feel the wind streaking through her golden curls, the way it would gently caress the delicate feathers of her wings, and closed her eyes as she smiled, relishing in the memory.
A sharp smack made her desk shudder, and Tara jumped, her pencils clattering to the floor. Her eyes snapped open to find Ms. Patterson’s angry glare on her, a yardstick on her desk, and snickering classmates.
God, they’re so annoying.
“Care to answer the question, Ms. Cartwright?” Ms. Patterson hissed through clenched teeth. Her raven black hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her piercing gray eyes drilled into Tara.
“Huh?” she breathed, dazed. The laughter increased.
“In what year was Adolf Hitler born?” Ms. Patterson repeated slowly.
1889, someone whispered in her mind. “1889,” she replied, trusting the whisper. Mary Patterson’s eyes narrowed and her frown deepened. “Correct,” she said stiffly. Tara could feel the wall of suspicion pressing on her, and she glanced at her classmates. Andrew Steiner, at the very front of the classroom, rolled his eyes at her, and she fought the urge to laugh. He was a slender boy with dark hair, and eyes that changed color. Right then, it was a mischievous green. He was beautiful, and extremely annoying. He loved to rub it in her face when he got a better grade. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t have a magic voice that whispers all the answers.
Distaste poured from her teacher’s back as she walked away. Tara bent to pick up her pencils, ignoring the stares boring into her back. As the tips of her fingers brushed the surface of the yellow wood, she felt the tips of her wings shiver with relief in a cooler air. Her wings were exposed. Tara bolted upright and stared with wide eyes at the two men in the back, who had their fingers near their ears.
Comms units, she thought. Then; run. She searched desperately for an escape, and saw the windows. Damn it! She cursed, I can’t fly here! She didn’t know why she was suddenly so terrified, but the loud whooshing of her pumping heart overcame every other sound; except the haunting whispers of the two men.
The door was too far away, they’d catch her. Panicked, she did the only thing her hyperactive brain could think of. She raised a trembling hand, praying she could get out and run away, careful to keep the itchy wool over her wings. Ms. Patterson ignored her. She imperceptibly scooted closer to her desk, sweat pouring in a torrent down her face.
Oh , come on! Tara looked at the hideous round clock above the teacher’s head. 2:57. Three minutes. Her hand fell to her side, and she waited frantically for the ending bell. I’ll get that witch back someday. She chewed her at her lip furiously, staring at the door. Her gaze returned to the clock, willing it to spin faster. The hand moved agonizingly slowly, driving her insane.
Rrriinnggg!
Tara dashed out of the heavy wooden door, pushing savagely through the stream of warm bodies in the hallway. She ran out into the streets of Washington D.C, avoiding shoulders and ignoring the dirty looks people shot her. The drone of passing cars filled her ears, and the smell of exhaust fumes smothered her. She ran past a Starbucks, panting in exertion and wishing she was home. Home. She skidded to a stop and braced herself on a glass building. She had forgotten about the black Mercedes waiting for her in front of the school. Which is now two blocks away.
“Idiot,” she muttered breathlessly. She half limped back towards the school, dragging her fingers across the glass, and then noticed two dark figures behind her.
Oh, crap.
Tara whirled and found that they were the same men from before, and they walked briskly toward her. She started to run, her feet pounding the pavement, the sun casting blistering heat, until she came to a crosswalk. A silver convertible whizzed by, and Tara jumped back, dashing in front of a honking Camry.
“Sorry!” she yelled, cursing her pursuers. What the hell do they want, anyway? Her lungs burned for air and she slowed in the middle of the sidewalk, gasping for breath. She seriously needs to exercise more. Suddenly, something gripped her wrist tightly, and Tara jerked back. But the hands were too strong.
“Let… me… go!” she growled, and looked up to a grinning man in a dark suit. “Hello, sweetheart,” he whispered. Pain stung her arm, and then she drowned in the darkness.
—
Tara gazed at the ocean, pondering the blue waters. There was no breeze to stir her hair, no wind to send frothing waves to pound on the shores. The water lapped softly against the wood of the ship, glinting in the bright sun. Her mother was there. She turned to smile at her, but she was gone. Suddenly, fear crept up her spine. She could feel cold eyes on her back, and whirled.
