"White Wings, Black Wings"

[Brighitta]

Something I started, but I've no idea where it's gonna go. A bit darker than my usual stuff, as well...

ONE

She is a wraith in the night, a silent, almost immaterial being that floats the streets. Each trained movement as precise as a scalpel, as graceful as the treading of the mother of all cats. She has been walking this earth for longer than her years, it often feels, as if she did this in her other life as well, and in the life before that. It comes as easy as breathing; a kick, a slash, warm blood on the ground that disappears when she mutters the long-forgotten words.
Her black coat makes not a sound as the wind lifts it and plays with it. She does not notice it, but brushes a strand of short, auburn hair off her face. A self-satisfied, haughty smile plays on her lips; she knows her strength, her skill, the power that hides behind the deceitfully small frame.
Yes, she knows her strength. Knows that she was born for this, that her small hand was moulded to wield the ancient dagger that has been passed down generations. The silver handle could have been made especially for her, and even now it calls upon her, it thirsts for warm blood. Thirsts for the sweetness of revenge.
A man calls at her, a bulky, drunk being whom she ignores easily. Life on the streets has taught her to ignore the petty distractions of everyday life, to concentrate on that which is important. She cannot let herself get distracted. Once glance aside and she might miss the shadow, the barely audible footstep, the low laugh, the flap of wings that might betray the enemy's presence.
And she knows what happens to those who let their attention stray during patrol. Amelia, stabbed in the back – literally. Jacques, shot while in a nightclub with his girlfriend. Alissa, strangled in the late stages of her pregnancy. James. Orren. Victor. Damien. Xenia. All dead, all buried. She is one of the few that survive, a twenty-year-old who has lost more people dear to her than a hundred-year-old man or woman. No, their were not friends. Not friends. They were more than friends – they were family, people who looked out for one another, fought side-by-side, shared the biggest secret of the modern world. And now all that remained of them were sad little grey slabs of marble with meaningless words and dates. Amelia died at nineteen, and she knows that Amelia was much older than that, so much older. She, like all of them, had seen more anyone, experienced more than anyone. Numbers are not important when compared to experience. And age is just that – a meaningless number.
The church is empty at this late hour. She looks around, making sure no homeless person is in the vicinity. It is quiet, that special kind of silence and motionlessness that usually clings to churches. The kind of silence that is due to awe, the enchanting, oppressive beauty of the candles and the golden icons. There are no candles or icons here – the church has long been abandoned. And yet that feeling of etherealness still clings to this place. She does not feel that awe, for she has seen the ugly face behind the gilded mask. Seen the monster pretending to be the angel.
She does not pretend that she is the angel, for she knows she is not. No, perhaps if that which she fights in an evil, then she is a different kind of evil. Not a legendary hero who fights for good – she no longer knows what she fights for, but does is simply because she does not know what else to do. A realist, a deeply cynical one at that, she has no delusions of grandeur. Fairy-tales, where there is good and evil, black and villains, black and white, they are better left to children. Fairy-tales do not happen in real life; there is no good and bad. Only power. No black and white. Only grey.
Standing between the pews, she wonders if behind the dark clothes, skilful eyeliner and the cold emotionless, her old self still resides. Carefully, nervously, she probes her own soul, as if afraid of what she might find there. Where has the little girl of not too long ago disappeared? Had she ever existed? She can't remember. All that she can recall as endless, dreary days, weeks, months of training, patrolling, then training, then patrolling again.
She hears a footstep behind her. Turns around, hand clasping the ornate handle of the dagger strapped to her thigh.
It is whom she expects. A tall, flat-muscled man dressed in red and black. His opal eyes measure her, size her up. He always does it, for reasons she does not know.
She feels a warm hand on hers, lets herself be lead away into the depths of the abandoned building, into a room that is lit by golden candlelight.
There is a glass of hot grog waiting for her. It burns her throat as she gulps it down, realising only now how cold she is.
He sits opposite her, legs crossed. Watches her with the patience of the immortal.
Drinking, she thinks how deeply ironic it is that people think of evil as horrendous and monstrous. Why should it be? Stupid, gullible, naïve people. If only the bad creatures were ugly and the good creatures were beautiful. That would make her job so much easier.
As she eyes the man through her long fridge, she thinks that evil has many different faces, most of them far from abhorrent. Her own demon is an ethereally beautiful man. Cold, distant eyes that seem to look right through her, see into her. She feel naked, exposed before him, as if she cannot hide anything from those all-seeing eyes. Thin, pale lips are curved in a challenging half-smile.
She lowers the goblet onto the table and rises.
'Take your coat off,' his musical, level voice tells her in what is more a commanding than a requesting tone.
'What?' she is caught off-guard.
'It's soaking wet. Take your clothes off, put on the shirt I laid out for you on the bed.'
'It's fine, I -'
'You'll catch a cold and die,' he says it in a very matter-of-factly tone, and the prospect of her death really does not bother him much, 'and then who'll be a worthy sparring partner for me?'
That makes her smile humourlessly.
'I am sure you can find someone else.'
'Hm. None like you, I think, Kali.'
'No, none like me, Caidur.'
She leaved him in his armchair, slipping into the bedroom silently. A thick shirt of Egyptian linen, neatly folded, lies on the luxurious red covers of the wooden bed. She feels the fabric thoughtfully – it is soft to the touch, probably very expensive.
Starting to shiver now, she gets rid of the damp clothes and tosses them aside. As Kali finished doing the laces of the shirt, a figure appears in the doorway.
'Are you hungry?' Caidur asks. He always keeps food here, especially for her.
'No, thanks.' A pause. 'Caidur?'
'Yes?'
'Something's happening, isn't it?'
He does not answer her, just comes and sits on the bed, his body turned away from her. The shadows conceal Caidur's beautiful face, and Kali cannot see his expression. Not that there is ever one to observe.
'You should sleep, Kali,' he looks up at her.
'You didn't answer my question.'
'We will talk tomorrow. Now, sleep.'
She obeys. The blanket is warm and heavy, a shield against the bitter autumn cold. Her head sinks into the pillow and she sighs involuntarily.
'And yourself?' she asks quietly.
'I have something to do. Do not wait for me, alright?'
Caidur rises from the bed, bends over her and claims her mouth in a warm, lingering kiss. Winding her hands around his neck, Kali returns it, pulling him closer until it is impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. She dissolves in that kiss, yet again marvelling in the simple pleasure it gives her. Moments later, he pulls away, looks at Kali impassively, then takes her head and presses an almost paternal kiss on her forehead. A faint scent of cigarettes and cinnamon assaults her – so painfully familiar that she almost chokes.
Without saying anything else, the man leaves her. She falls onto the pillows, his kiss still lingering on her lips. The pillows smell of herbs and his cigarettes, and as she falls asleep, she imagines that he is next to her.

