Devoted
Angel
Academy
Volume
1
Emery
Skye
Genre:
Young Adult Fantasy
Publisher:
LemonPress Publishiing
Date
of Publication: August 20, 2014
ISBN:
1936617250
ASIN:
B00MWZDSM8
Number
of pages: 388
Word
Count: 96K
Cover
Artist: Tamara Sands
Book
Description:
“Her
world, her mission…is about to change. What do you choose when your
blood is on the line.”
A
world where your life is a mission and to succeed you must have
resolute devotion to duty.
Seventeen-year-old
Anna Hasdiel is a noviate at Hope Academy, a secret school for young
angels where she and her sister, Amalie, train to become Warrior
Legites with the duty of protecting humans from Demons for the Legion
United.
Anna's
devoted to the angelic cause.
She's
always known she would be a Warrior for the Legion. Her world is
about to change.
Noviates
have been disappearing from Angel Academies around the world. No one
knows why. They just hope they won’t be next.
The
Powers send in Legite Nathaniel Deror for protection. Legite Deror is
strong, fierce and mysterious. He seems to have it in for Anna one
second and the next he’s rescuing her. He makes her feel things she
shouldn’t.
They
must travel to the home of the fallen Archangel Lucifer, where they
will fight past a host of deadly enemies. Where do loyalties lay?
She
never planned for this. She never planned for him.
I
was enveloped in darkness. I tried to run, but my limbs were frozen.
I tried to scream, but couldn’t. Invisible icy fingers squeezed my
throat shut.
It
was happening again.
The
darkness slowly lifted like the curtains on a stage. Only this was
anything but. My surroundings materialized. Large mounds of black
rock encircled me. There were three gloomy, sinister tunnels ahead of
me. Orange light flickered from a few torches held in the mouths of
metal brackets on the stone walls. The shadows they cast licked the
sides of the room while air whistled around stone stalagmites
protruding from the ground. I envied the wind. It was free to move,
free to leave. I wasn’t.
The
high back of a scarlet chair with eagle talons for feet faced me. I
tried to shut my eyes. I didn’t want to watch. Like any nightmare I
was afraid of what I would see.
But,
a stronger force was making me watch. Too bad that force wouldn’t
get a life.
A
demon hurried around the corner. I studied him as best I could. He
wore all black from his chin to the ground obscuring his feet. The
skin on his bald head appeared pasty white, out of place in the
darkness. His head was bowed. I couldn’t see his face. He was
shaking. It made me pity him. It made me think of somebody having a
violent seizure.
Unexpectedly,
a cavernous voice came from the chair and filled the space giving it
an oppressive quality that felt both hot and curiously thick. It made
my skin crawl. I couldn’t see the man responsible for striking fear
into the creature. He was faced away from me. The demon was trying
hard to control his movements, I could tell by the jerking of his
arms.
“Shamir,
I was beginning to wonder if you would ever come,” I could
practically hear his jaws grinding together.
The
pale demon looked at the voice in the chair, and I was immediately
drawn to his bottomless eyes. The sorrow I saw made me want to cry
and run like a coward.
But,
I quickly realized I had no control in this room. Not of myself or
the unfolding scene. I never did. If it were a normal stage, I’d
have the ability to run onto it, but this wasn’t normal.
Shamir
was gruesome. His face was concave: he had a prominent forehead; six
fingers high, and eyebrows that dipped into his forehead. The nose
was small and curved inward. His chin was also flat, but with an
outward curve like a dirt bike ramp. Deep wrinkles and heavy
lacerations marred his already awful features. His thin lips were
tightly stretched into a grimace. Shadows slithered in his mouth.
After an arduous moment, he spoke in a mournful voice.
“Sire,
I came when I could. There is chaos in the Dark World, but,” his
hands crossed in front of his stomach, he fiddled with his thumbs.
His nervous energy was a buzz against my skin.
The
suddenly irate voice from the chair interrupted him. “Silence! Why
do I give such a pitiful creature as you a place on my council? Can
you answer me that, Shamir?”
“Because,
Sire, I am your loyal servant,” he sounded both afflicted and
distant. I saw millennia of anguish in his eyes that had me shaking
in my slippers.
“That
you are Shamir... Do you know why I called you to me?” The voice
paused momentarily and then began again, “it is time Shamir. Do you
know what time it is?” Every word dragged on.
“How
can that be sire?” Shamir remained composed; distant, yet, his eyes
took on a fiery glow like an inferno.
“You
must find…”
A
moment of ringing silence passed and my stomach knotted. I strained
my ears and eyes to catch the words... images that blurred at the
edges, but it was useless. My time was up.
Not
yet! I thought furiously, Just a little longer! I need to hear
more... just a little more!
Ring!
Ring! Ring!
I
swung my arm around and hit my alarm clock. Sweat beaded down my head
and my clothes were practically drenched -- I'm sure I looked like
I’d been lying in a steam room all night.
I
peeled my down comforter off my sticky body, planted my feet on the
carpet that felt soft and reached I for the spiral bound notebook
laying on my end table. I began jotting down notes about the dream…
or... nightmare. My mother told me it would help me
understand them, but it hasn’t. Night after night I dreamt about
the voice in the chair. It made the hairs on my arms stand at
attention and my toes curl. The person in the cave sometimes changes,
but the voice from the red chair never does.
