Fledgling: Book 1 (Afterlife) (24 page)

He is screaming out in English, “Please, please. I didn’t do it. Please.” I think I hear an American accent. It is hard to tell with all the stress placed on his voice. His body shakes as he begins to cry. “Please, I am just an aid worker trying to help your people with food . . . and . . . and ways of a better life. Please . . . I’m trying to help them get through the war and devastation.” His face is screwed up, his lips firmly pouted. Tears and snot are running down his face as the Somalian men ignore his words and prepare the weapons.
 

One of the men has pulled out a large butcher knife and is holding it up, admiring the blade against the glimmer of natural light from outside. The glimmer of silver is a sharp contrast against his dark skin.
 

“Please.” The captive begs.

If he wasn’t secured to the chair, I am sure he would be on his knees begging.
 

With a heavy accent, one of the men watching and holding a gun speaks in broken English, “You take food, you lose hand.” He tilts his head in a quick forward motion, standing tall. He has given approval for action to the man with the knife. Immediately the man steps forward. Two other men reach for their prisoner’s right hand.
 

“Please! I didn’t do it.” The man is screaming through cascades of snot running from his nose. The tears have cut the dirt, leaving pale stripes on his face.

Two other men reach forward, taking the captive's right hand, stretching the limb over a bench. The man with the knife approaches the extended limb.

In my peripheral vision to my left, I see Ben swiftly fold away his wings and become brighter. He looks completely out of place. His torso extends from tight, royal blue pants in comparison to their full-length traditional clothes, covering their bodies apart from their lower arms and face. The distraction is enough to buy the victim some time.
 

Every set of eyes turn to see the underdressed, strange man that suddenly appeared out of nowhere. He targets the man with the knife first. His muscles ripple in his back as he slams his palm forward onto the hand holding the knife, instantly disarming him. The knife clatters to the floor. They release the prisoner’s arm as the binders and the leader turn in pursuit of Ben.
 

I fold my wings away and make myself visible. Cindy follows suit. If seeing an underdressed man appear from nowhere is a shock, they are about to be floored. The thought is almost humorous for me. They are now faced with two fully clothed, yet by their standards, scantily dressed western women. I would love to read their thoughts right now. They punish the women of Somalia severely for dressing this way, and what’s more, we fight back. I watch their faces, especially the leader, as it transformed from shock to demanding dominance once again.
 

He steps toward us reaching over his shoulder for his rifle. I skip sideways, cutting in closer in a split second and plant a high-heeled foot into his stomach. His hand drops and he slumps forward. At this moment, I see Cindy is beginning to fight another man, and the remaining two males are attacking Ben.
 

Focussing my attention back on the leader, he is clasping his stomach with one hand, and a strange glimmer is in his eye. I pause, wondering where I have seen that look before. The answer does not come to me, so I refocus my eyes back on my opponent in time to see the man’s other hand is still sneaking up to the rifle strap. I turn and flick a kick directly on his head on the opposite side from the rifle. A soft thud sounds. The force of the impact causes him to tilt in the direction of the kick, and the rifle strap gravitates off his shoulder landing on the floor.
 

He realises what has happened and reaches toward the floor. I slip forward, tucking my knee under his chest. Grabbing his shoulders, I slam him downward on my knee once, then twice. A groan escapes him with each connection. I then remove my knee from his fall and thrust his body onto the ground. As he falls, he tries again to reach for the rifle. The force of the contact causes him to misjudge the position of the rifle, and his hand misses it and slams onto the hard floor instead. A faint crack sounds. He lets out a cry of pain and pulls his hand up, bracing it with his other hand.
 

I reach down, grab the rifle removing the bullets and throw it to the other side of the room. It clatters down the wall and onto the floor.
 

Turning back, I see the man still clutching the injured fist with his other hand. Something on his inner wrist catches my eye. I let them wander to see what it is. I hold my breath. It is hard to see against his darker skin, but it is there. On his inner wrist is a tattoo of an upside-down pentagram finished with the details of a goat’s head, inside a circle.
 

It comes back to me now. I know where I had seen that look before that was in his eyes — the group of men under the bridge on our last mission. While he is temporarily distracted because of his hand, I study the eyes of the other men in the room. In each of the attackers there is the same look and the same disregard for the pain, so they can continue to attack. Cindy was right, there is a demonic presence in this city.
 

A horrible thought crossed my mind, if she felt it back at the edge of the city and away from these men, then how many more are hiding here making these citizens lives intolerable?
 

Sensing movement from my opponent, I turn. He is moving in my direction ready to attack again. He shuffles forward, his legs moving rapidly under his ma'awis. Something shiny catches my eyes. I look at his hands and see that he is holding the knife. When he's almost reached me, I step aside and slam a fist against the back of his hand holding the weapon. It clangs to the floor.

The surprise of being quickly disarmed wears off the attacker, and he swings his other hand around in my direction, slapping me hard across the face.
 

A strong sting spreads over my cheek and jaw.
 

“Learn your place woman,” he scorns me.
 

He raises a hand to strike again, and I reach forward grabbing his wrist, flipping it over my shoulder. With his elbow turned down, I yank it toward the floor in a swift movement. The crunching of bones fills my left ear, and his yells of pain fill the air. Screwing up my face in disgust I push my elbow back into his ribs with swift jabbing movements. A loud moan escapes his lips with each jab. I then step out and flip around with my heel flying high, it connects with his head. The high heel of my boot leaves a nasty red mark down his face as he falls to the floor unconscious.
 

