Angelfall (Penryn & the End of Days, Book 1) Read online

  Did he run to distract the dogs so I could be safe? Did he do it to protect me?

  I slam my fist into the trunk again.

  A six-pack of dogs come snarling at the tree. A couple linger, sniffing around the trunk, but the rest take off after Raffe. It only takes a moment before the loitering pair run off after the pack.

  My branch leans precariously toward the ground. The branches are so sparse and thin here that all anyone would have to do is look up to see me. The lower branches only have leaves at their ends so that there is very little coverage near the trunk. I reach up for another branch and start climbing. The branches get stronger and thicker as I head up. It’s a long way up to a branch with enough leaves to give me any cover.

  When a dog yelps in pain, I know they have caught up to him. I curl up and cling to the branch, trying to guess what's happening.

  Below me, something large crashes through the underbrush. It turns out to be several large men. Five of them. They are in camouflage and carry rifles like they know how to use them.

  One of them signals with his hand and the rest fan out. These men don't give the impression of weekend hunters shooting rabbits with one hand while drinking beer with the other. They are organized. Trained. Deadly. They move with an ease and confidence that makes me suspect they've worked together before. That they've hunted together before.

  My chest drains of all heat thinking about what a rogue military group would do to an angel prisoner. I consider yelling at them, distracting them to give Raffe a chance to run. But dogs are still growling and yelping. He's fighting for his life and my yelling will only distract him and get us both caught.

  If I die, Paige is as good as dead too. And I won't die for an angel, no matter what crazy things he does that coincidentally save my skin. If he could have climbed on my shoulders to get up here, would he have?

  But deep inside, I know better. If he was just out to save his own skin, he would have outrun me at the first sign of danger. As the old joke goes, he doesn't need to outrun the bear, he just needs to outrun me. That, he could easily do.

  The vicious growl of a dog lunging makes me cringe. The men shouldn't be able to tell that Raffe is not human unless they strip his shirt or unless the wounds on his back open and bleed. But if he's getting torn up by the dogs, he will heal completely within a day and that will be a dead giveaway if they keep him that long. Of course, if they're cannibals, none of it will matter.

  I don't know what to do. I need to help Raffe. But I also need to stay alive and not do anything stupid. I just want to curl up and put my hands over my ears.

  A sharp command silences the dogs. The men have found Raffe. I can't hear what they're saying, only that they're talking. Not surprisingly, the tone doesn't sound friendly. Not much is said, and I can't hear Raffe talking at all.

  A few moments later, the dogs run past my tree. The same two diligent dogs sniff at the bottom of my tree before running to catch up with the rest of the pack. Then the men come.

  The one that made the hand signal earlier leads the group. Raffe walks behind him.

  His hands are tied behind his back and blood runs down his face and leg. He stares straight ahead, careful not to look up at me. Two men flank him on either side, their hands on his arms as though just waiting for him to fall so they can drag him up the hill. The last two men follow, holding their rifles at a 45-degree angle and looking around for something to shoot. One of them carries Raffe's bag.

  The blue blanket holding the wings is nowhere in sight. The last I saw, Raffe had them strapped to his bag. Could he have taken the time to hide the wings before the dogs reached him? If so, that could buy him a few more hours of life.

  He's alive. I repeat this fact in my head to keep other, more disturbing thoughts from taking over. I can't do anything if I'm frozen by thoughts of what's happening to Raffe or Paige or my mother.

  I clear my mind. Forget plans. I don’t have enough information to formulate a plan. My instincts will have to do.

  And my instincts tell me that Raffe is mine. I found him first. If these testosterone-poisoned baboons want a piece of him, they’re going to have to wait until after he gets me into the aerie.

  When I can't hear the men anymore I climb down from my branch. It's a long way and I'm careful to get my feet in the right positions before swinging down. The last thing I need is a broken ankle. The needles cushion my fall and I land without mishap.

