My heart and mind screamed out at the one I loved, ripping against the grain. The waves crashed in upon me, and as they did, my eyes met with unspeakable horror: Michael drew the blade out and then plunged it back in, again, again, again. My heart burst inside my chest as I watched.

The demon James writhed and flopped on the surface of the water as I sank below. I could hear its unG.o.dly shrieking through the boiling and squal ing waters as I sank. Stil I looked to the cliff's edge, holding out hope as a candle to the hurricane, begging G.o.d for mercy-and I saw Michael deliver the final blow, becoming limp, fal ing from the cliff, tumbling end over end, the sword pul ed out and away, tumbling wildly, and Michael hit the water with a sickening smack as I sank.

Blood and water mixed in a drink of death.

Chapter X.

The sun blazed overhead, warming the forest glade unseasonably. Kreios could feel his strength returning slowly. His heart stutter-stepped in his chest and he c.o.c.ked an ear to the disturbance: A scream. His body stiff and wooden, stubborn, he nevertheless jumped to his feet and began to run toward the cliffs.

He reached out but could not find Airel. He sprinted, forcing his body to wake up, straining it.

He arrived at the top of the cliff in time to see Michael toppling over its edge. Kim was there, standing stil , dazed and in shock. Kreios was at her side quickly. He laid her down on the earth before she could hurt herself.

He then noticed the bloodstone beside her. It was shining in a constant, piercing crimson light that cal ed to him like the fondest memories of his childhood. He did not dare to touch it. There were more important things-he would not lose another fair young princess in his family line.

He rushed to the precipice, looking down. Beneath him were Michael and James. The demon was struggling as if injured, and Michael was sinking quickly. He was injured as wel . No sign of Airel.

Water was a difficult element. It posed a singular set of chal enges for one like Kreios. Flight through the air was effortless, second nature. Moving in water slowed everything, made difficult what would be easy in the air; it was like thousands of grasping hands pul ed against whatever course of action was decided upon. And drowning was a mortal risk, even for an angel.

He searched again in his mind for Airel, and could not find her. He cursed what his eyes beheld: two of the Brotherhood. And though they were far below, struggling and thrashing in the water, quite possibly even at that moment moving toward their eternal d.a.m.nation as the jaws of hel opened wide to receive them, Kreios could not justify simply watching the boy die. He could not separate himself from this chain of events.

Michael was beginning to sink beneath the surface. He doesn't have much longer. Kreios leapt into the air, and far from giving himself over to mere gravity, shot on a bul et's trajectory into the water; his body stretched out, punching a hole in the surface at impact that yielded the smal est splash.

He was deep before his momentum was checked. There was blood; and the fume of cursed demonic detritus fil ed his nostrils even here. He looked; and in the distant darkness a chance ray of sunlight played off the dark brown hair of his Airel, the last in the line of his heirs. No! He moved quickly to her side and looked into her face; he feared it was too late. He took her anyway, pushing off the muddy bottom, gaining speed and momentum in the mola.s.ses, aiming directly for Michael, who was now sinking toward them. Too late, for both of them.

Kreios did not slow as he intercepted the boy. He simply ran into him, gaining speed, a limp body hanging over each shoulder, and when he broke the surface of the water it erupted upward, outward, droplets and mist, and Kreios flew right out of the center of it.

When he had reached the edge of the cliff, he dropped the body of the boy with contempt, al owing him to land clumsily in the dirt. To Kreios's shock, Michael rol ed and coughed, sputtering, gasping. He landed gently at the lookout point where the whole drama had unfolded, and laid Airel on the ground alongside Kim, whose eyes were closed. He looked from one to the other. Michael was nearby, coughing up blood and water.

Airel was limp, her mangled heart not beating. Kreios began CPR. Michael dragged himself over to her side and left a blood trail behind him in the dirt.

"Airel! Is she dead? Wil she be okay?" His voice cracked, and Kreios fil ed her lungs with air, not looking at Michael.

The boy was beside himself and started crying with big long sobs that wracked his pitiful body. "This is al my fault; I kil ed her, I betrayed her! Oh G.o.d, please help her, I can't live without her, please, please! " He groaned final y and fel next to her, his wet arm draping over her lifeless body. He did not move, and his breathing was shal ow.