There in the middle of the great ship, on that glorious day, stood an old woman. Her sickly skin sagged with wrinkles, and her dead gray eyes stared icily into Tara’s. Yet the fear subsided, receded into some forgotten part of her mind. Silver hair covered every inch of her skin, but she held her head high, unflinching. She could feel the woman beckoning to her, though she stayed silent. She took a step closer. Then the woman spoke in a low, raw whisper.
“The world is cold and blue,
Yet there are those of light.
They will call to you,
Daughter of the White.”
She spoke the words like a song, with an eerie rhythm that hammered at Tara’s mind. She continued to chant, her voice rising with every word, until it reverberated thunderously throughout the vast ocean. Fire crackled in the sky, burning embers fell around her, until she was hidden behind the veil of flames. It seemed to burn out the sunlight, until there was only darkness.
Tara woke to the sound of a beeping noise. Her eyes fluttered open weakly.
I’m in heaven, she thought wonderingly, for the blinding white light was all she could see. Another annoying beep brought her back down to Earth. She blinked, and realized heaven was a set of overhead lights. She snorted. Nice.
Beep.
She turned towards the source of the sound. A heart monitor. What the…? Tara sat up, and saw that she lay on a wide, wooden table. It strangely smelled of roses and something pungent and strong. It reminded her of a wet dog. The surface was polished and shiny; she stared at her fuzzy reflection with mild surprise. Her mother had always called her beautiful, but mothers were required to think that. Now, her tousled hair hung in soft, luminous curls about her face, her wide brown eyes were speckled with gold, her lips a perfect, shell pink. Her wings were neatly folded on her back, the feathers pure white and soft. Her reflection smiled tentatively back at her, she looked down at herself shyly, and only then did she notice that she still wore her everyday plaid skirt and shirt. It was dented everywhere with creases. She groaned. The thing was hideous enough.
Tara surveyed the room, but saw nothing. The only source of light was the one above her. She waited until her eyes adjusted to the dimness, then clenched her fists as a dry cough drew her attention to a cage only meters away from her.
“Hello?” she asked hesitantly, wincing at the high pitch of her voice. She peered closer at the cage, and then yelped when a set of glowing, yellow eyes looked back at her through the rusting metal bars. Something metallic clanged, and out of the darkness rose a pale face with a slim nose, lanky brown hair, and bleeding, cracking lips. The light cast sickly shadows under his amber eyes. They watched her intently. She was suddenly aware that her skirt had bunched up around her hips, barely brushing the tops of her thighs, and she yanked it down. The heart monitor went wild, and Tara flushed, ducking her head. That’s going to be embarrassing, she thought.
The figure chuckled. “Finally, I thought I’d have to kiss you awake,” he rasped. The voice was familiar; amused, and weightless. His voice made Tara dream.
“Andrew?” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question.” His mouth curved into a mocking half smile.
“I- I… Where are we?”
But before Andrew had a chance to reply, a firm click resounded, and a burst of light filled the room. Tara gasped, and turned toward the source- a doorway. She could see an outline of a man framed by a soft, buttery light.
“Hello,” he said pleasantly. He walked to the foot of the metal table, his footsteps masking Tara’s pounding heart beats. As he came into the light, she could see that he was beautiful; with slender, angled features, auburn hair that clung to his temples, and sparkling green eyes. His full lips formed a dazzling smile. It was hard not to be mesmerized. He edged closer, and she could see that he wore a black armor, with a bark-like texture. His fingers gently brushed Tara’s frozen cheek.
“I see that you are awake,” he observed, “I’ve been waiting for you.” Andrew snarled a loud and guttural sound. The cage rocked as a loud bang echoed through the room.
“Leave her alone, freak,” he spat. The man ignored him. Instead, he flicked a switch behind the heart monitor, and the incessant beeping cut off. He turned back to Tara and smiled warmly.
“I am Dr. Houston, but you can call me Warren,” he offered. “Don’t be afraid, I am your friend.” Tara nodded, and swallowed.
“I- I’m Tara,” she sputtered, “Tara Cartwright.”