  I run downhill in the direction Raffe ran. In about five minutes, I have the wrapped wings. He must have tossed the bundle into a bush as he ran because it lies partially hidden in the underbrush. I strap it to my pack and run after the men.

  CHAPTER 15

  The dogs are a problem. I'll need my brain for that one. I may be able to hide from the men as I lurk, but I won't be able to hide from the dogs. I keep running anyway. I'll have to worry about things one at a time. I'm gripped by a surprisingly strong fear that I won't be able to find them at all, so I pick up my pace from jogging to sprinting.

  I'm practically doubled over breathless by the time I see them. I'm breathing so hard, I'm surprised they can't hear me.

  They approach what at first looks like a dilapidated group of buildings. But a closer look shows that the buildings are actually fine. They only look dilapidated because there are branches leaning against the buildings and woven in a net above the compound. The branches are carefully placed so that they look like they fell naturally. I’ll bet from above it looks just like the rest of the forest. I’ll bet from above you can't see the buildings at all.

  Hidden beneath redwood lean-tos around the buildings are machine guns. They are all pointed up at the sky.

  This does not have the feel of an angel-friendly camp.

  Raffe and the five hunters are met by more men in camouflage. There are women here too, but they're not all in uniform. Some don't look like they belong here. Some lurk around in the shadows, looking greasy and scared.

  I get lucky because one of the guys ushers the dogs into a kennel. Several of the dogs are barking so if some of them bark at me, it shouldn't be noticeable.

  I look around to make sure I haven't been spotted. I take my pack off and hide it in a tree hollow. I consider keeping the sword with me but decide against it. Only angels carry swords. The last thing we need is for me to nudge their thinking in that direction. I put the blanket-wrapped wings beside the pack and mentally mark the location of the tree.

  I find a good spot where I can see most of the camp and flatten myself on a piece of ground covered in enough leaves to buffer me from the mud. The cold and wetness seep through my sweatshirt anyway. I throw some leaves and needles over myself for good measure. I wish I had one of their camouflage outfits. Luckily, my dark brown hair blends in with my surroundings.

  They shove Raffe onto his knees in the middle of their camp.

  I'm too far away to hear what they're saying, but I can tell the men are debating what to do with him. One of them bends over and talks to Raffe.

  Please, please don't make him take his shirt off.

  I frantically try to think of a way to rescue him and still keep myself alive, but there’s nothing I can do in broad daylight with a dozen trigger-happy guys in uniform swarming the area. Unless there’s an angel attack that distracts them, the best I can hope for is that he’ll still be alive and somehow accessible once it gets dark.

  Whatever it is Raffe tells them must at least satisfy them for the moment because they pull him up to his feet and take him inside the smallest building in the center. These buildings don’t look like houses, they look like a compound. The two buildings on either side of the one in which they take Raffe look big enough to house at least thirty people each. The one in the center looks like it could house maybe half that. My guess is that one of them is for sleeping, another for communal use, and maybe the small one for storage.

  I lie there, trying to ignore the wet cold seeping in from the ground, wishing the sun would go down faster. Maybe th
ese people are as afraid of the dark as the street gangs in my neighborhood. Maybe they’ll go to bed as soon as the sun sets.

  After what seems like a long time, but is probably only about twenty minutes, a young guy in uniform walks by only a few feet away from me. He holds a rifle at a forty-five degree angle across his chest as he scans the forest. He looks like he’s ready for action. I stay perfectly still as I watch the soldier walk by. I’m surprised and immensely relieved that he doesn’t have a dog with him. I wonder why they don’t use them to guard the compound?

  After that, a soldier walks by every few minutes, too close for comfort. Their patrols are regular enough that after a while, I get the rhythm of it and know when they’re coming.

  About an hour after they take Raffe into the center building, I smell meat and onions, garlic and greens. The delicious smell has my stomach clenching so hard that it feels like I have cramps.