[Catherine]

That was wonderful. so descriptive and vivid. it's mysterious and dark but not too confusing (by the end, at least). I love how it's impossible to tell whether Caidur is good or bad or nothing at all. whether he has no feelings or simply hides them well. for that matter, the same could be said for Kali.

I like it.

[Brighitta]

Glad you liked it! I'm going to explain everything in the following chapters, and made the first one deliberately mysterious.

[Brighitta]

Next part (not too sure of it, actually.) Unedited, so forgive any typos.

Morning dawns bleak and cold, the grey, lifeless light giving the world a hopeless and colourless appearance. The city is like a drunkard suffering from hangover; zombie-like and lethargic, all squinting eyes and tousled hair. Here and there, early risers start making their way to work, others go outside to retrieve newspapers and hurry back inside. Such normal lives, Kali think sullenly.
She turns and sees Caidur sleeping next to her, dressed in nothing but a pair of grey sports trousers, lying in top of the blanket. He looks younger when asleep. His unlined face somehow seems less heavy, and the tension has gone from his narrow lips.
It is one of those few, previous moments when Kali can observe the man; she gulps down every feature of his face, holds her breath to hear his deep, regular breathing. His hair is damp and clings to his neck – the man had obviously just come in, and judging by the damp patches on the pillows, it was still raining hard.
She reaches out and moves a dark lock from his forehead, and the man opens his eyes. There is no sleep in them.
'What time is it?' Caidur asks.
Kali looks at her watch.
'5:31,' she answers. 'When did you come back?'
'Long after midnight.'
'Work?'
'After a fashion.'
'Meaning?'
'Don't you know?'
Realising that he was not going to tell her of his night-time escapades, Kali changed the subject.
'Did you bring the swords?'
'Of course. Get dressed.'
Caidur rises and saunters towards the door. Kali's eyes travel down his body. She knows, only too well, that an almost inhuman strength hides beneath the slenderness, flat muscles and the pale skin that betrays his nocturnal existence. He is a creature of infinite grace and power, it can be seen in each of his carefully measured dancer's steps. Balanced. Poised. Always ready. The again, with the life they lead, anything but constant vigilance can mean their death.
She finds a set of plain underwear, a white top and skintight black shorts at the foot of the bed, folded neatly. Having pulled the clothes on, she sees it fits her exactly. Turning to the mirror, which is the only piece of furniture here, apart from bed, Kali examines her reflection critically.
A short, willowy girl looks back at her. She is small waisted and has the muscular thighs of someone who leads an active lifestyle. Her hair is tousled, something she deals by simply running her hands through it. Grimacing, Kali wishes that she had her makeup with her – her eyeliner is smudged, giving her a mysterious, witchy appearance, and her lips look pale without the usual crimson lipstick.
Unshod, Kali makes her way down a corridor and into a large hallway. The heated floor here is made of finest woo, and the back wall is a huge mirror. Against one wall stands a rack with an assortment of knives, swords, poles, weighs and other training equipment.
Caidur walks in after her, carrying a large black box.
'Here,' he lowers it to the floor and both sit down.
The lid swings open to reveal twin swords. They are made of pure silver, which gleams beautifully in the pale light. Runes runs up the blunt edges, swirling together to form a bewitchingly beautiful design that draws the eyes like a whirlpool. The handles are plain, without garish stones or crystals set into them. It is a killer's weapon, and its value is its history, not the material it is made of.
Kali takes on in both hands, taking it as if she was handling a religious artifact. She brings the handle closer to her eyes and exhales.
'Angelique Grey,' she reads. 'So it's true...'
'Yes. The swords of the first Angel.'
'nuts, Caidur, where did you get them?'
'A man sold them to me, actually. He had no idea how valuable they were. And why exactly did you want them? Growing sentimental in your old age?'
