The Blue Door - By Christa Kinde Page 0,65
dizzy loops that seemed to be a greeting. “Who are they?” she whispered.
“You can see them?” he asked in surprise.
“Obviously,” she muttered.
“Jedrick and Tamaes,” Milo answered simply.
They approached with swords in hand, alert gazes sweeping the landscape, which seemed peaceful enough to Prissie. The taller one’s well-muscled arms were bared and probably would have been tattooed if his vibrant green wings hadn’t been on display. Light brown hair streaked with gold was cropped short except for a single lock, which hung in a braid over his left shoulder. When they reached her and Milo, this stern-faced warrior gazed down at her with piercing eyes — green flecked with gold. “Are you well, Priscilla Pomeroy?” he demanded in a surprisingly gentle voice.
“I’m fine … thanks to Taweel,” she replied a little nervously. These new angels were really very intimidating.
“Miss Priscilla, this is Jedrick, our captain,” Milo introduced.
“You have been causing quite a stir,” the leader remarked.
She looked around in confusion. The sky was blue, the grass was green, the sun was high, and the shadows were few. “I don’t see anything dangerous,” she ventured.
Jedrick sheathed his sword and said, “Be grateful you cannot see. The Fallen are fearsome, twisted creatures.”
“They’ve been driven back for the time being,” Milo explained quietly.
“Is everything okay?” Prissie timidly asked the mailman when the three warrior-like angels drew aside to compare notes.
The Messenger’s usual smile was tainted by sadness. “No, but you’re safe, and for that I’m grateful.”
She tugged at his sleeve and immediately felt childish, but Milo and Maddie were the only familiar things in the midst of strange people and stranger ideas. Clinging to the safety he represented, Prissie whispered, “Have these guys been around the whole time, and I just couldn’t see them before?”
“Something like that,” Milo admitted. “They’re members of our Flight.”
“Is that like a team?”
“Yes. Each team is comprised of a Flight of angels,” Milo confirmed.
“These guys don’t look anything like you and Harken, or Baird and Kester.”
“No, they wouldn’t. They don’t need to fit in. They need to fight.”
“Taweel said he’s a Guardian, but he’s not mine,” Prissie shared.
Milo nodded patiently. “That’s right.”
“Whose is he?”
“That’s not my story to tell,” the Messenger replied gently.
“Oh, so, what about him?” she asked, nodding toward Jedrick. “Is he a Guardian, too?”
“Jedrick is a Protector — a warrior who battles against the Fallen,” Milo explained.
“What’s the difference?”
The Messenger considered, then replied, “Focus, I suppose. A Guardian concentrates on his charge, but a Protector’s eyes are always searching for the enemy.”
“Enemy? Do you mean the Fallen?”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re saying that there were demons here?” she demanded, her voice rising.
“Yes, Miss Priscilla, there were.”
“Why?”
Jedrick approached and answered for the Messenger. “That is not entirely clear.”
“But you’re in charge, so shouldn’t you know?” she argued.
“I am neither all-seeing nor all-knowing.”
“But aren’t you guys well-connected with someone who is?”
The captain met Prissie’s defensive gaze with a serious expression, and Prissie wondered if she had pushed too far. However, he calmly answered, “We were given as much as we needed to know in order to do that which we were Sent to do.”
“And what was that?” she asked more meekly.
“Protect you,” Jedrick replied.
“And catch Maddie,” added Milo.
“Oh.” Prissie peeped toward the other warrior-like angel. His auburn hair was sleek and straight, falling well past his shoulders and arranged so that it partially obscured the long, jagged scar that ran down the left side of his face. His armor was similar to that worn by his companions — fitted leather studded with metallic disks that gleamed dully in the sunlight. His wings fell from his shoulders in mingling shades of bittersweet and amber.
Milo guided Prissie over and announced, “And this is Tamaes.”
He stepped forward, and after a moment of quiet consideration, Tamaes silently extended his hand.
Prissie offered her own, and as he gently grasped it, a soft smile played at the corners of his mouth. His reddish brown eyes gazed down at her with such warmth, she needed to look away, so she stared instead at the large, sun-browned hand enfolding hers. With a small squeeze, he said, “Do not be afraid.”
She glanced up, then realized that everyone was watching the exchange with keen interest. “I’m not,” Prissie protested, looking to Milo for support. He nodded reassuringly, and she fully faced the angel holding her hand. “Were you hurt?”
Tamaes brushed his fingers across his marred cheek. “A long time ago.”
The scar looked terrible, and Prissie hesitated to ask her next question. “How were you hurt?”
“I was defending someone precious.”
Milo helpfully explained,