  I pray that it is not Raffe I’m smelling.

  People file into the building on the right. I don’t hear an announcement so they must have a set dinner time. There are far more people here than I realized. Soldiers, mostly men in uniform, trudge out of the forest in groups of two, three, or five. They come from every direction.

  By the time night rolls around, and the people disappear into the building on the left, I am almost numb with the cold seeping in from the ground. Combined with the fact that I’ve had nothing but a handful of dried cat food all day, I don’t feel as ready as I’d like to be for a rescue.

  There are no lights in any of the buildings. This group is careful, obviously hiding themselves well at night. The compound is silent except for the sound of crickets, which is a pretty amazing feat considering how many people live there. At least there are no screams coming from Raffe’s building.

  I make myself wait for what I think is about an hour in the dark before making my move.

  I wait until the patrol walks by. At that point, I know that the other soldier is on the other side of the compound.

  I count to one hundred before I get up and run as quietly as I can toward the center building.

  My legs are as cold and stiff as gunmetal, but they limber up real fast at the thought of being caught. I have to take the long way around, skittering from moon shadow to shadow, working my way in a zigzag pattern toward the center building. The crisscross of the canopy works to my advantage, speckling the whole area with shifting shadows.

  I flatten myself against the shadow side of the mess hall. One guard takes measured steps to my right, and in the distance, the other walks slowly on the other side of the compound. Their footsteps sound dull and slow, as if they’re bored. A good sign. If they heard anything unusual, their steps would be quicker, more urgent. At least I hope so.

  I try to see the back of the center building, looking for a back door. But with the moon shadow on that side, I can’t tell if there’s a door or even a window.

  I dart out of my shadow and into the shadow of the center building.

  I pause there, expecting to hear a shout. But all is quiet. I stand plastered to the wall, holding my breath. I hear nothing and see no movement. There’s nothing but my fear telling me to abort. So I go on.

  On the backside of the building, there are four windows and a backdoor. I peek through a window but see nothing but darkness. I resist the temptation to tap on it to see if I get a response from Raffe. I don’t know who else might be in there with him.

  I have no plan, not even a harebrained one, and no real idea of how to overcome anyone who might be in there. Self defense training usually doesn’t include sneaking up on someone from behind and choking them quietly to death—a skill that could be pretty handy right now.

  Still, I’ve consistently managed to beat sparring partners much bigger than me, and I hold onto that fact to warm me against the chill of panic.

  I take a deep breath and whisper as softly as I can. “Raffe?”

  If I can just get an indication of which room he’s in, it would make this a whole lot easier. But I hear nothing. No tapping on the window, no muffled calls, no chair scrapings to lead me to him. The awful thought that he might be dead comes back to me again. Without him, I have no way of finding Paige. Without him, I am alone. I give myself a mental kick to distract me from following that dangerous line of thought.

  I inch over to the door and put my ear to it. I hear nothing. I try the doorknob just in case it’s unlocked.

  I have my handy lock picking set in my back pocket as usual. I found the kit in a teenager’s room during my first week of foraging for food. It didn’t take me long to realize that picking a lock is a whole lot quieter than breaking a window. Stealth is everything when you’re trying to avoid street gangs. So I’ve been getting a lot of practice picking locks the past couple of weeks.

  The doorknob turns smoothly.

  These guys are cocky. I crack it open the tiniest bit and pause. There are no sounds, and I slip into the darkness. I pause, letting my eyes adjust to the deeper darkness of the house. The only light is the mottled moonlight streaming in through the windows at the back of the house.

  I’m getting used to seeing by dim moonlight now. It seems to have turned into a way of life for me. I’m in a hallway with four doors. One door stands open into a bathroom. The other three are closed. I grip my knife as if that could stop a bullet from a semi-automatic. I put my ear to the first door on the left and hear nothing. As I reach for the doorknob, I hear a very quiet voice whispering through the last door.

