Page 69 of Storm

Leaving the confines of our residence, Adam has us piling into the back of his black four-wheel drive. “Crouch down and put this over your heads.”

He says it like it’s a piece of cake, not realising he’s talking to a heavily pregnant woman and a five-year-old. I let Sunny know we are surprising his papa and we need to hide, sitting down in the well between the seats. “Listen to your stories, baby. It’s going to be a while before we arrive.” I hand him the small listening device so he stays occupied. Adventures outside of the house are not our norm, so he’s eager to leave, placing the headphones over his head. Under the blanket, I give him some homemade oat cookies and pray this is the beginning I have always dreamed it would be.

Adam doesn’t make conversation. I hear his phone ring a couple of times, connecting through the car’s intercom, but he never answers it. Ball in my throat, my stomach swirls. Bump after bump rocks us as the tires hit the asphalt of the road. It’s surreal. Not how I imagined this going at all. Staring at the black outline of my son, I grip the edge of the seat beside us, Sunny none the wiser that his life is about to change forever.

The car comes to a crunching halt. Adam’s voice comes from beyond the blanket. “We are at the checkpoint. I have to deal with something. Don’t move.”

My hearing on high alert, the car door opens and closes with a vibrating thud. Once my ears are clear, all I catch is munching coming from Sunny, the outside world is void. I made sure the new maid, Mia, put chocolate chips in the cookies, and I’m letting him have his fill for the first time ever. Chocolate is his favourite treat, so I knew it would keep him quiet.

Adrenaline fading, twinges of discomfort begin to make themselves known, being in this tight, cramped position. Shuffling myself around with one nearly slipped swear word, I find myself on my knees facing the window. One peek won’t hurt. Raising my head from under the blanket, I make sure only my forehead, and eyes are visible from the road. The windows are tinted. I don’t think anyone will be able to see me regardless.

Skimming the small ledge of no return where the glass meets rubber, I blanch at the sight before me. I should’ve stayed under the blanket.

Death surrounds us. It is Halo, and death is usually their main form of sustenance. This time, that death is Halo keepers, not fae or swine. I never taught myself to become accustomed to slaughter. They may have taken my body, but they will never have my humanity.

At least six bodies bleed out on the ground, all in black uniforms. Adam pulls a dagger out of the chest of one of them. Silver steel-toed boots shove at the limp body, pushing the keeper towards the ground. Shit. Who is this fae? Did he kill all those Halo soldiers?

He wipes the red solence from his dagger on his thigh, looking up, unmoved. Before he can spot me, I duck back down to my original position. A whooshing ricochets from ear to ear.

Looking was a bad idea. Just like when I would accidentally look down the rods.

Bad. Bad. Bad.

The car suddenly jolts, the door opening and closing harshly. “It seems things are progressing faster than anticipated, human. The rest of this journey will be neither easy nor kind. Do you still want to leave Halo?”

He’s giving me an out? The small gesture fills me with a sense of relief. As much as his actions alarm me, I’m not scared of him. I have to see this through to finally know if the Fairy Lands are everything my brother said they were: a haven. “We’re leaving with you.” If this is the only way I get my children out of the clutches of Halo, so be it. I will fight for them until my last breath.

CHAPTER 20

THIS IS WAR

Melek

“Idon’t see the problem here. We have our solution at hand.” Lord Asmodeus’s grating conviction goes in one ear and out the other.

Fingers on my thickening beard, I rub against the harsh stubble, faintly reminded of the aroma of sweet cherries. Not the artificial, synthetic, poor excuse for flavouring they make in the factories. She smells ripe and fresh, like I imagine the fruit should be.

My wife, the bane of my existence and the only reason for my being, put herself in harm’s way again. She’ll do it again. I know her too well. Twelve years of unrelenting stubbornness, unwilling to acclimatise to her new home. Twelve fucking godforsaken years she’s tormented me with her ocean blue eyes and that tantalising scent.

Metal—the bite of a golden snake—glides against my skin. Our matching rings. Another reminder of her. I can’t bear to call her by her Halo-given name any longer. Not that I did in my mind. She’s always been my Storm.

Leaving her was a mistake.

“Lord Abaddon?!” This time, it’s Lord Azazel who speaks, the unofficial spokesperson in our council meetings, taking his position as a first-generation Airiel seriously.

The clink of a chain sounds next to him, a yellow, pointed-eared creature attached to the other end, head hanging down, lavender hair hiding its face. It’s not the done thing to take the creatures out and about for all of the Haloians to witness, but behind closed doors, within our circle and during training, one of the lords will inevitably show up with one before they are set for slaughter. Azazel is preparing this creature for the last harvest before the destruction of the Fairy Lands.

Its fingers shake, rattling the chains louder than before. Menacing grey eyes flick to the creature.

“One week. It’ll be ready. I’ll see to it myself.” I answer his question before he makes the situation worse—we can’t afford its solence spilt.

Chilling, dead eyes are on me, unblinking. Azazel continues to wither before us, yet he remains. Not only are his eyes grey, but so is the pallor of his skin and hair. I know he partakes in the rituals regularly, drinking the solence, so it can’t be that. I’ve only been able to deduce that it is his age. Most of the first-generation Haloians died because they were killed, not because of old age. If the war didn’t take their fathers, the men before me killed them so they could have their spot on the council.

“The deadline has already been pushed back, Melek. We don’t wish to see any more delays, especially with the new surprise attacks from the Fae. This is our leg up on the magic they possess,” Lord Asmodeus states bluntly. He’s trying to stay composed. I see the agitation in the way his fingers move up and down on the round table we occupy.

The other five lords are silent, watching us. Around this round table of hell, each man is tense with my continual delays. War isn’t an easy feat, and neither is manufacturing weapons of mass destruction against magical beings.

Bursting through the door to our meeting room of ashen walls and carpet, a snake eating its tail carved into the centre of the steel tabletop, a Halo keeper stops at the threshold, his breathing laboured. “My lords, I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s urgent.” The keeper’s hands fall on his knees, wheezing. Pathetic.