“We’re
going to be late, Anna!” My sister shouted from the other side of
my paper-thin door. Her voice as different than his as night is from
day. It warmed my skin like sunshine.
I
shuffled sleepily into my bathroom. I glanced in the mirror and was
slightly horrified, to be perfectly honest. It’s not like I’m the
super girly type, but this took things to the other extreme. The damn
thing was mocking me. My face was shiny, (in the 'I just ate four
cheeseburgers' way) and my hair was an absolute freaking rat’s
nest. I quickly turned on my straighter - a present from my sister –
(she would be disgusted by my appearance). It took a while to heat
up. In the meantime, I jumped into the shower that desperately needed
some bleach. Small mounds of black residue sat in the corners of, the
otherwise, pristine shower. It wasn’t much, but enough. I’m a
teenager. Cleaning is not my strong suit. This was only a problem
because the Academy was a lot like a military school. Cleaning the
floors with a toothbrush wasn’t far off.
I
love steaming hot showers. My usual shower was about five minutes.
Five minute showers were something that we, my sister and me, learned
about by the time we were four. My mom always told me, “showers
aren’t supposed to fun.” Blah, blah, blah. Thus, I had to learn
to love and enjoy the hot, relaxing water, quickly. For me showers
helped drum out the constant thought collisions in my mind. I jumped
out of the shower; I started the slow walk to my shoebox of a closet
and was greeted by the crisp, clean scent as fresh as spring air
from an open window.
I
looked casually through my wardrobe that offered a slim selection of
worn and practical clothing. As I sorted through my clothes the
feeling of wool, cotton, and denim rubbed against my hand. I plucked
a ball of lint from a violet shirt hanging crookedly on a wooden
hanger and tossed it in the plastic trashcan. I chose a black
long-sleeved V-neck shirt and my favorite pair of loose black cargo
pants. They were comfortable and practical.
The
only problem left was my crazed hair. It looked like a cat had thrown
up a fur-ball and it landed on my head. I took a small chunk of it
and began the irritating straightening process. Gradually, my silky,
blonde hair transformed into something slightly easier on the eyes. I
was relieved to see that my skin was clear, and sighed. My mother
always told me that my fair skin was a blessing, but I couldn’t
help the jealously that ate me when I thought of the other girls’
tan skin. Suddenly, my train of thought was interrupted.
“Anna,
hurry up woman!” Of course, my sister, Amalie, would be up and
chipper at this time in the morning. She was the spirited one. I
envied, and sometimes disliked her for that.
I
grabbed my heavy, black coat. When I inhaled the little hairs from
the synthetic fur hood tickled my nostrils and caused an unladylike
sneeze to erupt from my body as I ran downstairs to the dorm lounge,
the free area for noviates. The sound of cutlery clattering against a
table and the murmur of conversation greeted me in the stairwell.
“Hey,
Am,”
I
smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. Just the look of my little sister put
me at ease. Mom said it was a miracle that two sisters could be best
friends. It’s understandable that mom didn’t have a close
relationship with her sister
— Aunt
Trisha. If I didn’t know any better, I would say that she was a
fiend — or close to it. We never talked about Aunt Trisha.
The
dorm lounge was like everything at Hope Academy: white, immaculate,
and dreadfully boring. There was a large kitchen with a dozen small,
round, white tables dotting the room. They each had a metallic napkin
dispenser in the middle that reflected the sunlight streaming in
through the large bay windows. Old bookcases lined the perimeter of
the room. Every book a noviate could ever want to read was in the
Academy somewhere, or at least I thought so. I hadn’t exactly
looked to see if that was a fact, but I wouldn’t doubt it. That was
something that I truly appreciated—books. Books were my escape. A
desperately needed escape from the excellence demanded by the Academy
and that I demanded from myself.
“What
took you so long?” she griped.
I
didn’t respond to Amalie. I was still consumed by the dream. The
voice haunted me in my sleep, and started to haunt me when I was
awake. After a moment she chucked a granola bar in my direction.
“Earth to Anna,” she barked.
“Sorry.
My hair refused to cooperate.” I noticed Amalie’s hair always
cooperated. Amalie, unlike me, had dark, thick hair. It wasn’t
quite black, but it wasn’t just brown, sort of chestnut. She was
sitting at the kitchen bar with a notebook open. Amalie was an avid
artist. You’d never guess it, because she hid it so well.
“What’s
the topic today?” I asked referring to the artwork of the day…or
week.
She
glanced down at the page that had various black lines running across
it and shook her head. “Nothing special,” she told me. I didn’t
believe her. The depth of her eyes told a different story. Amalie
could see the beauty in even all the fine, straight lines of the
Academy.
“Okay
then,” I muttered.
She
closed the book and stood up.
She
was a slender, short girl at just over five foot. I had almost six
inches on her. Her eyes gleamed a sapphire blue and changed to an
almost indigo color when she was upset about something. They were a
little indigo now. She always dressed fashionably. Today, she had
outdone herself. She looked beautiful in a glistening white
blouse—with just a bit of her nearly non-existent cleavage revealed
— and tight, skinny jeans with knee high black boots. A poet in
Chanel surrounded by robots in Gortex.
