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Servants of Darkness: Chapter One
A/N: This novel is being written for National Novel Writing Month, which means I have to write 50,000 words in one month. I will post here as often as I can, though because I have such a short amount of time to write this, it will go largely unedited until National Novel Editing Month in March.
For those of you who read this last year, I’m rewriting it completely from scratch. It was originally supposed to be book one of three. But I realized that nothing happened until the end. So, I decided to start over and skip the trilogy idea. But be warned, several things have changed. You would do well to forget most of what you learned last year. For example, Aya is still a character, but Morgan is now an only child. Aya has gained some of Lilith’s powers, and as of right now, the story is only told through Morgan’s point of view. Also, relationships have changed. So be prepared for Morgan to meet a different soul mate. Noah’s no longer a wuss too.
In the end, I hope you enjoy it, and please do let me know what you think. If it’s better than last year’s version, I’d love to know. Even if you hate it, let me know what works for you and what doesn’t.
“Stop!”
Behind him heavy boots thudded in fast rhythm slowly gaining on him. Several machine guns clicked as he continued to run, his breathing coming in gasps. A woman in tall heels and a skimpy dress screamed as he ran past her, trying not to knock her over. A father and mother pulled their children back. He ran on, ignoring them, his arms pumping hard, his once white cotton pants slipping down his hips. Dust rose from the dirt street to cloud around him.
A shot rang out, the bullet zipping past his head. He whipped around for a brief moment, half stumbling as he saw a long line of men in hard gear, guns drawn, emerging from the dust their combined feet had created. Their helmets prohibited him from seeing their faces, but their armor told him they were the High Court’s Armed Forces. Their weapons were drawn and aimed at him. Another one fired his gun, the recoil sending his shoulder back a little, though he continued to give chase, not seeming to feel any pain.
The loaf of bread slipped from Morgan’s hand as he reached down to pull his pants back up and hold them in place. He got to his feet and stumbled forward, intent on continuing to run when another group of similarly dressed soldiers met him from the other side, their weapons also drawn. He stopped dead, his arms flailing outward, as he tried to keep himself upright.
The troops moved in on him, slowly advancing, keeping him in the center. They fanned out, beginning to encircle him. He turned around, spinning wildly, seeing no way out as they closed the gaps between them. Pain shot through his ankle and his legs crumpled underneath him. He looked up to see one of the soldiers lowering his weapon, then toward the heavens and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath he calmed his shaking limbs, put the soldiers out of his mind, and sprouted a pair of large silver wings from his back. A collective gasp came from those standing around him, including the soldiers and onlookers.
He crouched lower to the ground and attempted to push off the ground, flapping his wings to gain altitude. A cry escaped his lips as his right leg went out from under him. Taking his eyes off the guns for the briefest of moments he could see his pant leg covered in blood. Holding off a wince he again crouched close to the ground, this time relying more on his left leg. He pushed off, careful to keep his weight off the injured leg. Within moments he was off the ground. Bullets whizzed around him as he tried to gain altitude.
A shock of orange hair caught his attention, bringing it back toward the ground. A girl’s hand covered her mouth as she stared up at him, her eyes wide. Her hair, he discovered, was streaked orange and black, similar to the way his was naturally streaked blonde and brown. Beside her another girl had streaked hair blonde and purple. They were the only two in the group of people with similar hair, though their style of dress was the same drab colors of those around them.
Another bullet deflected off his wing and spiraled down toward a group of boys with no hair at all. In a matter of seconds one of them wore dark red tendrils growing quickly out of his skull. His friends watched him fall before looking back up at Morgan. One of them pointed at his hovering figure. “Kill him! Kill that evil creature! Kill him!”
A chant started up and more people joined in, staring at him and pointing, accusing him of a terrible deed. His stomach turned. Had he done this? Had he just killed a man? He raised his arms to hide his face from the onslaught of accusing faces and words before struggling to take off. A shot rang out and something hard hit his wing feathers, but didn’t penetrate the thin skin covering his bones.
His wings beat the air as he flew north a few blocks, the energy draining from him as his leg continued to bleed. He began to gasp for air, coughing as the cold wind flew into his mouth.
Below him, small hovels amongst the tall unfinished apartment buildings and businesses went by at an ever slowing pace and growing closer than he wanted them to be. He beat his wings faster, harder, but got no where. Sweat rolled from his forehead into his eyes, blinding him. He wiped it away with the back of his sleeve.
Finding no one on the ground below him he carefully lowered himself to the ground. Sharp pain, accompanied by a loud gasp, shot through his spine as his right leg touched the dirt. He tripped and fell flat on his face. Raising his face, now covered in dust, he saw that he was still alone. Using his arms, he dragged himself out of the street, inch by inch, until he’d reached a short ally way.
Tears cascaded down his face, cleaning what little dirt they could, as he took a closer look at his leg. Pulling up the pant leg, he couldn’t even see the point where the bullet had grazed his skin for all the blood in the way.
“Let me help you with that.”
He backed away on his hands and feet from the quiet voice.
“If you loose too much blood you could die.”
Keeping his head down he raised his eyes to see the girl with the purple streaked hair.
“You’re from Ashmere aren’t you?”
Ashmere? He ducked his head as she drew nearer.
“It’s ok. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help.”
She reached out an arm towards him and he drew back from her touch, wrapping his wings closer to his body. He watched her study him, her eyes seeming to catch every little detail.
“You don’t have collar markings,” she mused. “You can’t be from Ashmere then. So where are you from?”
He kept his lips sealed shut from answering her and from letting out the whimper of pain that wanted to escape. He held his knees tight against his chest.
“I’m so sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. My name’s Aya. What’s yours?”
Feet pounded the dirt street and Morgan looked up in time to see the orange haired girl panting for breath as she ran toward them.
“Aya! Did you find him yet?” Her loud, boisterous voice was the final straw in the onslaught of strangers.
Morgan drew out his wings, stood up on shaky legs, shifted his weight, and with a mighty push, jumped into the air, his wings flapping wildly until he caught an air current. He barely caught the astonished sounds escaping her mouth or the calls of Aya, the girl offering help, before he’d flown out of hearing range.
He made it three more blocks to the old empty warehouse he called home. He flew in through the broken fourth story window and crashed onto the cement floor.
Morgan lay on the cold floor for awhile, staring at the pile of torn, soiled blankets he usually slept on. He crawled over, grasping the edge of the old mattress underneath them to pull himself up. He sagged onto the hard bedding, pulling his wings back inside his skin, keeping them hidden from the world.
Lowering his head to easily grab the back of his shirt, he pulled it off. Then, prying the bloody cloth away, he felt around with his fingers until they found the deep impression the bullet had made. He gritted his teeth when his fingers slipped deeper into the bloody mess. Unable to clean anything, he wrapped the sleeves of his shirt around the wound and tied it tight. Maybe this would help to stop the flow of blood.
He looked around, finding nothing to suggest he’d had any visitors while he’d been gone. The place was just as empty as he’d left it, the only thing even hinting someone was living there being the bed he was now sitting on, the old candle he’d burnt too low, and the empty cans of food growing mold a few feet away.
Morgan lay down on the mattress and blankets, resting his head on an old sweatshirt, curling his legs into his chest in a fetal position, listening to his stomach grumble and watching the darkening sky through the windowless hole in the nearby wall.
