Redemption (36 page)

“I have never been much for apologies or admitting that I am wrong, but there is always a first for everything.”
 
His one good hand stretches out to grasp hers.

“I didn’t know Gabriel, but I’m smart enough to know that he saved us all.”
 
He pauses to look down at the orange rose.
 
“When you are ready, I’d like to call a meeting to draw up the official peace treaty.”

Roseline blinks back her tears as she gives him a firm handshake.
 
“I’d like that very much.”

He nods and limps away, leaning heavily on the arm of Marcus Talbot, who managed to survive much of the war miraculously unscathed.
 
Roseline watches as a large group of hunters follows behind, many of them dipping their heads with respect as they pass.

“I don’t believe it,” she whispers.
 
She turns to look at Gabriel’s casket and allows herself a small smile.
 
“You did it.”

“No,” Elias says, pulling her along with him as he heads back up toward the castle.
 
Stars have already begun to twinkle in the sky.
 
The torches that line the path to Bran Castle create a pleasant glow on the ornamental gardens as they pass.
 
“We all did.”

THE END

Epilogue

T
he subtle rustle of feathers is the only betrayal of Elias’ discomfort.
 
He has sat, perched atop the opulent mausoleum, for many hours.
 
Mists cling to the ground as pinpricks of dawn’s first light appear on the horizon. The air is cool and damp, hinting at the coming arrival of spring.

His breath hangs in the air before him as he sighs.
 
It is nearly time.

Pale pink and lavender begin to splash across the sky.
 
Elias rises and stretches his arms wide as his wings unfurl.
 
Their golden glow is subtle compared to the glorious sunrise before him.

Bending at the knee, Elias leaps off the roof.
 
His sandals sink into the moist ground as he lands without a sound.
 
Gravestones rise before him like crooked teeth, chipped with age.
 
Moss and mud clings to the weathered stone.
 
Impressions of footprints remain in the ground from the funeral several days before.
 

This cemetery rests on the opulent grounds of Bran Castle.
 
From here, he can see soot from the fires that spread along the castle walls during the siege a couple weeks before.
 
The entrance remains exposed to the public, but no one has been brave enough to cross its threshold.

Elias folds his wings behind his back as he turns to face the arched wooden door of the Enescue Mausoleum.
 
The carving is intricate, scrolled by a master artist’s hand.
 
The walls are made of long, rectangular stones, each offset from the row below.
 
Two white stone pillars frame the door, tapering slightly near the ceiling of the roof’s awning.

Elias pushes open the door.
 
It creaks on its hinges as it swings inward, the sound echoing in the narrow room beyond.
 
It is only about twenty paces deep and ten across, small considering the amount of immortals who have fallen over the past few hundred years, but then again, only a few of their bodies remained intact for burial.
 

As he steps inside, his wings brush against the doorframe.
 
Names have been etched onto the wall, some harder to read than others.
 
Dates detail the lives of ancestors long since buried.
 
The air is heavier within the stone tomb.
 
Dust particles rise into the light, filtering through the small rectangular windows that encircle the room as Elias moves forward.

He passes through the center of the room and heads toward the back wall.
 
Roseline’s former husband, Vladimir is missing from the vault.
 
Elias pauses to wonder what happened to his body as the angle traces his fingers across each name on the wall until he finds the one he is looking for.
 
Drawing back his hand, he curls his fingers into a fist and slams through the wall.

Stone crumbles around his arm, pattering against the floor.
 
He withdraws his hand and peers into the tomb’s depths.
 
He smiles as he spies a silver handle.
 
Thrusting both hands through, he grasps onto the casket and yanks it from the wall.

Elias turns his face away from the explosion of stone.
 
Small pebbles pelt against his bare chest before clattering to the floor.
 
As the dust begins to settle, he reaches across the casket and grabs the metal handle, gently easing it to the floor.

The exterior is pewter in color, with silver hinges.
 
The once smooth surface has been marred by Elias’ plunder.
 
He lowers his head, closing his eyes against the memory of Gabriel’s death.
 
He will never forgive himself for not being there to aid Gabriel in his battle with Lucien, but Elias has always known that Gabriel’s fate was never in his hands.

Roseline’s profession of their shared love bond had shocked him into silence at the funeral.
 
He dared to hope as he pried into the details of that tender moment out of Roseline over the days following Gabriel’s death.
 
Elias has no doubt that his sudden departure after the funeral had caused her pain, but he had to make sure his suspicions were true.
 
Dipping low, Elias raises the lid of the coffin.
 

“Only family blood can heal all wounds,” he mutters as he smiles down at the boy he was charged to protect, certain that Roseline had no idea that her tender farewell had brought about Gabriel’s salvation.
 

No hint of death clings to him now.
 
His wounds are healed and his skin is flushed with color.
 
The faint fluttering of a heartbeat rises from his chest.
 

Elias leans over and whispers into the boy’s ear.
 
“She is waiting for you.”

Gabriel’s eyes flutter open.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amy Miles was born and raised in a military family but has now settled with her husband and son in South Carolina.
  
