Harbinger: Celestial Creatures, #3

By Olga Gibbs

"I am Uriel: The Harbinger of Chaos, The Keeper of the Gates, The Begetter of Life, The Dam of The Ends, and I'm coming to take what is mine!"

The clash with Baza and his angels had demonstrated to Ariel that Earth (Apkallu) is not the safe heaven she hoped it would be, and it is only a matter of time before she is hunted and dead.

The only way to survive is to accept her destiny and to fight back.

But upon her return to Uras, Ariel is rejected in her own domain and has to suppress the revolt against her reign. The angels refuse her and her lead, abandoning her and Uras in favour of another ruler.

She knows that without an army of followers she won't stand a chance against Baza or Mik'hael, so now she needs to go into the most unexpected places to find it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raging Bear Publishing
• Release date: Jun 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393952817

Olga Gibbs

Olga Gibbs is an author, a creative writing coach and a writing mentor, studying for her Masters in Creative Writing, with a background in adolescent psychology and mental health, with years of experience working with young people in therapeutic and supportive settings. Please visit author website www.OlgaGibbs.com for more information on upcoming books

Book preview

Olga Gibbs

Harbinger

Published in 2020 by Raging Bear Publishing.

Copyright © Olga Gibbs 2020.

The rights of Olga Gibbs to be identified as the Author of the Work have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be edited, reproduced, stored on a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This book is a pure work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events in this publication are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to businesses, companies and institutions, or localities is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN 978-1-9164710-2-3

Cover design by Perie Wolford.

For upcoming publications visit www.OlgaGibbs.com

Praise for Celestial Creatures:

C elestial Creatures series is filled with dynamic characters, intimate portrayal of visceral emotion, realistic characters and compelling twist endings in every book.

Reader.

A story unlike any I have read before.

Reader.

Hallow weaves in several important themes into its already complex mythos. These themes are not at all fictional, and speak to important problems in society. From abuse, mental health, and economic deprivation, Hallow pulls no punches in including some heartbreakingly real depictions of inequalities and injustices that blight society. It is the inclusion of these themes that I most admire the ambition of Hallow’s narrative, and it is for this reason that I hope Hallow finds itself of the bookshelf of many young readers.

Fraternal Philosophising blog.

Heavenward reaches back into the actual lore and religious accounts to bring us more accurate representations of angels, powerful entities who, though light in nature, are violent to the success of their cause. I also very much enjoyed the depiction of Ariel’s mental struggle and accurate representation of schizophrenia.

Sahreth Bowden, author.

I would definitely recommend this book. It is perfect for lovers of fantasy, magic, all things angels and celestial beings without the religious part, a realistic MC and an amazing world-building.

Esmée van der Weide, book blogger.

I really enjoyed the rich, descriptive language because it really made me feel like I was alongside the characters in the story experiencing what they were.

The reading chemist, blog.

Chapter 1

I

'm pelted through the air for a few painful seconds. My body is pulled and twisted as if I’m fighting my way up from the bottom of a bog whilst being electrocuted in the process.

Suddenly my body slams into a wall and my skull hits the solidity of it, bouncing back. If I wasn’t an angel, the impact would’ve been the last thing I would’ve experienced in my short life.

Tentatively, I open my eyes.

I’m lying on the familiar polished grey stone floor and the bright sunshine from above washes over me, bringing with it a sharp sense of déjà vu.

I know we are in Uras. The open, bright, spotlessly-blue sky above is unmistakable and the air is saturated with oceanic scents of sea salt and ozone brought over by a gentle breeze.

But the obnoxious and overpowering smell of tropical fruits barges into the soothing symphony of the ocean, I find this annoying and irritating. The roofless hall stinks of sugared fruits as if someone had washed the floor with a fruit smoothie. It tickles at my nose, bursting with popsicles of sugar rush in my brain.

Welcome to your new home, Ariel.

As I’m about to lift my head and shake it to dislodge the pain, something drops on top of me, crushing me under its weight and my head hits the polished stones. The air is expelled from my lungs with a violent puff.

Shit, I mumble, breathing a few times, before lifting my head.

I wrestle my twisted arm from under the warm body atop and gingerly touch my head, rubbing at my forehead and temples. My head feels in one piece and doesn’t hurt, apart from a dull ringing in my ears.

Blindly, I reach behind me, ready to push the body off, when my hand travels over the familiar clothing and the small shape.

Jess!