Kreios stopped his CPR, knowing that it was no use, and looked at the boy, Michael. He pushed him over onto his back. "Let me help you, Michael...

hold stil ." Kreios wanted nothing to do with the boy. But he knew that what he was about to do was what Airel would have wanted.

Michael was almost gone.

Kreios retrieved the blazing red stone from where he had left it, and against a great pul ing and tearing at his wil , brought it to the boy, resisting the caressing whisperings of blasphemy that were flowing from its core. "Receive your accursed burden," he said, softly, sadly, as he touched it to the boy's skin, then tossed it away. The wounds closed up, leaving many red scars-not healed, but repaired. Michael's eyes snapped open; he gasped and screamed and pushed away from Kreios.

He looked down at the marks of his wounds in horror as he realized what the angel had done-had d.a.m.ned him to a life of bitter emptiness, shame, and regret. "I don't want to live! Why did you help me? Why did you do that?" He broke into long fitful sobs. He col apsed onto Airel's body, sobbing, saying again and again, "I'm sorry," in her ear.

Kreios stood and turned from him. The burden of pain that had been laid upon his back over many thousands of years was indeed heavy. Tears fil ed the blackness of his vision as he walked away into the forest. He sat alone, and the tears came once again.

Airel was his blood. His daughter. Kreios roared softly as the worst of his fears became realized. Now he had lost her, too. It was a fitting gal that they had been driven, al of them, inexorably to this sad and shattering end. He could not see her anymore; he did not remember her face; he was unable to recal anything of joy. Kreios buried his head in his hands and wept: for Airel, for Eriel and for his wife. Al he could see was the grave, yawning wide and consuming al his loves.

Michael stood, final y. Far too late. Eyes marred by grief, he gathered to him the body of his only love and carried her in his arms. He looked to Kreios, who did not acknowledge him. Wordlessly he pa.s.sed him by and started on the path back to the house, holding Airel in his arms. Life and purpose dropped away from his soul, leaving him naked, in exposure to the wicked ravages of the world. He welcomed them. He looked on what he had done with emptiness.

Kreios was alone. Again.

He stood and walked to the edge of the cliff, looking out over calm water that erased everything, and his whole life was not real. What had he done? He felt bound to loss. Every choice that was made under the sun, no matter how perfect and good when birthed in the confines of the heart, was destined only for an inevitable end and death. Joy was fleeting, and after thousands of years, time sped by far too quickly. The years had become seconds, and the hands of the clock, that malicious machine, were relentless and devoid of any mercy. The water was gla.s.s once again. It had no memory, and showed nothing.

And yet he would refuse to ask why. He knew such a question had no answer. The deeper one penetrated into the deep and the void, the more obvious it became that every question found its beginning and end in El. Now, yet again, Kreios had been brought back to the bedrock. The foundation of Al . And it was unglamorous, and it was unlovely; and yet-for some reason that he did not yet understand-that did not matter.

He thought of Airel. In a very short time she could have been, could have done, so much. The waste was vile and unspeakably bitter. He had been so foolish to hope that hope would bud and bloom into peace, once he had put an end to the Seer.

His poor, wretched, wicked brother had chosen a far different path, one that had burned with fire and fury and the self. Kreios had dared to believe that he would be fil ed with relief. But the cup he now drank was not what he had expected.

Light flowed outward from his body on feathery strands, waving in the breeze. He slowly became lighter, the earth releasing him from its hold, and he took to the air, gentle as the breath of his newborn baby girl so very many years ago.

He spread his arms and raised his head, rising up above the trees. He gathered his resolve as he gathered speed, launching himself into the sky, flying straight up, leaving thunderclap behind.

The sound scattered a few birds. Michael stopped along the path through the woods. Kreios headed north.

There were stil enemies to vanquish. The Brotherhood was leaderless. There were many yet to kil . And Michael would be the last.

Kim's body lay silent, her breathing rapid, the shock claiming ownership over her. Beside her, by a tuft of gra.s.s, the bloodstone lay blazing red, whispering. Alone, abandoned, and left. In an instant, she awoke, startled, and looked: red.

Epilogue.

Airel's body was cold and wet in his arms. The shiver that he waited for, that should have come from her chil ed body, never came. She was completely stil , eyes closed. She looked like an angel. Her skin, pale, smooth, fair; her lips ful , the faintest red flushed within. What have I done? Why was he so confused and mixed up over this girl? It was just another job. He couldn't count how many times he had had to do something just like it in the past. He was even good at it; had been doing the same things for far longer than he could remember. He could make instant friends, could find out if the target was one of the Sons of G.o.d in a week or less.

