Angel Fury (Immortal Legacy #2) - Ella Summers Page 0,47

binding people goes, these rebels are amateurs.”

“I don’t imagine the hapless tourists they usually snare pose much of a challenge.”

The van came to a stop. I heard the front doors open and close, then the sound of footsteps as the rebels walked around the vehicle. They opened the back doors—then they froze at the sight of Damiel and me, unbound and unbothered, leaning totally relaxed against the inside of the van.

“Well, don’t just stand there and gawk,” Damiel told them, his voice sharp and commanding. “That’s no way to treat a lady.” He glanced at me.

The rebels still didn’t move. They just gaped at us.

“Oh, really,” Damiel huffed with feigned agitation.

He hopped out of the van and extended his open palm to me. I set my own hand in his and stepped down to solid ground.

The whole time, the rebels watched us in confusion.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” I demanded. “Are you going to introduce us to your leader or not? And some refreshments would be nice. The back of your van is dusty, and now my throat is itchy.”

“Water?” one rebel managed to croak out.

I smiled pleasantly. “Tea would be lovely.”

Still bewildered, the rebels led us across the garage. We were inside a large industrial building. It looked like a converted warehouse.

Damiel and I looked around as we followed the rebels out of the garage and into the main hall. From the looks of it, the rebellion was quite small. I counted fewer than twenty people.

The building itself, the rebellion’s apparent base of operations, was pretty rough around the edges. The walls hadn’t even been painted. There wasn’t much interior decorating to speak of at all. I wondered if the rebels were ever able to stay in one place long enough to make it their own. The Hive patrols must have been constantly on the hunt for them.

Our captors brought us to a small lounge. The room seemed to be an old converted storage closet, but it didn’t look much like a closet anymore. The interior was as vibrantly decorated as the rest of the building was sparse. Pink curtains with yellow flowers hung in the windows. Lace covered the table, which was really just a thick wood plank with four crates for legs. There were no chairs, just short benches made from more wood planks and crates.

A man was leaning against the back wall, his thick, hairy arms folded across his broad chest. He wore a red-and-green plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up. His legs were covered with thick black pants and mud-stained boots. He wore a cap over his hair, tied into a long ponytail. A bushy brown beard covered the lower half of his face.

“This is Grant, our leader,” said one of our rebel abductors.

Grant was built like a lumberjack. An axe even hung on his wall, along with the ducks-and-daffodils wallpaper. Another wall featured an extensive knife collection. A third wall was a shrine to all of his guns. Axes and guns, duckies and dollies—the rebels’ leader sure was an unusual fellow.

“Welcome to the rebellion. Please, be seated,” Grant said, gesturing toward the table.

It was set with a ceramic pink teapot and three matching teacups. Grant and I sat down. Damiel chose to remain standing.

“You are an unusual pair,” Grant commented, pouring the tea. “Certainly not the usual kind of person who visits the springs.” He handed me one of the teacups.

I took a sip from my cup. Tea never failed to make any situation more civilized.

“You two aren’t really tourists, are you?” Grant’s gaze slid from me, up to Damiel, who stood right behind me.

I smiled at the rebel leader. “We are newlyweds on our honeymoon.”

“We haven’t seen a single tourist in nearly a week. Rumor has it that the Magic Collective is guarding all passages to and from other worlds, and no one is allowed through.” Grant’s big caterpillar eyebrows squeezed together. “So the question is, how did you two get past those guards?”

“Because they have magic,” a familiar voice declared.

I turned to watch one of the women we’d discreetly interrogated in the bar last night. It was the pink-haired woman—except her hair was no longer pink. It was just normal brown now.

“Interesting,” Damiel said thoughtfully. “I was leaning toward the one with the yellow hair.”

“You mean, you knew one of them was a rebel?” I asked him.

“Not knew. Suspected.” He glanced at the woman. “You were very adamant that the rebels were evil heretics. You make a very decent zealot.”

She grinned at