Pushing with my right hand at the floor, I rise. I shuffle and adjust the position of my arm, bringing it closer to me, pushing myself higher, while keeping a hold of the body on my back with my left hand.

I wriggle and move underneath the body, trying to gently slide Jess’ body off me, but my grip loosens, then slips and Jess’ body rolls off and her head hits the stone floor with a dull thwack.

Shit.

No longer caring for gentleness or speed, I rise up on my knees, spinning towards Jess.

Jess! Jessie-boo, I call to her as I shuffle on my knees closer to her.

I stroke her face, pushing hair away and stroking her soft skin.

Jessie, Jessie-boo?

She doesn’t respond and in the silence of the immense hall without a roof, my voice begins rise with the first wave of upcoming hysteria.

Jessie?!

She’s fine.

I snap my head up, turning towards the voice.

Rafe stands behind me, watching Jess over my shoulder. His jaw is set tight and a fine sheen of sweat coats his pale face. I had almost forgotten about him.

She is fine, he repeats, it might take a few days for her to wake up. The shard of essence that I gave her is battling with her soul at the moment, but they both should settle soon, once they realise that they are both staying.

He comes closer and standing over my and Jess’ bodies, he adds: The essence shouldn’t be inside a human, but mind you, neither should a human be in Uras.

I turn my attention back to Jess. I lean towards her and I can hear her deep measured breathing, as if she is asleep.

Rafe takes a few heavy steps closer, and listening to the shuffling of his feet, I wonder if he is still unwell.

Without another word, he bends down and scoops Jess’ small body in his arms.

Nestled in his large arms and pressed against his chest sealed in a black armour of a rigid tactical vest, Jess looks smaller and younger. She looks paler against him. She looks lost and alone, breakable and defenceless. The contrast between their bodies is so stark, that watching her twig legs swing in Rafe’s arms, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake bringing her here.

But Rafe’s gentle arms close protectively around her, hugging her close.

Let’s go, he nods to me.

Yeah. Let’s go.

Rafe leads us away from the small, round hall where we have crash-landed, down the open roofed, white-walled corridor with the same grey stony floor, through a wide and tall arch of a white stone, hidden under a dense greenery of a trailing rose bush, with white rose buds winking through the green draping of leaves, that move gently with a breeze.

The heady scent of a breezy spring evening spins my head as I walk through the arch.

The white miniature rose buds dot a green living fabric of green leaves: living, breathing, producing that heady scent of spring.

The strangled echo of my shuffles and Rafe’s heavy footsteps floats and dissipates into the sky the moment it’s born.

I’m following Rafe, not yet knowing where we’re going. I’m walking behind him, mindlessly watching the swing of my sister’s feet in time with his steps.

Another decision has been made, another path was chosen, and only time will tell how well I have chosen both for myself and others.

Rafe’s bottom wing drags along the stone floor with a soft swish, snaking side to side with his steps radiating a soothing rhythm within the silent corridor.

My gaze travels towards his right, wingless side and I brace myself for a fresh stab of the familiar guilt. But instead I stumble, trip and almost fall at an unexpected sight. I stop, holding on to the corridor wall, keeping myself up.

Rafe... A strangled whisper is all I can muster.

Through the black rigid plastic of his tactical vest, through the thick fabric of his jacket underneath, the purple stumps of his new wings have begun to sprout.

It’s just the two thick feathery stumps, matching the base of his left wings to a T. The purple stumps end abruptly, as if drawn with a pencil on paper and then erased by a sure hand, leaving behind only the base.

The bases of his wings sport two thick, fully developed humerus bones – the central limb bone of a wing – one growing up and one growing down, covered in a purple fluffy afterfeather.

The edges of the feathery stumps are raggedy and raw.

Rafe has stopped following my call and is now looking at me over his shoulder, holding Jess in his arms. His eyebrows are raised, conveying his silent question.

"Your wings... The right wings are..."

I don’t know how to finish this sentence. Growing, materialising, coming back from the dead?

He turns his head and his gaze briefly drops behind his back, but he doesn’t need to see what I’m talking about.

He just nods.

Yes, I know.

But as I take two cautious steps closer, Rafe suddenly throws his head upwards, clamping his mouth shut, but not before a pained cry escapes past his clenched teeth.

He stands immobile for a few seconds, with his head up to the bottomless sky and his breathing is as raggedy as the sharp edges of his growing wings.

I shuffle closer.