But Airel had been different. He had wanted that, though. He had wanted her to be different. He had hoped it was just a mistake, a wrongful mark. They had to have botched things somehow; it had to have been a case of mistaken ident.i.ty. But then he had fal en for her. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

If you love her so much, why did you betray her? His mind flickered backward to his mother-how his father had murdered her in cold blood while cursing her to a slow and painful eternity in hel . The next thought was inevitable, and it hurt more than he could express: like father, like son...

He had known that trying to negotiate with his father was pointless, but he tried anyway. After a horribly long night, he had barely escaped with his life, leaving his mother to die. James had sealed it up, had demanded and extracted his complete and utter obedience.

Michael walked into the open meadow and began to climb the long winding stone stairway that led up to the back of the house. He didn't know he was sobbing, that his tears were fal ing onto Airel's face, until he walked up to the big windows and saw his reflection in the gla.s.s.

He abhorred his reflection, felt guilty that he didn't hate it enough. He pushed the door open and walked into the large bal room. He then carried his one and only up to her room and laid her gently on the bed.

Michael was not expecting the fury of the storm of his own grief as it overtook him. He col apsed over the body of his beloved, whom he had murdered, and he buried his head in her wet hair, sobbing, "I'm so sorry! My love, I'm so sorry!"

He tried to breathe in the sweet smel of her hair and skin, but only caught the scent of death. Al he desired was to join her, and he cursed Kreios for bringing him back to a life he no longer wanted to live.

Some things cannot be undone. Some words cannot be rewritten, and some wounds cannot be mended.

Michael raised his head, blinking. He looked at her face, stil beautiful in death. A thought, both rash and bold, was blooming upon the face of his consciousness. Would it be possible? He rose to his feet, half-turned from her, as if pul ed in some new direction, yet not wil ing to depart. No. He reached down to her figure, lying motionless before him on the bed. "No!"

He moved toward the door, slowly at first, walking backward, then turning, increasing his pace, then reaching the door. When he pa.s.sed through it, he turned and ran down the hal way to the stairs, racing down them, half fal ing with the speed he carried.

When he reached the bottom, he turned toward the library. "No!" He was racing. He crash-landed in the room before the great fire, which was always lit.

Frantical y, he searched. "No, No!"

Running wildly throughout the room, dodging from shelf to shelf, he looked. He searched high and low. It is here somewhere; it must be; I feel it to be true! And yet the lines from Shakespeare echoed back to him: Truth may seem, but cannot be; Beauty brag, but 'tis not she; Truth and beauty buried be.

"I do not believe it!" he hurled the words against the real, dashing them against the rotten powers of his mind. He searched frantical y on for a moment, then stopped-stil .

Slowly turning, he fixed his gaze on the great roaring fire. Above its licking flame there stood a mantelpiece. On its ledge were a few books, an old-fashioned inkwel and quil pen. He walked toward them.

Each step produced in the air a shockwave of foreboding, each step radiating outward momentous importance. His hand reached up and out; he closed his eyes, sensing. Farther and farther it reached, fingertips extended. Closer it came, the reach of his hand cutting against time and possibility. At last the tip of his forefinger brushed the surface of a book, and he heard, ringing out into the wilds of his mind a single word: AIREL.

Michael understood in an instant what was to be done. Taking the book down, he opened it. Taking the quil pen from the inkwel , he wrote three simple words: "But she lived."

COMING SOON.

BOOK TWO IN THE AIREL SAGA.

There is never an end, Life breaks in with gentle force and the old is made new.

Death is the beginning of life, Before we can truly live we must all die.

Chapter I.

Michael could physical y feel his heart rip inside his chest as he was crushed under the weight of his decisions. But what choice did he have? Writing in the book had to be wrong, but he could not lose Airel this way. Not like this; not after he betrayed her to his demonic father, not after al that had pa.s.sed between them. He had trampled his love for her, had trampled her-and for what?

His pen scrawled the words: "But she lived."

Michael watched the page crinkle under his tears as they dropped to the parchment, smudging the ink. This was not what he had wanted, not what he would have ever believed could happen.