“Of course, of course, Tara, I know who you are. The question is, do you?” Something feral gleamed in his eyes.
“What are you talking about?”
“Caim,” Andrew said, so quietly Tara almost didn’t hear him. Only now did Warren acknowledge Andrew’s presence. He threw an annoyed glance at him.
“You will find out soon enough,” he replied irritably.
“What are you talking about?” she repeated, frustrated. Confusion churned the pit of her stomach sickeningly. She didn’t like his tone, and there was an aura of mystery around him; it unsettled her. Why is she here anyway? Where is ‘here’, exactly? And why is he looking at her like that; like she was something to eat? “What is going on here?”
“Now my dear, don’t be upset.” Warren patted Tara’s hand reassuringly, and she stiffened. “You will know everything, soon. The Queen calls to you.”
“No!” Andrew shouted and he punched the metal bars, the manacles clanging painfully, blood running down his knuckles. His wide eyes found Tara’s, and he whispered urgently. “What ever you do, don’t eat or drink anything, do you understand me? Nothing.”
Startled, Tara simply gave one jerky nod. She opened her mouth to say something, but couldn’t find the words. Why should he be so worried about her? And what does he mean ‘don’t eat or drink anything’? Were they trying to poison her? Are they going to do tests on her? She shuddered. This is exactly what Mom was so worried about, she thought. A sharp pang of longing filled her heart. Mom. She felt numbly for the silver, heart shaped locket her mother had given her as a present on her thirteenth birthday. It was inscribed with a single word; lumière- light. Her fingers closed around the cool metal, and she traced her thumb over the shallow grooves. The memory of her mother comforted her; the way her brown hair framed the lovely, heart-shaped face, the way her eyes would crinkle when she laughed, the way she smelled- like apples and rain…
“Tara?” Warren asked, raising one eyebrow, curious about the fierce longing that suddenly dominated her features. How do people do that?, Tara wondered exasperatedly, forgetting for the moment about her mother. When she was in fifth grade, she had practiced in front of her mirror for hours, exhausted and hungry, stabbing at her eyebrows with her fingers. When she complained about her failure to her mother, she pulled her into her arms and laughed, and told her that it had something to do with people’s genes. Then Tara quietly brought up the forbidden subject- her father. “What about dad?” she had asked, “Could he do it?” Her mother was silent then, and turned her brooding gaze away. From then on, she had never asked about her father, though some nights she would lie awake in her bedroom, looking at the glow-in-the-dark stars left over from second grade, and ponder his existence. It was strange that she knew nothing about him, or her grandparents. She figured that maybe he had abused her mother, and though the thought of her father nagged at her like a stubborn itch, she kept her mouth shut.
A cool finger slid under her chin and lifted up her face. She looked up and found Warren’s questioning eyes on her. “Are you ready?” he said.
“For what?” she replied.
“Come, now, you shall meet the Queen.”
“Um… okay.” Tara swung her feet over the edge of the table and dropped lightly to the floor. It was a dirt floor; she could feel it bunching between her toes. She began to walk, but stumbled over a stray rock and staggered. Warren put a hand on her back to steady her, his fingers brushing her wings. She jerked back instinctively, and with a familiar fwip, they extended to their full length on her back. She had always been sensitive about her wings. It was the reason she never talked to anyone at school- she was a freak. Her mother was always quick to reassure her that it was a blessing, and she was fond to call Tara ‘her little angel’. When she had asked what made the wings appear, her mother told her it was a genetic disorder. Tara didn’t believe it, but the way her mother’s face crumpled with pain prevented her from asking anymore questions.
Tara was afraid Warren might take it the wrong way, she didn’t want to offend him, and grimaced apologetically, folding her wings to their previous position on her back. His eyes glimmered, but he only gestured for her to walk with him. She followed him out of the door, squinting in the bright light. Her vision blurred, and then focused. They were standing in a vast dirt tunnel. Only the floor was made from a strange marble-like stone. Root-like veins unfurled inside, and embedded in it were what looked like diamonds. There were strange blobs of yellow light hovering near the walls, and when Tara looked closer, she could see that they were little people, about three inches tall. They were wrapped with a light, shimmering cloth, their long hair curled around their waists, and they had delicate, fluttering wings. The one beside her waved a dainty, glowing hand, and Tara gasped. She wanted to ask Warren about them, but was afraid to. They walked in silence, their footsteps bouncing back from the smooth walls. Finally, curiosity got the better of her.