Under my stunned gaze, the red blood rises from the depth of his stumps, bubbling, spurting like boiling water, surging to the top and then pooling at the raw, charred ends of his stumps.

The thick blood rises, gathers at the top but doesn’t spill.

Rafe moans.

His breathing is shallow and his eyes are closed.

The blood sits at the top of his stumps like tree sap, coagulating & burgeoning in uneven volcanic layers, turning under my gaze from the deep red colour of the blood to the purple, shimmery colour of his wings, before it begins to shape, morphing into another inch of wings’ purple bones, covered with a soft fluff of a purple down.

I release a choppy breath.

I don’t know what I expected to see in terms of angels’ wings growth and development, but this certainly wasn’t it.

I never gave much thought about how his wings would grow back or if they’d grow back at all, but if anyone would’ve asked me, I would’ve imagined a soft spell bringing them back as if by magic, all while a happy smile plays on the recipient’s lips. I would’ve imagined the right wings growing over time from small, miniature wings into the larger ones, just as animals and plants do.

Not in a million of years would I have imagined the process of wings re-growth to be so brutal, violent and bloody.

Are you okay? I whisper, struggling to pull my gaze away from his wings.

He still holds Jess in his arms and I take another step closer, ready to take her from him.

Yes, he barks at me in a rough whisper without opening his eyes.

Do you want me to hold her?

No. I am fine.

We stand like this for a few moments, before his breathing evens out and his gaze snaps back to me. Rafe glares at me and without a further word, he turns away, returning to marching down the stony narrow corridor, and I follow.

Since I gave Rafe half of my essence – is it mine if it belonged to Uriel before me? Shouldn’t I still call it Uriel’s? – and he woke up, he hasn’t said much to me.

He didn’t acknowledge the transference. He didn’t make a comment about it, didn’t say a word. He hasn’t spoken or shown a gratitude for my decision nor did he object to it. After he drew in his first breath and opened his eyes, lying on the ground and he looked at me, I knew straight away, that he was aware of what was inside him.

His gaze was searching, maybe wanting to say something, I don’t know, then suddenly, startling me, tears had bloomed and spilled from his eyes, sliding to his temples.

I’ve never seen Rafe’s tears, and seeing him like this, powerless, lost and exposed for the first time I truly understood what he had lost.

His grief and loss were so bare and raw, that I didn’t want to watch it any longer, so I got up and walked away, unable to help to think that maybe I’ve screwed up again, that maybe everything is my fault after all.

Are you sure about it? were Sam’s last words to me, and the soft pressure of his fleeting kiss on my lips with a taste of sweet blackberries on my tongue was his goodbye.

I’ve updated Rafe on my decision, on what I’ve decided to do, but I didn’t add that his dead girlfriend was okay with this plan, that the plan is the only way forward for me and my survival. Watching him lying on the ground crying, the words of my needs and my survival stuck in my throat. It my selfish decision, but I wasn’t so cruel as to rub it in.

Rafe didn’t argue with my decision and my plan. He didn’t try to talk me out of it. Suspended deep in his grief, I wasn’t sure if Rafe even heard my words, as he sure didn’t acknowledge any of them.

And now, following Rafe down this corridor, I began to wonder if maybe Sam was right and that maybe, sharing Uriel’s essence was beginning of the end for me, that maybe Rafe’s resentment will be the end of me.

The stone corridor bends right and then sharply down, and Rafe, leading the way, follows its path.

Rafe takes a right turn and abruptly stops. Not expecting it and keeping my gaze on the floor, I ram into his solid body.

Sorry, I mumble to his wings and stumps in front of my eyes.

Rafe doesn’t acknowledge me nor does he say a word to explain the stop, and after a few seconds of silence and unable to see anything past his wide back, I take a step around him.

Chapter 2

I

huff and roll my eyes at the sight in front of me.

Here we are. Shit and the fan are right on time.

A large crowd of warrior angels, sealed in shiny white armour are jammed into a tight space of the corridor, with at least forty or fifty standing ahead of us.

The wings of the angels are pastel, pale in colour. I spot a few pastel blue wings, a few powdery grey, lightest peach or lilac. Not a single angel could flaunt the pure white wings of Sam or the crow-black wings of Baza, or the shimmery purple of me and Rafe.

It’s hard to tell, looking at this tightly crammed crowd, if any of them has four wings, but it’s clear that their wings are much smaller than mine or Rafe’s.