Airel was just another mission, just another cursed threat that needed to be cleansed from the dominion. She was a job, like so many others. But Airel somehow got in, broke past al his defenses and took hold of his heart.

He had never known love, never real y cared about it-not with his demon partner. Airel broke the rules like they'd never even existed. He now was certain: he would kil and die for her.

He turned and set the book down, closing it. The name on the cover glistened like stars in the coldest sky: AIREL.

It was her book, The Book of her life. Every thought, dream and nightmare.

He left it there in the library and walked the lonely trek down ma.s.sive hal s of splendor toward her room. It was the most tortured he had ever felt in his life, and he felt the heat of self-hatred grow with each step.

Michael did not know if what he had done would work. He walked reverently into her room and stared at her as she lay cold and wet on the bed. He was so numb that he didn't know what he had expected: did he real y think she would just wake up and live out a happy, normal life?

Airel's corpse was pal id and blue and cold. Michael could feel his gut tighten into a hard bal ; he could feel fresh tears wel up and sting his eyes. He muttered a curse and ran a hand through his hair. His legs shook, he col apsed and fel to the floor under his overpowering grief.

"No... please, G.o.d," he prayed sacrilegiously, but honestly-and though it was the first time he had ever cal ed out to El in submission, he held tightly to vague hope. "I can't go on without her; she's innocent. This is al my fault!" his voice shook, but through the distortion of tears, he looked and caught his breath.

Airel bolted upright, hacking and spitting water, arms clawing, lungs sucking air. Wet and tangled hair flew with the force of her gasping.

Michael froze, stunned, not believing what he saw. He tried to get up off the floor but could not.

Airel looked around, crazed, as if she had just awakened from a horrific nightmare."Airel!" It was a whisper that he managed to force past his lips; the only word that said it al . It said, "I'm sorry," it said, "please forgive me," and most of al it said, "I love you!"

About the Authors Aaron Patterson is the author of the bestsel ing WJA series as wel as two Digital Shorts: 19 and The Craigslist Kil er. He was homeschooled and grew up in the west. Aaron loved to read as a smal child and would often be found behind a book, reading one to three a day on average. This love drove him to want to write, but he never thought he had the talent. His wife Karissa prodded him to try it and with this encouragement he wrote Sweet Dreams, the first book in the WJA series, in 2008. Airel is his first teen series and plans for more to come are already in the works. He lives in Boise Idaho with his family, Soleil, Kale and Klayton. His daughter had an imaginary friend named She.

Chris White has an award for reading 750 books in one school year-from the 3rd grade. So yes, he's more of a nerd than Aaron. Chris loves history, Sherlock Holmes, and anything that's not virtual, like old motorcycles and mechanical typewriters. He also doesn't get why we have these things cal ed "smartphones" when al they do is make people dumber. Chris recently celebrated 10 years of marriage with his wife, April, and has two boys: Noah, age 8, and Jaden, age 3, who inspired the Great Jammy Adventure series; the OK-to-color-in picture books. Chris is working on a short story cal ed The Marsburg Diary that wil further explore the prologue to Airel, and he is finishing up his first novel, ent.i.tled K: phantasmagoria, due out in 2011. Chris has a major crush on Audrey Hepburn, who is now dead. His wife is okay with al of this.

EXTENDED CUT BACKSTORY:.

Stuttgart, Germany: 1897 Wil iam Marsburg had risked everything for this. He had journeyed over the frigid sea from his home in London, endured horrible weather, wretched roads, and terrifying unexplainable occurrences. But the purpose of al the misery that had come before, that he had endured with his reward in mind, slipped into the void and faded away. He wrung his hands-the book was lost.

He had been in correspondence with Herr Wagner, who lived in a large house in the country near Stuttgart, for wel over a year. Marsburg had been fol owing a lead on a rare book that was in Wagner's care. They had written back and forth in detail on the subject. Wil iam Marsburg had come through the fires of Hel to get here, and probably stil smel ed of brimstone as he stood talking to the German in utter disbelief. His blood was boiling.

"I can apologize to you again, sir, if you require it," Wagner remonstrated in heavily accented English. "But the book is not here."

"The book is not here," Marsburg said.

"I can state with certainty that you were not the only party of interest..." Wagner looked past him through the window to the rapidly darkening landscape, eyeing the already black forest. He took a large drink of brandy.