“Warren?” she called timidly, “What are they?”
Warren, who had been walking in front of her, turned around with a smile. “They are Heather Pixies, servants of the Queen of the Seelie Court. Mortals call them Light Faeries.”
“Light Faeries?” Tara stopped walking and stared at him. He’s crazy, she thought. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Of course, that is only a misconception. Mortals often misinterpret what they see.”
“But faeries don’t exist. They’re a myth, like werewolves, or… or vampires.”
“Well, then, would you care to explain to me what they are?” He looked at the lights with a pointed smirk. Tara blanched. After all, what else could they be? She never saw anything like them before. She squinted closer. They were just so tiny. Warren kept walking and she ran to catch up to him. She pouted.
“Well, I don’t know. Obviously I’ve never seen them before.” Warren didn’t answer. Frustration and disbelief clashed in her mind. She rubbed her temples to dispel a sudden headache. “Okay, fine. Let’s say hypothetically that they’re… they’re faeries. Why are they glowing?” Warren stopped. Tara clenched her teeth and looked up at him. He turned to her.
“Heather Pixies provide wisdom, thousands and thousands of years of wisdom. The Fay, we are an ancient people; we are immortal. Magic allows that, magic that came with the Fallen Angels. Some say the Fay are Fallen Angels themselves. Have you seen Mortal renditions of Angels? They emanate light. So do these Pixies. Perhaps it is a sign of their goodness, though faeries, even those of the Seelie Court, have been known to be mischievous. Perhaps it is a sign of wisdom, I am not allowed to reveal that to one not of the Court. Though we cannot lie, we are a people of secrets, where our safety lies.”
His solemn tone softened her resolve. Maybe there are faeries, after all. Heck, she’s the one with wings. She turned to look at the Pixies. They were so beautiful. And they were the first winged things she saw, other than herself, that resembled humans at all. She half grimaced at one, and the Pixie grinned back. He had perfect, even teeth, sharp features, silver eyes, and an easy mouth. He arched one eyebrow at her, and she sighed internally. Damn. With a knowing smile, he flew close to her ears, leaving a trail of glittery dust, and whispered “It has something to do with people’s genes.” Tara’s eyes widened and she laughed. I guess these faeries do know what they’re talking about, she thought, and then smiled when she realized she said faeries, as if it was a fact she accepted. Her mother always told her to have an open mind, because “there are a lot of things you will never understand.” She realized now that it was true. Humans a limited sense of understanding, and the more they search for answers, the more questions they ask.
The Pixie then flew above her head, and she looked up, barely having time to close her eyes as a sprinkle of shimmering gold showered her. Her face tingled and a warm sensation swirled in her head. Her eyes flew open in fear.
“Hey! What’s this?” she yelled.
“Ironically, Pixie dust. He has given you a gift; knowledge. Of what, only you know, and it will reveal itself when you need it.” Warren replied calmly. The Pixie flew back to his place, still grinning. Tara looked at him, half in fear, and half in wonder. Warren gripped her elbow gently and pulled her forward, leaving her craning her neck after the Pixie. “The Seelie Queen is not fond of waiting,” he said. She turned forward reluctantly and stumbled beside him.
“What’s this Seelie Queen?” she asked. Warren sighed quietly.
“There are two Courts of the Fay; Seelie and Unseelie. The Seelie Court is sometimes referred to as the Bright Court, as it is a provider of light. We assist Mortals at times, when we feel they are deserving. The Un-”
“Wait, what’s this Mortal stuff?” Tara flushed immediately, realizing that she had interrupted him. Warren blinked, but otherwise seemed unfazed.
“Mortals are what we call humans. Adam and Eve were cast out of heaven disgracefully, bringing no magic with them. Mortals do not live forever, as we do.”
“And the Unseelie Court?” she said sheepishly. His features hardened, as if set in stone. His pale skin shimmered in the darkness- he reminded her of the glorious marble faces of the Greek sculptures she once saw.