She is also the author of Defiance Rising, Forbidden and Reckoning.
 
To learn more about her and her books, visit AmyMilesBooks.com or @AmyMilesBooks on Twitter.

ALSO BY AMY MILES

DEFIANCE RISING

An excerpt

One

I’ve been told that this world used to be a beautiful place, filled with twinkling electric lights and tables overflowing with food.
 
A place where children played in parks and couples took leisurely strolls on Sunday.
 
A time when humans weren’t slaves to aliens or nature.
 
Staring out over the concrete graveyard before me, I find that hard to imagine.

I have no idea what the name used to be for this place.
 
It has been lost to the past, like so many things.
 
Now, my friends and I call it what it isthe City.

All that remains of my parent’s Earth are cracked sidewalks with grass and weeds growing up through the pavement.
 
A maze of rusted cars and twisted lampposts scattered along each street create a web of devastation.
 
Tarnished coins and glass shards form a glittering river winding through the City.
 
In the distance, I spy broken skyscrapers rising from the ruins at jagged angles, symbols of a life long forgotten.
 

This is where the Caldonians live, where the Sky Ships land each night after scouring the woods for us.
 
No one knows how many of them there are.
 
I think my friends are too afraid to find out.
 
If I were honest, I’d admit to being nervous as well.

My concern has swelled over the past couple weeks.
 
That’s when the tremors began.
 
My friends say it’s nothing, but I know whatever is causing the tremors is something important.
 
I can feel it in my gut, and I’m hardly ever wrong.

After my mother died in a raid six months back, my friends and I were left in charge of the commune.
 
There are a couple of the elders who remain but are too crippled to help maintain the rebellion.
 
The children had to be protected, so we became the leaders.

Toren was the obvious choice as the head of our group and has risen as a natural leader.
 
I can’t say that I like taking orders from him, although I think he actually despises giving them more, knowing that I will disobey.
 

His girlfriend, Aminah, is my friend.
 
Her sweet nature and mothering heart is a beacon of hope to the children of our group.
 
She broke through my rough exterior when we were kids and, despite our many differences, still finds a way through my defenses.

Eamon is my closest friend and is notably the best hunter of our group, apart from me. Since the time I could hold a stick, we’ve been sparring.
 
What once started as pretend stick sword fights led us to spear tossing, knife throwing and hand-to-hand combat.
 
He is always at my side, watchful and quick to administer a reprimand if he sees fit.
 
Eamon thinks I’m reckless, but I think adventurous suits me better.
 

Zahra is the last of our group and is as vain as she is obnoxious.
 
We’ve been butting heads for as long as I can remember.
 
It’s not my fault Eamon is my best friend or that he hardly pays Zahra mind when I’m around.
 

Standing here, overlooking the City, I think of my friends, each one as dear to me as my own blood family.
 
As a tremor ripples up through the soles of my boots, I know that I have to enter the City this time.
 

Clutching the strap of my canvas satchel against my chest, I rise from a crouch.
 
“You can do this,” I whisper, steeling myself.

I’ve been here several times over the past week, on this ledge, with fear wedged so tightly in my throat that I wonder if I’ll be able to snatch my next breath.
 
My fear is irrational but that never stops me from doubling over with crippling nausea.
 

It’s not like I can’t take care of myself.
 
I’m stealthy enough to avoid Caldonian detection.
 
I’m skilled enough to fight off any scavengers that might cross my path, but each time I come to this very spot, my pulse begins to thump out a cadence in my ears.
 
My palms slicken with sweat and the pit of my stomach coils uncomfortably.
 
The sense that I’m doing the right thing is evenly paralleled by trepidation.

“Don’t chicken out this time.”
 
Pinpricks of pain shoot up my legs as I stretch up onto my toes, working out the kinks in my lower back.
 
I’ve lingered too long on the ridge.
 
Night will be upon me soon and I must seek shelter.
 

The Sky Ships come at dusk and dawn, like winged scavengers seeking yet another carcass to consume.
 
Being caught out in the open is suicide.

When I was younger, the black ships would send me running for my mother’s arms.
 
I’ve never known a life without Caldonian oppression.
 
My pathetic version of freedom has been paid for with gallons of spilled blood.
 

My parents chose to be part of the rebellion.
 
I was born into it.
 
Aminah and Zahra were never cut out for this life, so it was up to Toren, Eamon and I to learn how to hunt for food, set traps and scour the woods for salvageable ammo.
 

Eamon has an affinity for spears.
 
He likes the feel of the smooth wood grain between his fingers just before he strikes.
 
I’m the opposite.
 
I prefer the rigidity of a blade—serrated and lethal.
 

I stomp my right foot and wait for feeling to fully return.
 
I can’t take any chances.
 
I must be on top form when I enter these desolate streets.

The far horizon glows with beautiful shades of lavender and pale rose as I leap down the hill, riding the loose dirt like a surfer.
 
A cloud of dust rises from the soil, clinging to my black shirt and pants.
 
I dig the heels of my boots into the slope to slow my wild descent.
 

