Michael (The Airel Saga, Book 2) - By Aaron Patterson Page 0,108

went white.

Nwaba was a chameleon spirit. He could be anything he dared, and he was old, very old. He was one of the original rebels that had sided with the dark prince from day one. He too had been cast down from Paradise to the Dominion under the sun.

With that kind of pedigree, there were certain carryovers. He could fly faster than any other Brother, for instance.

He had been waiting in the line of succession for his chance at the Bloodstone for millennia. When it had finally come calling, he was ready. It was electrifying.

Nwaba had to confess one thing, if at all: that he was addicted to the unexplainable, the cultic ritual, the mystical. As such, his experience with the Bloodstone was unprecedented and satisfyingly addictive. From the time he had first heard the call, to which he had instantly given his consent, he had been in two places.

Part of him had remained in Africa, but part of him had been pulled to the host, the frail girl named Kim. And he had existed in duality until she had finally succumbed to the inevitability of his wooing sentiments that in fact were mere echoes of what the Bloodstone itself was saying. Once he had gained a foothold—no indeed, once the Bloodstone had gained a foothold in the host girl—he was truly master and commander; he had been sucked right in. It had happened there on the tarmac in that plane: confluence.

It had all come together there.

He had seen the look on the boy Michael’s face, knew he was too weak to continue. And he had seen the daughters of El there with him. He had seen that one with the Sword of his erstwhile companion Tengu, the weapon the outsider Kreios had stolen away from the Brotherhood. Nwaba would prevail, and the Sword would return to the fold.

To that end he had gathered up a welcoming committee. A small part of his Nri army. One hundred of his fittest and strongest that could fly out to meet the three in the air. It would be easy work. There were, after all, already two of the Nri Clan of the Brotherhood on board the plane.

“Get off me!” Ellie shouted, kicking Bishop in the face. But he tackled her again, this time taking her down onto the floor and straddling her.

He reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a folding razor knife, opening it up. “Daughter of El, it is time to send you home forever!” He drew back to strike.

Taking advantage of this opening, Ellie punched him in the throat twice, making him gag. He weakened for a second and she scrambled out from under him. She stood and kicked his face with her heel, knocking him backward.

As Bishop howled in furious pain and groped at his eyes, she walked over the top of him shouting, “Airel!”

But Airel was down.

Hex twisted in his seat and looked directly at Ellie, pure unleashed hatred fueling the fire of his eyes.

Nwaba was easily the biggest of the Nri clan. His wingspan was over two hundred feet, when he felt like flaunting it, when he wore the right suit of clothes. Or when it was useful. Like now.

He shot ahead of the pack, upward, aiming to intercept the G550. The Nri detachment had flown west from mainland Africa and then begun to loop around and climb as they closed the distance. He would have only one shot at this. The body of his host—the one named Kim—was with him, securely bound to his belly inside the cocoon he had woven for her, pink backpack and all. He pumped his enormous dark blue wings furiously, anticipating where he would cross paths with the plane.

Shrieking by at nearly mach when he made contact, it was all Nwaba could do to rake his claws along the fuselage, grasping for it. He flicked his leg out and up. A great rapier-like talon shot upward against one of the engines as he slid by, his tail to the rear along the plane’s belly. The engine instantly flamed out and exploded, sending bits of shrapnel everywhere and producing a massive plume of smoke that stained the sky. He folded his wings tight against his body, flattening, reducing drag.

Nwaba wanted to do more. The heat of battle descended upon him, bloodlust filled his mouth, and he grasped for more of the slippery aircraft. He pierced through the fuselage with the claws of one hand, holding fast. He flipped his body around,