First of the Fallen (Neophyte Series 1)

8. Cards on the Table

                INTO THE HEIGHTS OF the castle the odd group ventured, making their way up the winding marble staircase one flight at a time. The fight was still fresh in their collective memory, each dealing with the unusual circumstances of the strange encounter in their own way, but the newest arrival's thoughts seemed locked on the aftermath, oddly enough. Had Michael truly known just how close he had come to an eternity of ruin and unspoken horror this would not be so, but there was an unspoken wisdom yet to be recognized or acknowledged. The trauma of battle may often bring about a certain indifference, where the mind chooses to focus on the mundane rather than the possibility of death, and so all that lingered was not the outright terror of a demonic attack, as one would assume, but the way Samael had embraced him. Another man's affection had been a foreign—even taboo sentiment his entire life. He had never once hugged his father, his older brother on the odd festive occasion, usually after a few drinks, but still exceptionally rare. In that moment he wondered if life threatening circumstances somehow had a way of lifting certain social barriers, the way soldiers bond with one another after the noise of battle settled. Ordinary personal politics felt redundant; the very thought almost trivial in the moment.

    Michael couldn't think of a single time his father had willingly hugged him, or made him feel safe in the slightest. In this sense he had always felt alone in the world. It wasn't that he was not an affectionate man; in fact, he could recall many incidences where he had embraced his older siblings quite naturally. It seemed his father's neglect was reserved specifically for him. The internal confliction of a paternal lack of affection had poisoned his heart before, but for the first time in his life, it seemed to render a broken heart. The coldness that had grown like a fungus over the years now seemed vacant, now somehow yearning to for acceptance.

    Playing the victim was never his thing, but Michael couldn't help but wonder if his emotional trauma was somehow orchestrated. Thoughts of his father's neglect aside, he couldn't deny that the more the co-called Neophytes embraced him as one of their own, the more he felt like an unspoken vacancy was slowly being filled.

    The strange battle with the hellion had left him tired and yearning for his pillow. However, something told him that staying awake this night wasn't going to be a problem; after all, they wouldn't have held such information from him unless it was juicy, and the very thought of a demonic attack while he slept had him anxious, to say the least.

    Michael seldom knew what it felt like to close his eyes, knowing he was safe and sound, but Leviathan was on a whole other level; so much more than a simple bump in the night, or roaming shadows in the darkness.

    'Hey,' Michael picked up his pace and joined Ophanim in stride as they reached the third floor. 'Leviathan . . . demons and whatnot, they can't attack us in our sleep can they?'

    'Not in the Sanctuary, love. Well . . . it is possible, I suppose.' she shrugged with the second thought. 'The protection in and around the castle prevents anything dark from entering. However, if you haven't quite figured it out quite yet, she had used you as a gateway to infiltrate the grounds. When Samael tried to pull her out—'

    'Oi!' Shay joined in their stride from the fourth-floor landing. 'You know the rules; save it for the briefing. Not all of us know what's going on, and would appreciate the whole story.'

    'Right.' she concurred and picked up the pace. Suddenly Michael found himself climbing the stairs with the very man who had imprisoned him when the whole ordeal had begun.

    'What'd I miss, anyways?' his amber eyes and pointed teeth caught him off guard, but otherwise he seemed in good health, his time in the hospital wing working wonders, it appeared.