Page 10 of Nightshade

“Listen to me, Farryn. It’s very dangerous there. Do you know what this is?”

“A bird feather.”

“No, child. It belongs to the dark angels. Remember what I told you about them?”

Of course I remember. The stories he told me give me nightmares to this day. Head lowered, I nod. “But you said the good ones have black wings, too.”

“The good ones have no concern, or use, for a young girl like you. No more wandering. You stay close to this house, and you let me know if you see anything strange.”

“What kind of strange?”

“Eyes watching you. Eyes like flames.”

“I’ve never seen eyes like that before.”

“May God and the angels keep it that way.”

It’d been over a decade since I last saw a blue-black plume that reminded me of a raven’s wing. Leaning back in the chair I’d taken in my aunt’s place, I twirled the feather, watching the silvery tips create a metallic streak with every turn.

At the brush of something soft across my calves, I jumped back in my chair. The trill meowing had me looking down to where Camael, the striking black sphynx cat I’d inherited from Aunt Nelle, circled my legs. Slapping a hand to my chest, I exhaled a shaky breath. “Jesus,” I muttered.

She let out a purr as she strutted beneath my palm and pounced into my lap.

“I was wondering when you’d finally grace me with your presence,” I said, as I stroked her warm, velvet skin. Rolling onto her back, she stretched across my folded legs, lengthening her neck for a good scratch until I obliged. As Nelle’s once-prized pet, she’d grown used to being pampered, and had no problem assigning me as the surrogate petter after my aunt had passed away. “She spoiled you. You know that, right? Cats aren’t supposed to have this much control over human beings.”

As expected, the lazy cat offered nothing more than a long blink, her focus undoubtedly on my scratching and not my words.

While one-handedly giving her attention, I ran a magnifying glass over the feather’s surface, examining tiny whorls within the silver streaks of it. Closer examination of those whorls revealed even tinier symbols. Hundreds of them.

Frowning, I leaned over Camael and studied a particularly thick cluster etched into the rachis. In my haste to get to my feet, I knocked the cat from my lap. “Sorry, love.” I took a moment to pet her before she sauntered off, no doubt pissed at me, and fished through the box of journals for a notebook I’d seen a couple weeks back.

After flipping through about a half-dozen, I found the one I was looking for and opened it to the pages upon pages of sketches. Symbols of all shapes and sizes, with accompanying names and descriptions. Through the magnifying glass, I spotted one particular symbol on the feather, then flipped through the notebook to find its match.

Libidine, my father had labeled it, and went on to describe it as a symbol for lust. He also explained that the presence of particular symbols in sequence represented each of the seven deadly sins. Iracundia for Wrath, Invidia for Envy, Avaritia for greed, and so on.

I sat back in my chair, flipping through more symbols. Dozens of symbols. Perhaps hundreds. All of them labeled and categorized, a task that must’ve taken countless hours. “Okay, what are you trying to tell me, Papa? That this is all real?”

I flicked the magnifier between the feather and the notebook, then back to the feather again. It couldn’t just be a coincidence that the feather left in my room happened to carry characters that corresponded to my father’s handwritten notes.

I shook my head, reluctant to believe what the universe was telling me. The impossibility that’d been thrown into my lap.

That everything my father had said was true.

Angels did exist.

And perhaps so did Nightshade.

6

Jericho

Present

The bitter wind sliced across my face, as I cut through a throng of villagers, on my way to the market square. I tugged at the hood of my leather coat, doing my best to conceal the scar across my lip--my most identifiable mark, aside from the eyepatch, both of them courtesy of the Fallen.

Pedestrians stared as they passed, some undoubtedly aware of who I was, while others likely speculated. They offered a wide berth, a few even choosing to walk into the road in order to avoid me.

Death, they called me. The Reaper of Nightshade.