They stand shoulder to shoulder in a solid, breathing mass, taking up the entire space of the corridor, from wall to wall and from the ground upwards, rising into the open air like a frozen mid fall tsunami wave.

The angels at the back are floating high in the air with a further row of them in front of them floating slightly lower, and the row in front of those floating lower still, until the ones at the forefront stand on the ground.

Their formation is of a church choir settled on bleachers, and I briefly wonder if they are here to welcome me, Uriel, home with open arms and a heartfelt performance of Ode to Joy, or some other glorifying performance. But if they were here to greet me back with open arms, they wouldn’t have their swords of white, rippling fire out of the scabbards and raised.

They are not here to greet their new ruler.

What the crowd have in common is the colour of the tunics underneath their white sparkling armours. The different shades of blue, from dark navy to pale, turquoise blue and covered in silver intricate heavy embroidery, poke from under the breastplates. The trousers of the shades of blue are encasing their legs.

Although all angels wear silvery-white armour, some have only breastplates shielding their chests, while others are sealed tighter, sporting pauldrons, vambraces and even gauntlets.

The angels long hair stream down their backs, floating softly in the breeze. Only a few angels have their hair plaited, and one of them is Chamuel.

Chamuel stands at the forefront of this blue clad regiment. His silvery-grey hair is cut short at the top, while at the back it is long, plaited into a thick and intricate plait, resting over his left shoulder, with a string of white glistening pearls weaved into it.

You have returned, he calls, raising his bushy grey eyebrow at me, bowing slightly, but the smirk that is dusted over his lips is anything but respectful.

He speaks in a weird gurgling language, but my mind processes it with ease, and when my attitude barks the response in English, the angel understands it too, unflustered.

Weren’t you expecting me? I open my eyes at him with feigned surprise, as I pull my lips to form a small o.

Oh no. I hope I didn’t ruin your seating arrangements for the dinner.

I take a step forward, standing shoulder to shoulder with Rafe. I want to ask him about the language translation but I know that now is not the time.

Chamuel’s sharp blue eyes dance between me and Rafe, lingering for a few long seconds on Jess’ body in Rafe’s arms.

Wardums are not allowed in our sacred place, Chamuel remarks, nonchalant.

Don’t call her that, Rafe growls low in response. Although his growl is quiet, it’s menacing enough for a couple of angels behind Chamuel to flinch, fighting with their feet, wanting to take a step back.

I don’t know the word Chamuel just said, but it’s clear that it was an insult.

He takes a few steps towards us, away from his soldiers, unfazed and confident. He is not afraid of us.

Traitors that made a deal with The Endless Harvester may never enter the great halls of Uras, Chamuel calls, raising his left arm above his head. His deep voice booms and amplifies, rising like cathedral music in a church. Although he addresses me and Rafe, I can hear the call of righteous indignation to his followers.

I settle, preparing for his long rousing speech to the masses, when he snaps his gaze to me, while his right hand travels to the armour belt around his waist, housing a selection of weapons, settling on the hilt of his sword. His glare is silent, but his message is clear.

"The deal that you, without a doubt, have made with Baza", he continues.

Then dropping his voice lower so only I and Rafe can hear him, he adds, as there’s no way, you’d still be alive.

That’s right, I snap, "I shouldn’t be alive... Thanks to you."

But he ignores my remark.

No traitor ever should be allowed in Uras, he bawls in his strong commanding voice, turning away from me to address his troops. We should not soil the Grand halls of the Daughter of An’s residence with presence of Baalzebu’s followers. We should protect the purity of Uriel’s teachings. We should stand strong in the face of this temptation, he yells, throwing his accusing finger at us, "and coercion that Baalzebu’s horde may bestow upon us. We should be advertent to his dark games and preaching. We should be watchful of his disguises and we should be wary of these willing traitors."

He looks at me and Rafe over his shoulder and a fleeting smile tugs at the corner of his lips, before he turns away.

The traitors of Uriel’s teachings should be banished from this sacred place and must never enter these divine halls, he roars, throwing his head up to the blue sky above. His voice bounces off the walls, met by the humming, approving roar of the angels around him. The noise seems to vibrate deep inside their chests, rising upwards.

But I’ve had enough of this show.

Traitors? I ask, shaking my head and taking a step forward.

Chamuel spins to face me and angels around him fall silent.

Traitors?! I call louder.

The hysteria and anger set in. I meet the calculating gaze of Chamuel’s icy eyes. There’s no fear or