'You have no idea how precious these weapons are to me,' the twenty-year-old whispers, awestruck, 'Angelique Grey, Countess Angelique Grey, actually, is my ancestor. Her strength has been passed down the female line of our family for centuries. And yes, as you noted, she was the first Angel. The first person recruited by my side to fight your side. The first human gifted with strength to fight the Fallen Ones.'
'It is but two pieces of metal, Kali. Nothing more.'
'No, its something more, Caidur. It is my legacy, my past. I can feel the souls of the women who held it over the years. Strength, there is so much strength in it. I can sense it, believe me I can. Its – its amazing!'
Caidur smiles a little amused smile and takes her chin with two fingers, lifting her face to look at him.
'You do not need that strength. You have strength in you, more than enough of it. And I do not want you to rely on these swords too much. Trust yourself. Your hands, your legs, your brain. Only then you will survive. As a matter of fact, never become too attached to anything or anyone. I am talking from experience when I tell you that affection just leads to trouble.'
'You mean like you and me?' she smiled sadly, 'or am I simply a sparring and bed mate?'
There is a slight pause. She can't read his face – as usually.
'Come,' Caidur says at last, 'let us see what there swords are really worth.'
Kali acquiesces. They two rise, each holding one of the swords now. Muscles tensing, they circle one another like two predators, eyes locked together.
It is Kali who attacks. She leaps at her adversary, who sidesteps her easily. She topples to the floor, rolls over and is on her feet in an instant.
Caidur gives her no time to regain her breath – he is already flying at her, blade at the ready. She parries the blow, letting his sword slide off hers. Then she lands a series of sharp blows to his stomach.
Panting, Caidur retreats, an animalistic anger blazing in his eyes. He bares his teeth in a scowl, steps aside, avoiding her attack. Kali curses under her breath; she is growing impatient.
He tries to attack but she throws out an arm, catching the sword's blunt side and twisting. Caidur swears as the sword flies aside.
Kali discards her own weapon and punches Caidur in the face, but he ducks and the blow catches his temple, not nose. Ducking, he grabs her knees and pulls, and both topple to the ground.
Kali finds herself under his weight, pressed to the floor with her hands locked above her head in Caidur's vice-like grip. He smiles victoriously.
'Surrender?' he asks into her ear.
'Never,' Kali laughs and kicks. Caidur blanches and topples off her.
'Arrogance will get you nowhere,' Kali remarks. She straddles his hips, her hands around the man's neck.
'Surrender?' she mimics his tone exactly.
Caidur licks th blood of his lip, narrowing his eyes.
'Never.'
He lunges upwards, dragging the much lighter girl with him. A single, well-placed knee-kick to her gut and she gasping for air, eyes wide.
'One,' Caidur bent over her as she tried to force air into her lungs, 'you left my hands free. Two. Never, never try to do what you did to someone twice your weight. Three. Your left you stomach undefended. Conclusion – that was a stupid attempt.'
'If you're so smart, what would you have done?' Kali speaks hoarsely, rubbing her stomach.
He gives her a hand and helps her to her feet, then pushes her against a wall.
'Wrists held above the head, with both hands if you are not strong enough to hold them with one,' Caidur demonstrated, 'place your knee between your opponent's body and yours to protect your gut from any kicks. And if you really don't like the person, break a couple of ribs, preferably here and here,' he jabs his finger at her ribs. Then, he releases her.
She is not angry that she lost – after all, he has thousands of years of experience, and she has little more than ten. And yet it is these sparring sessions, more than anything, that makes her wish to excel, to become better. Relaxing into her battle stance once again, Kali thinks that one day, she will have him on his back, that one day, she will be better than him. And that day is worth waiting for.