My arms pinwheel, compensating for the uneven terrain as I jump and land on a hard, unforgiving surface.
 
Pain reverberates up through my legs and spine, but I ignore it as I stare wide-eyed around me.
 
I can’t believe I’m actually here.

I dip low and brush my fingertips across the rough ground and a word surfaces in my mind—sidewalk.
 
I can’t but wonder what the people here were like, when they didn’t need to fear death or certain capture.
 
Did someone fall in love in this spot?
 
Did a little boy chase after a runaway dog?
 
Did a mother soothe her crying baby on the rusted wrought iron bench nearby?

I close my eyes and smile at the uneven texture of the path, storing this detail for later consideration.
 
It’s so unlike the smooth stone of the caves where my friends and I live.
 
I prefer this rough surface.

Debris litters the street before me.
 
Brick rubble tumbles over from a squat one-story building on the corner.
 
Crumpled plastic chairs and disfigured metals tables spill forth from various storefronts.
 
Brittle autumn leaves spiral down the deserted sidewalk, a reminder as bitter as the harsh winds that whip against my face, chafing my cheeks.

I try not to think about how angry Toren will be when he finds out I’ve come here, or how disappointed Aminah will be when she discovers that I’m going to miss my surprise birthday party tonight.
 
She should have known better than to entrust Zahra with that secret.
 

Eamon will take my coming here the hardest.
 
There have never been secrets between us so this betrayal will cut deep. I didn’t really have a choice, though.
 
He would never have approved such a rash decision, but the tremors are increasing and I must know what is causing them.
 

I crouch low and race across the street, dropping down behind a partially melted car.
 
Its shape is odd, as if the metal were heated then dripped over the side.
 
It reminds me of a picture of a melted clock painting from one of the few books salvaged during the Assault.
 
My mother’s passion for art was one of the few things she and I shared.
 
It never failed to draw me into her long forgotten world.

Peering over the hood of the car, I search the path ahead for any sign of life.
 
Rumors claim that scavengers still dare to enter the City.
 
Considering that I’m one tonight, I find this rumor to be dangerously plausible, but it’s not
them
that I fear.
 
Scavengers fight out of desperation, but the Caldonians fight on a completely different level.

The aliens look just like humanstwo arms and legs, intelligent minds and oxygen rich lungs.
 
They are beautiful in the most raw, elemental way possible.
 
Their eyes are not confined to the limitations of blues, greens and browns like human eyes.
 
They dip into rainbows of purples, oranges, reds and even some colors I struggle to place.
  

I squint up into the fading light as my fingers grip tightly around my pistol.
 
It’s loaded with a round in the chamber, ready for whatever might lurk in the shadows.
 
My right pocket holds the spare magazine I managed to scavenge after the last raid, not enough to hold off a group of aliens but enough to create a diversion and run like heck back into the woods.

A pair of knives clings to my back, tucked into the braided rope around my waist.
 
I like to keep them near just in case things get personal.
 

It is eerily silent as I push off from the car and skirt along a partially crumbled building.
 
Some of the brick wall still stands.
 
In parts, it rises well above my head.
 
I can imagine there must have been another level above the ground floor but one glance through the window frame reveals only remnants of an upper floor.
 
The back of the building is gone, blasted out during the Assault, the first and only day of the invasion.

I hold my handgun out before me as my boots crunch over an endless sea of glass shards.
 
As far as I can see, only vacant windowpanes remain.
 
I pull away from the wall to stare at a small reflective sliver, wedged into a twisted metal frame of what appears to have been a bookstore.

Rising onto my tiptoes, I peek through.
 
Leaves and dirt clutter the floor.
 
Small corners of yellowed paper flutter in the wind, the corners trapped under broken mahogany bookcases.
 
Much of the interior of the building is stripped away.
 
A large, charred circle near the center gives evidence to a fire, mostly likely from a scavenger holed up for the night.

Craning my neck, I peer up through the roofless building.
 
Whoever lit that fire must’ve been desperate.
 
A fire would’ve been easily spotted from above.
 
Sinking back onto my heels, I can’t help but wonder what happened to the former resident, but a reflection of myself tugs my curiosity in a new direction.

One violet eye blinks back at me, its lashes long and full.
 
I pull back further to note the fullness of my lower lip and the small smattering of freckles that cross the bridge of my straight nose.
 
Hunching over, I catch a glimpse of the wild mane of blonde hair whipping about my shoulders.

It has been a long time since I’ve seen myself.
 
Our commune used to have a small hand mirror to share among everyone, but it was broken during a spat between Zahra and a younger girl who suffered from a serious case of “Eamonitis.”
 
Their ongoing feud to capture my best friend’s heart started several years ago when he hit puberty and quickly topped the “most eligible guy” list.
 

Staring at myself now, I can see the subtle changes that have come with age.
 
The image before me reveals a young woman instead of the adolescent girl I last saw.
 
My pistol grazes my cheek as I push my unruly hair behind my ear and turn to observe my profile.
 

“You gonna stare at yourself all night, Princess?”