“The Unseelie or the Night Court is our enemy. They often trick Mortals for pleasure. Their Queen is said to be a true Fallen Angel herself. Queen Belial.”
“And the Queen of the Seelie Court?”
“Queen Rhoslyn.” The name sounded vaguely familiar, but she brushed it off. How could she have known the Queen?
They seemed to have reached the end of the tunnel. An ornately decorated double door stretched in front of them. Into the expanse of the dark wood had been carved the lovely faces of two faeries; one on each door. Both tilted their heads back, their eyes closed, a delicate crown of flowers lain among their flowing hair. Their cupped hands held small amethyst teardrops, peaceful smiles adorned their faces. The frame of the door overflowed with what looked like runes. Something tingled in the back of Tara’s mind, a trickle of memory. But the more she reached out for it, the faster it slipped away from her.
Warren pushed the teardrops back, and slowly the door swung inward. Tara held her breath in expectation. The room was round, with the same smooth earth walls in the tunnel. There were no Pixies there, but the room glowed with a strange, silver light. Moss green cloth lined the walls, and was strewn artfully across a circle stone platform in the middle of the room. Stone steps led from it, fanning gracefully to the floor. Vines and flowers clung to the stone. Upon it was a woman. She lay sideways on a plush, purple divan. Her silver hair flowed fluidly around her pale face. Her amethyst eyes gazed patiently down at her, and Tara felt refreshed, as if awakening from a deep sleep. The Queen’s thin lips stretched into a kind smile as she said, “Welcome, my child. Long have we awaited your arrival.”
Tara sucked in a breath. Her voice was sweet and musical, the singing of a Nightingale. She was wrapped with a transparent silver cloth, with a waist of purple silk. Tara first thought that the light came from the magical dress, but as she looked up with amazement to the Queen’s radiant face, she realized that it was she who glowed; as if she was the room’s private sun.
Tara shook her head and tried to remember how to speak, but her mouth was gaping wide open. Her face… Tara knew immediately that she loved her, for she had the face of someone she knew long ago, though she remembered nothing.
The Queen laughed, the sound a tinkle of bells, and began to rise. Tara could feel heat creep up her face and looked down at the bare ground. She curtsied awkwardly.
“Queen,” she mumbled. Warren stifled a laugh. The sound of wind chimes filled the room, and suddenly a cool hand gently drew her face up. Tara’s eyes hesitated on the floor, then slowly looked up. Her eyes widened with surprise. There were others behind gathered around the stone. Delicate faces of nymphs smiled up cordially at her, eyes twinkling. “Welcome,” they chimed, and bowed.
“H-hello,” Tara stuttered. One of them winked at her, and she laughed shakily. She eyed their clothes resentfully. Their pretty white dresses flowed just below their knees, the material softly rippling like water. The Queen laughed once more, and led her to the stone. They sat down on the divan together. The Queen turned to Warren and smiled. “Thank you my Knight, your services are of high value to this Court. Come, join us.” He sat beside the nymphs. “I hope you are well rested, Tara. Now, you must be thirsty.” With a wave of her hand, a table appeared in front of them. It was made with the same material as the floor outside. It was beautifully carved with vines, and flowers. The feet of it were roots, and they seemed to sink right into the stone. Suddenly, a silky green fabric covered the surface and out of thin air appeared silver plates and goblets. Its base was round, and the neck was a pixie with amethyst eyes, supporting the curved top cheerily. Inside were rose petals floating in clear liquid, with a rich, invigorating scent. On the slim plates lay small, perfect, little cakes. They were made in the shape on various flowers- roses orchids, and had an appealing, sweet smell.
Tara swallowed nervously. Magic pulsed in tidal waves from the table. She could feel the power coursing through her veins, tingling on her skin. She felt she should look away, somehow, as if she were unworthy of laying her eyes upon the great table. But she couldn’t. She simply stared, her mind blank, savoring the deep warmth it sent her. “Tara?” the Queen called softly, and Tara pried her eyes off of the table. The Queen’s face was warm, and open. Her eyes seemed to send some important message that Tara couldn’t read.