* * *

The Headquarters are a bustling place of a beehive, with people dashing in and out, shouting on telephones, writing, typing, sending faxes and emails. A few people look up and wave at her as Kali makes her way towards her office, and she nods back absent-mindedly.
The Headquarters had been founded over a hundred years ago, as a way of getting organised. There were only five Angels then, with about twenty people helping them in various ways. There were seventeen hundred now, all over the world, and hundreds of thousands of office and patrol workers. Kali hates the fact that they are outnumbered one to a hundred. One Angel to a hundred Fallen. Her and Amelia were the only Angels in the country. And now she was the only one.
'Kali, where've you been?' her aide, Jack dashes up to her, 'bloody hell, we've been looking for you for hours!' His young, open face is both agitated and relieved.
'I was sleeping, Jack. Patrolling all night,' she lies easily. Wouldn't be the first time.
'Right. Listen, they've found another one!'
Kali blanches.
'You're kidding!'
'Nope. They're bringing her in as we speak. Should be here in a few minutes. You'll have to talk to the kid. I know Amy was better with the newbies...' Jack stumbles. 'Anyway, get ready for some serious freaking out.'
Kali nods and drops into her leather chair.
nuts, she thinks. This was just bloody brilliant.
Originally, one woman, Angelique, was given the abilities to fight the Fallen. The idea was that her gifts would pass onto her daughter, who would pass it onto hers, as so on. Kali was the direct descendant, the only one, as far as she knew. But over the years, the family grew, the blood spread. Occasionally, the old gifts would spring up in a girl not directly related to Angelique. The Delphi Department, based somewhere in New Orleans, was dedicated to finding such girls. Two were found in the past decade – a pitiful addition to their pitiful band. Whereas their abilities were passed on through blood, the Fallen multiplied like insects. Persuasion, seduction, lies – and a man or woman was theirs. It was that easy. It -
'Kali?' Jack's head peeked into her office. 'She's here.'
She gestures and the door creaks open.
The girl can't be older than sixteen. She's frightened, wide-eyed and angelic-looking. Seems like a nice girl – fair ponytail, jeans, a navy sweater, small heels. Probably reads a lot, goes to drink coffee with her friend. Probably a vegetarian, likes animals and stuffed toys.
'Hi,' Kali motions her to sit down. The girl perches on the edge of the chair. 'What's you name.'
'Isabel. Isabel McMalon.' Her voice shakes.
'Did they tell you why you are here.'
'No. What is this place?'
Kali sighs. How can she explain to this innocent creature? “Honey, there are evil angels who are trying to take over the worlds and whose number is near a million, and we are the good guys who were given powers by God to fight them. He screwed up, however, and now we are being slowly exterminated. Oh, and you born with a destiny to be one of us and probably will die before you hit thirty. So forget everything you've ever known of religion and wave your friends, family and school away.” Yeah. That's will work...
'Are you a religious person, Isabel?' Kali decides to start from afar.
'Not particularly, no,' Isabel looks confused. 'Why?'
'Because the first thing I am going to have to ask you is to forget everything you've ever heard about God and angels. Look, there is no way I can tell you everything without sounding psychotic at best. Just bear with me.
Many thousand of years ago, the world was good. Not good in the garden-of-Eden sense, but much better than it is now. Minor conflicts, flus, but that's pretty much it. Nothing catastrophic, no World Wars, no nuclear weapons. You've heard of Lucifer, I trust? Well, what the Bible missed out is that he did not just fall. He fell in love with a woman, a mortal woman, and for that he was banished. Other angels rebelled against this, and they too were expelled from Heaven. Here, they began to manipulate men and woman. They are awfully persuasive, they can make people obey them. Others they taught fighting and other skills. No, they don't turn them into zombies. Their people are well aware of what they are doing. The Fallen simply... change them. Feed their darker side. Their hatred, jealousy, avarice. Wars began, conflicts, people began to hate to the extent they never had before.
