Page 160 of Wings of Lies
“You wouldn’t be able to handle the truth.” Pain captured my voice, making it raspy and wet.
“You won’t be able to handle the pain of your lies,” he spat on my face. “See, I need to know. Because when I approached your mother about her miracle pregnancy and asked her if she used demon blood to create you, she said no. It was the truth. Yet the council still found dark energies on her, forcing her from the sanctuary in the clouds and away fromme.”
I’d roll in some dark energies to run away from him, too.
“When you were one, I sensed something was off. Years later, your Glory manifested. Each time it accidentally erupted, my senses heightened. A part of my power that usually only manifested around demons or threats.” He placed the tip of his blade under my eyelashes.
I didn’t dare move.
“Somehow, your mother was lying to me. But I had no proof. Did you know that my job as an Archangel is to eradicate impurity? Every year, I refrained from killing you because of your mother. I wouldn’t have been allowed to without more proof of your sinful nature, anyway. But I received my proof when you froze me.” The crinkle in the corner of his stormy eyes held my breath. “When I told the council, they disagreed with my demands for your immediate death and instead said I could be a part of their judgment ruling if I brought you into them. I agreed until you dream-walked to your past self and gave me the power to remember your dream-walk.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you remember what I said? Dream-walk to the memory, and you give it power, essentially making it real. Because of what you did, you not only allowed me to remember you in my memory but as a result, you changed your future. Originally, I was going to bring youinto the council, but after I learned you could dream-walk, I knew I had to take it into my own hands.” His vile smile widened. “The last thing I need from you to finish this and restore your mother’s wings is your maker’s name.”
He wanted the name of my biological father. But if I told Michael, he’d kill me on the spot. The only leverage I had left was my father’s name—one I now remembered.
“Why would I confess anything when you just admitted to killing me for it?”
He leaned back and puffed up his chest. “Well, I missed a few birthdays. I can always carve out your answer. Or…” He walked the few feet to my mom’s padded table, setting the knife against her cheek. “I can carve your mother up a little instead.”
I slammed against my chains. “You wouldn’t!” My wounds pulsed and gushed, making me grind back a sob. “You claim to love her. You want to restore her wings. Why would you carve her up?”
But even if some part of him did love her, it never stopped his abuse. He may not want her dead, but he was all for punishment.
Michael circled to her hand, lifted the dagger, and said, “Because you tainted her.” Then he plunged the knife through her palm. The tip punctured through the pad and the metal table.
I screamed, cursing him with every word, attempting to slam my body against my restraints with everything I had left, which wasn’t much. My Infernus didn’t even bat an eye.
He pushed a single finger back and forth on the hilt, watching as he inadvertently moved her fingers. She didn’t wake. She didn’t jerk. Her unconscious body just took his bloody abuse.
“Stop with the ungodly noise, and I’ll remove it.” He did, but then he returned to me and drove it into my own hand. “I hate when you scream. It’s so childish and weak.”
I banged my head against the metal table, hiding whimpered cries in the noise, and held the rest of my wails in with my teeth. I thought I could take it. After each slice, the pain lessened a bit, and adrenaline took over, making me think I had the strength to go round after round with him. I thought I could defeat him with my Infernus. But I was wrong.
“Better.” He removed the knife. I begged myself to stay quiet. “But because you attacked me, I think a Reversal Rune will be great as your punishment. It’s my favorite to use on the sinful and vile creatures of this world,” he said, taking out a white feather tipped in black ink. He placed it against my wrist. “Do you know what it does?”
“No.”
Excited, he smiled, talking as he carved. “It gives you access to all your powers but binds it in your body, so there’s no way to expel it. Essentially eating itself from the inside out. My favorite part is that it allows you to heal just enough to endure the torture again until you die—or, in some cases, I’ve seen creatures explode.”
I thought I knew pain. I thought I knew suffering.
But the gashes were nothing—absolutely nothing compared to the pressure that hit me after he removed the feather from my wrist.
From searing agony to bone-chilling cold, the sensation battered at my insides, as if striving to make room for Hell itself.
The sound that escaped my mouth was ear-splitting. I writhed on the table, tensing against my restraints, seeking release, help, or anything.
“Stop,” I sobbed, not caring if it earned me another slice. “Stop it, please,” I begged him. I never wanted to demean myself by pleading with him. But my body attacked my insides, bursting cell after cell until it felt like I was nothing but a mushy sack of skin.
“Too bad there wasn’t a rune for a magical gag. But I suppose if I must hear such pitiful noises for my answers, I will.”
“Stop it. Please!”
“Stop crying,” he snapped, slashing my arm.
I could no longer feel the pain of his cuts. Nor could I tell if blood or sweat soaked my clothes and slid down my skin. My body convulsed between a searing heat that scorched my insides, causing my eyes to roll back, and an icy cold that froze and burned simultaneously, shattering and sending jagged, freezing shards through every nerve.
