Hope & Fury (Heroes & Demons Book 2)

Things were moving too swiftly for Angel’s liking, though admittedly he had only two years of memory as a basis for comparison. He did, however, rely strongly upon the integrity of his feelings – his instincts which he presumed were simultaneously unconscious and yet full of unbridled memory. Muscle memory, perhaps?

When he had first awoken in the twenty-first century, a concept as meaningless at the time as any other, he had known nothing but he had felt everything. He had sensed immediately the innate goodness of the people around him, it shone as clear to him as the painful cracks in their collective and individual armours. Broken, filled with shame and pain, but basically beautiful. It had put him at ease and the instinct had paid off – they were now the only family he had ever known and he loved them all dearly, each in their own individual ways.

After reading a book on the famous animal psychologist, Konrad Lorenz, he became worried that perhaps he had only imprinted – like a duckling awakening from the shell. Time bore out and seemed to prove his instincts were correct first time around, although he was left to wonder what may have occurred had he woken without memory into a more sinister and dangerous camp – that of the New Order perhaps? Would he become a devilish fiend, developing his own twisted sense of loyalty? Thankfully, time seemed momentarily immutable so they would not have to find out.

He did not remember awakening, there was simply one moment where he was not there and one when he was there. His instincts put him at ease and he observed all of those around him. He saw their interactions, their undeniable affection for one another – even if masked by their often rude contempt that did not always feel jovial. He began to pick up words, the language began to imprint itself upon his intention and memory faster than he thought possible. He began to understand these people on a level beyond instinct.

The moment he had truly awoken had been when instinct led him to the edge of the medical room. He sensed the pain, the suffering and intuitively knew he could do something about it. Without a word he had lain a hand on the blackened chest of Rick and felt grace and serenity flow through him. A light that enveloped them all, pure, white light. An emotion of love.

Since then it had seemed to him everything had quickened – first his transformation and the growth of his now impressive wing-span – and then everything else. Though he tried to find moments of stillness and tried to recapture the serenity of that pure and innocent moment; he found it harder and harder to do so in the increasingly complicated world he continued to learn about every day. Everyone around him seemed determined to hurtle towards they knew not what, without moments to think about whether it was the right thing to do.

It was a human trait he was aggrieved to discover he was developing.

The plane shook slightly with turbulence, drawing him from his private thoughts. He hated flying, ironically. Well, flying in vehicles anyway. He had eventually conceded to Ruth that the private jet would be far quicker and easier to take him and Ben to their destination than him simply flying. Besides, he’d never been able to carry anything more than his weight on his wings – he wasn’t built for it.

The fact that his route would likely take him over Lourdes and probably start a discussion of something called ‘the Second Coming’ were also had. According to Ruth that was a very bad thing.

After they had been fished from the sea Rick had used a satellite phone to make contact with Ruth. He explained that they had found a key, some kind of orb that gave him the knowledge as to the lost city’s location; he had also explained that there were more powered people beyond Cyvus involved with the New Order and that their operation seemed only to have grown. He didn’t think they knew the location but was also fairly certain that they would do everything they could to track them – and would likely succeed.

Ruth had filled him in from their perspective – about the man in black and the recapture of Stacey’s body. Judging from the bruises on his arm, Sandy had already had stern words with him about keeping secrets. He had, of course, asked why she dyed her hair less orange, comparing her natural look to a certain Kathy Burke and they had lost contact for a while.

Ruth’s man was to take them to their destination by boat, Angel knew the likelihood of danger and so had volunteered to join them – Ruth agreed. Surprisingly she had also allowed their new charge to accompany him.

Ben, who was sat across from him in the plane, attempting to do his very best not to stare at his wings. Angel had known him but briefly before he had passed, tragically. He sensed in him much conflict – but that which was ultimately born from a place of love. His passing had brought great sorrow, which even now had not entirely dissipated.

Like the others, he too was weary – knowing full well the stories of Janet and Stacey – but he also knew what he could sense. Confusion, blankness. It was truly as though the man before him were as new as himself, completely without the burden of influence, of growth. Or, he thought sadly, as he used to be two years before.

He felt incredibly old.

“I’m sorry,” Ben apologised, looking away in embarrassment, “I didn’t mean to stare.”

“It is fine,” he assured him, “I am sure to most people they take some getting used to.”

“Yeah,” Ben agreed, “It’s weird but it’s like some instinct is telling me they’re not the norm. It’s strange because you think if I don’t remember anything, how could I remember that people don’t normally have wings? Why would that be normal to me?”

“Perhaps because when you first awoke, the people around you did not have wings?” Angel offered, “Perhaps simply because it is hard-wired into human DNA to find strange that which different than themselves.”

“Perhaps,” Ben muttered, looking out at the window, “God, this is so frustrating.”

“Believe it or not, but I understand,” Angel explained, “Did Rick tell you anything about my beginnings?”

“He pretty much just said there’s a guy with feathers, don’t ask – we don’t know,” Ben answered truthfully, “And said not to stare, which I guess I ignored.”

“Well, it is true – we do not know,” Angel admitted, “My remains, I suppose you could call them, were found in the Temple. They were excavated and brought to the laboratory where the good doctor seems to think I regenerated. My ‘powers’, as you may call them, appear to tie into the life essence of things. I can heal, I can sense pain – and I can in extreme cases even be pushed to revive. The doctor believes I managed to do this to myself.”

“But what it seems I cannot repair is the mind. I know nothing of where I come from, who I was before I was bones in the dark waiting to be excavated. I just…was.”

“You just, woke up one day?” Ben seemed to ask the question but it was a statement, for it must have been the very thing he’d been feeling. Angel nodded in agreement. “Shit, isn’t it?”

“Unbelievably.”

They were shook a second time only now as Angel peered through the small windows of the cabin he finally saw why – they were approaching their destination.

Following Andrew’s assertion that they were searching for the lost city of Atlantis, he had done much reading on the subject – searching through academic volumes in Andrew’s library rather than attempting to decode the meaningless drivel of the internet. He had tried only for a few minutes online, finding that after many references to Stargate he was best off without it. Of all the places suggested for the lost city, including some which were a little ‘out there’ – nothing had been as elegantly simple nor as overlooked as their destination.

A small archipelago of islands in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, just south of Sicily and many miles north of the African coast. A place that had seen British, Spanish, Italian and Ottoman rule throughout the centuries – hotly contested during many of the major conflicts in history. To this day there remained the decaying remnants of old army barracks – many of which had been turned into delightfully pleasant craft shops for tourists.

A place which had also been host to a rather famous religious order for two and a half centuries – the Knights of St John, also known as the Knights Hospitaller.

At six-thirty that evening Angel and Ben touched down at Malta International Airport.