So God came to one extraordinary woman and blessed – or cursed – her with certain powers. Call it talent, or magic, whatever. The fact is, she spent the rest of her life fighting the Fallen and their followers. Her daughter, born out of wedlock, followed in her mother's footsteps. And her two daughters after. The problem was that there were too little of the Angels, as these girls called themselves. Whereas there were soon almost a thousand Fallen and hundreds of their followers, there were never more than five or six Angels at one time. It helped that they only had daughters, and in a few centuries, their blood entered other families. More and more Angels were born, and soon numbered well into dozens, then hundreds.
In the late 18th century, Marion LeBuer founded organisation ANGEL. There are about a hundred branches all over the world now, the Headquarters being here. There are seventeen hundred of those like me scattered in various countries.'
She quietened, not knowing what else there was to say. The girl was sitting there, apparently frozen in her seat.
'Is this a prank of some sort?' she asks finally. She is taking it better thane expected; looks ready to laugh.
Kali is ready for the question.
She stares a notebook on her desk and it rises into the air. Isabel intakes a lungful of air sharply. Kali makes a gesture. The book bursts into flames.
'Is that proof enough?' Kali asked tiredly.
'I -I -' Isabella tries to say something, falters, and quietens. Then a smile curves her lips. 'This is so cool!' She grins in a girlish manner, her eyes shining excitedly. The door to a whole new universe has opened before her. All she has to do is to step in -and already Kali knows that Isabel with do it. What girl won't?
'Wait,' Isabel sobers a little, 'where do I fit in? I mean, I don't suppose I am -''
'An Angel? Yup. You are.'
Isabella leaps off the chair.
'Tell me everything! What do you guys do? Who are you? Do you like have day jobs? Do you use weapons?'
Kali laughs at the naivete of the girl. She sees it as something exciting, sees them all as some sort of superheroes. Sadly, she won't by the end of the week.
'We arrest and interrogate known Fallen,' Kali begins. Kill the bastards, too. 'Keep records on those who are suspected to be affiliated with the Fallen, arrest those too. We are a government organisation with the rights to interrogate and execute without question. Entitled to carry weapons, interrogate and so on.'
'How -?'
'No, the government as such knows very little about us. We just have some links high up. The names of those who disappear never reach the police. They are told to have been abducted, killed in an accident, something of that sort. The funding is good too. Obviously, I can't give you names, but trust me when I say that some powerful people are on our side, and are doing everything they can do to help.'
'Why not go public?'
'How? We tried once, and the Church burned many of us. The witch-hunts, Isabel. The foolish Church killed the women who were trying to save humanity, isn't it ironic? Then again, the Church never acted with particular cleverness, did it? You see, we are not allowed to use force against humans, so we could not resist the Inquisition. And know what's worse? God did nothing. Did not stop his stupid priests. Why? No idea. The Fallen watched and laughed as we died, and we could do nothing, Isabel. Imagine it. Fire. Burning flesh. The screaming. The pain...'
'You sound like you've been there,' Isabel says, her voice small and horrified.
'Maybe I have,' Kali replied, shrugging, 'maybe in another life. I don't know. I've simply read too many accounts of the Inquisition, I suppose.'
'Why didn't you just stop? If God was letting his own Church turn against you...'
'We couldn't. If we stopped fighting, who would stand agasint the Fallen? No,we couldn't let Fallen control everything. Even now, when there are so little of us, we play the martyrs and continue fighting, knowings its stupid and foolish and idealistic. We can't because there is the constant, nagging question of what if? What if we do stop? Are we willing to risk the result?'
Isabel chewed on her lip thoughtfully.
'What happens now?' she asks.
'You are trained. Your parents will be told that you are being transferred to a private boarding school. I'll train you. You'll fight. That's pretty much it.'
'Wait, wait. There are so many questions... How do you even know that I am an Angel?'
'That we will see soon enough.' Kali turns away and picks up the phone.

[Liz]

Okay, just to be completely straight-up with you, I don't like Isabel's reaction. I think it's pretty unrealistic. Very few people would accept something like that with so little doubts or questions. Maybe it would be better if she didn't believe it at first, or something? I dunno.

I really love your tone and style of writing though, it's very cool. And the sparring scene was very nice.

[Brighitta]

Point taken! Thanks. Actually, I wasn't so happy with that part, either...