  I freeze. Then I walk over to the last door and put my ear against it. Was that my imagination, or did that sound like, “Run, Penryn?”

  I crack open the door.

  “Why don’t you ever listen to me?” Raffe asks quietly.

  I slip in and close the door. “You’re welcome for rescuing you.”

  “You’re not rescuing me, you’re getting yourself caught.” Raffe sits in the middle of the room, tied to a chair. There’s a lot of dried blood on his face, streaking from a wound on his forehead.

  “They’re asleep.” I run over to his chair and put my knife to the rope around his wrists.

  “No, they’re not.” The conviction in his voice trips alarms in my head. But before I can think of the word “trap,” a flashlight beam blinds me.

  CHAPTER 16

  “I can’t let you cut that,” says a deep voice behind the flashlight. “We have a limited supply of rope.”

  Someone grabs my knife out of my hand and shoves me roughly into a chair. The flashlight turns off and it takes several blinks for me to adjust my vision again to the dim moonlight. By the time I can see again, someone is tying my hands behind my back.

  There are three of them. One checks Raffe’s ropes, while the remaining one leans against the doorway as though here for just a casual visit. I tense up my muscles to try to get the rope to be as loose as possible as the guy behind me ties me up. My captor grips my wrists so hard that I’m half convinced that they will snap.

  “You’ll have to excuse the lack of light,” says the guy leaning against the doorjamb. “We’re trying to avoid unwanted visitors.” Everything about him—from his commanding voice to his casual stance—makes it clear he’s the leader.

  “Am I really that clumsy?” I ask.

  The leader leans down toward me so that we’re eye to eye. “Actually, no. Our guards didn’t see you, and they were under orders to be on the lookout for you. Not bad, overall.” There’s approval in his voice.

  Raffe makes a low sound in his throat that reminds me of a dog’s growl.

  “You knew I was here?” I ask.

  The guy stands straight again. The moonlight isn’t bright enough to show me details of what he looks like, but he’s tall and broad-shouldered. His hair is military short, making Raffe’s hair look ragged and disreputable by comparison. His profile is clean, the lines of his face sharp and defined.

  He nods. “We didn’t know for sure, but the gear in his bag looked like half the supplies t
hat a pair might carry. He has a camping stove but no matches, no pots or pans. He has two bowls, two spoons. Stuff like that. We figured someone else was carrying the matching half of the supplies. Although, frankly, I wasn’t expecting a rescue attempt. And certainly not from a girl. No offense meant. I’ve always been a modern guy.” He shrugs. “But times have changed. And we are a camp full of men.” He shrugs again. “That takes guts. Or desperation.”

  “You forgot lack of brains,” growls Raffe. “I’m your target here, not her.”

  “How do you figure?” asks the leader.

  “You need men like me as soldiers,” says Raffe. “Not a skinny little girl like her.”

  The leader leans back with his arms crossed. “What makes you think we’re looking for soldiers?”

  “You used five men and a pack of dogs to catch one guy,” says Raffe. “At that rate, you’re going to need three armies to get done whatever it is you’re trying to do here.”

  The leader nods. “You obviously have prior military experience.” I raise my brows at this, wondering what happened when they captured him.

  “You didn’t bat an eye when we pointed the guns at you,” says the leader.

  “So maybe he’s not as good he thinks he is if he’s been captured before,” says Raffe’s guard. Raffe doesn’t rise to the bait.

  “Or maybe he’s special ops, trained for the worst situations,” says the leader. He pauses, waiting for Raffe to confirm or deny. The moonlight filtering through the window is bright enough to show the leader watching Raffe with the intensity of a wolf watching a rabbit. Or maybe it’s like a rabbit watching a wolf. But Raffe says nothing.

  The leader turns to me. “You hungry?”

  My stomach picks that moment to growl loudly. It would have been funny in any other situation.

  “Let’s get these folks some dinner.” The three men leave.