Not wasting any time, I step forward grabbing him by under the armpits and drag him across the floor away from the others fighting. I kneel down over the top of him placing a hand on each of his temples. Knowing more about the problems the archangels are facing with the demons and the strength that Cindy felt of demonic presence in this city, I do not search his memory for innocence. As much as it pains me I do not have the time, and the demon may be fighting against the archangels. If I can help them, I will. So until we discover a better solution, I insert a conscience into him. I am glad that his eyes remain shut so I do not have to watch the evil-filled eyes turn dazed and confused.
 

When completed, I remove my hands and wipe them on my pants. I don’t know why, but they just feel dirty. There is a distinct feeling like I am being watched. I look up to see the captive staring at me. His face holds a strange look of relief mixed with confusion, and a touch of terror of the unknown. His arms are free, yet he is still sitting bound on the chair. I frown, wondering why he has not freed himself. He motions with his hand for me to come to him.

A thump on the ground catches my attention. The victim will have to wait. I turn to see the two fighting against Ben have coordinated and had a moment’s victory, slamming Ben down on his back onto the floor. As I move to aid him, I notice one of them is limping severely, almost hopping, with blood pouring down the front of his ma'awis. The other has a large gash above his eye with the skin underneath swollen over his eye. The eye that is open has the same look as my opponent had, and despite being badly injured they are overriding their pain with determination to destroy Ben.
 

The man with one eye knocks something with his feet, and the dreaded clattering sound fills my ears. The knife. As he reaches down to grab his chance find, I catch a glimpse of his inner wrist. Very faintly against his dark skin I can see the same tattoo. My bet is that the other two will have it as a fashion accessory too.
 

By the time the man has straightened with the knife securely in his hand, Ben has hurled himself up ready for action. As the men circle around him the one with the injured leg turns his back toward me, unaware of my approach.
 

Attacking from the side, I stamp my foot down on his injured leg. The sound of bones cracking and flesh tearing fill my ears. My stomach does a lurch at the mental image of his leg underneath his sarong-like clothing. As he shrieks out in pain, I do not allow myself the luxury of recovering from this image. He is bending forward grasping at his leg. I jump, twisting my hip and flinging my foot in a roundhouse to his face. Again the sound of squelching cartilage and cracking bones fills the air, and his body flicks to the floor. Screaming from the pain he lies on the floor grasping his injuries. My shoes click as I approach him, grabbing him under the arms and pulling him away from the fight scene. These people possessed like this, just keep coming back until cleansed. I have not a moment to lose.
 

As I kneel down over him, I can still hear the fighting from Ben and Cindy in the background. I reach down, placing a hand on each temple. Another loud thud hits the floor. I look up briefly. Cindy has just taken down her man, and Ben has things under control, so I turn back to my opponent. My hands light up, and I watch as the conscience enters his body. This time I see the flash of his life. I see evil and again, when the age is younger, there was once innocence — a hope for a better life. My heart cries out for the person he used to be. I hate what I am doing to him, yet at present, I do not have a choice. The eyes turn dazed. My work is done, and I release his head gently to the ground.
 

I look up. Both Ben and Cindy are kneeling over their victims. The fight is over. I look forward to feeling the warmth that is released into our bodies when we have saved an Innocent. This one is even an aid worker — an angel in disguise. A smile lights my face as I think of the reference.
 

I look at our Innocent. He is still staring at me with the same panicked look. My brow pushes together. He should be relieved. I know seeing us would be a little unnerving but we are the good guys, surely he perceives that by now. I walk over to him and reach down to untie his legs and body.
 

He must have just been in too much shock to untie himself because I cannot find any other reason he did not free his limbs while we were fighting. But then, even untied he does not move. I frown. The warm feeling I am expecting does not fill my body. Puzzled, I stand up straight. A high-pitched sound reaches my ears. It sounds like something zipping through the air.
 

Something small embeds into my back between my shoulder blades. There is a piercing sting that travels the full extent of my spine. I try to look over my shoulder as I feel my back with my hands.
 

Cindy screams out, “You’ve been shot!”

The words stun me, and I stand riveted. Another high-pitched whistling becomes rapidly louder. The same sensation hits my back not far from the other hit. The unexpected force pushes me forward, and I stumble, knocking the chair holding our Innocent over, and he crashes to the floor. I hit the ground close to him with a thud.

- Chapter Twenty-Two -

Scrambling across the ground, the man hides behind a nearby table. Ben and Cindy are crouching by my side before I have a chance to roll over. None of us have been shot before, and we are not sure how we would react. Although most threatening things to humans would not affect us, we can never be certain. As I roll over to my back, my eyes catch Ben's. They shadow with concern. I push up off the ground, and I hear the pinging of the bullets hitting the floor. My body has expelled them naturally.
 

“I’m fine, see,” I say to him.
 

A smile creeps up his face, and he breathes out.
 

Cindy leaps on me and gives me a hug a little too tight around the throat. “You’re okay.”

“Yeah,” I choke out the words past her embrace. “Clearly we are bullet proof.”

“Psst! Come here,” the aid workers calls.
 

I look over, and he looks panicked. When we don’t move, he motions to come closer with his hands. I begin to go, keeping low to not attract any unwanted attention from the outside. We still have a human with us and don’t need him to get in any more danger. Cindy and Ben follow close behind. When we reach him, he is hugging his knees, not too different from a foetal position, and he is rocking back and forth. His eyes flick from me, to Ben, then to Cindy. With each of us, his eyes travel up and down our bodies taking in what we are wearing and our looks. He doesn't do this in a creepy way, so his gazes don’t upset us. Finally, his eyes rest on Cindy for quite some time. He seems to be studying her eyes and hair lingering extra long on her yellow clothes.