“What’s
the occasion? Are you going to a modeling gig?” I asked, laughing.
“Well,
actually, no. You forgot didn’t you?” She was disappointed, chin
down down.
“No...
no... I didn’t forget.” I said awkwardly, and too late. I had
forgot, and wished I still did. With my birthday just under a month
away, Amalie had been begging to take me to the new club—the
Inferno—and her persistence finally beat me down. “I'm excited,”
I said, trying for glee, but it came out strained, so I gave her a
reassuring smile. Amalie had the attention span of an ant. That
worked because she usually forgot what she was mad about pretty
quickly.
“You
did too forget. Lucky for you, I worked way too hard on this outfit
to let it go to waste.” She twirled a few times, watching me,
hopeful.
I
grabbed her arm, stopping her from twirling and gave her a big hug.
“You’ve worked hard on every outfit you’ve worn this week. But
yes, this one is, by far, the best.” I stood back like a spectator
at an art show and took another good look at my best friend,
confidant, and sister. She smiled back and then pulled me to her. We
held each other briefly. Noviates started passing by and Amalie
released me and went back to her food.
“Thanks,
sis. We're going to have so much fun at the Inferno. I wish were
going this weekend! Everyone says the Inferno is off-the-wall.” She
continued to speak; in a language I didn’t fully understand, while
pausing every few words to shovel in a spoonful of oatmeal. The
Inferno was her kind of place, carefree and fun. “I just can’t
believe we haven’t gone yet—”
“Eat
much?” Taylor came around the corner and pulled up a stool on the
other side of the island stroking the white counter with a finger
capped by a perfectly manicured nail. Bleh. Taylor was a superficial
beauty even though I hated to admit it. She had short, brunette,
spiky hair, and foxy green eyes that held a spark my dull, green eyes
lacked.
“Don’t
be mad ‘cause I'm skinnier than you, Taylor. Be mad 'cause I don’t
need anorexia to pull it off,” Amalie shot her a haughty look that
would make any big sister proud.
Taylor
was slender, but a bit curvier than the rest of us, and had a darker
complexion too. Everyone envied her for looking exotic in a place
that made me, and the rest of us, feel so ordinary. That was probably
why she was so popular, that, and she was reputedly the biggest slut
for hundreds of miles. We live in Hope, Alaska for Power’s sake.
Amalie
scanned Taylor from head to toe with predatory eyes thinned to slits.
Amalie had taken it upon herself to be my sidekick when it came to
Taylor, who had insisted on being my arch nemesis for as long as I
could remember.
“You’re
not skinnier, just without essential curves, if you don’t mind my
saying.” She then shifted her attention to me and said, “Only
twenty-five more days till I leave for Bethel.”
She
and I were in the same class at the Academy. Her birthday was before
mine, by two days, and she never let me forget it. When a noviate
turned seventeen, they were sent to Bethel, capital city of The
Fourth Dimension, where The Powers resided for a pronouncement
hearing. When noviates returned, everyone else at the Academy looked
him or her at in a new light. It was our first step toward success.
It was our equivalent to a human getting their driver's license.
Except if the noviate failed their “driver’s test” they could
never show their face at the DMV again.
The
Powers were the authority of the Archangels and lower angels. The
Archangels, unlike other angels, protected mankind from evil
spirits, also known as demons. There's more. I can explain it, but
politics aren't my thing. Plus, we were taught to do our jobs not ask
questions.
There
are seven angel-training academies around the world; one for each of
the seven Archangels that no one ever actually sees. They are as much
a mystery to us as humans, but we know they exist. They are among the
superiors in the Legion United, the elite fighting force made up of
the best angels from the Nine Choirs. The Nine Choirs were split
between three spheres. The first sphere was the Counselors: Seraphim,
Cherubim, and Thrones. The second sphere was the Governors:
Dominions, Virtues, and the Powers. The third sphere comprised the
Harbingers or Warriors: Principalities, Archangels, and Angels.
Everyone was a part of the whole, and vital to keep the machine
operating smoothly. The smallest wrench could cause disaster.
We
were taught that God created the seven Archangels, then removed
Himself and put the Angels in charge.
She
pursed her full lips with a deeper cupids bow than could possibly
shoot an arrow. “I’m more than ready. Are you?” she baited.
When
an Angel Noviate (AKA angel in training) became a junior, he or she
went to Bethel where The Powers would determine if the noviate would
continue until graduation, or if they would have their wings clipped.
A
thin-lipped smile was my answer. She hung on my last nerve.
Since
we are all born into this life, it only made sense that we were kept
close track of by the Powers, who supervised all the Lower Choir
angels to ensure dedication and purity, meaning that no angel used
their abilities against another angel, or any human. It was uncommon
for a noviate to have their wings clipped. Every angel was needed in
the war against demons. However, no one was immune to that outcome,
either. If the noviate’s wings were cut, they would be forced to
spend the rest of their days in the human world, living a mortal
life. I cringed at the thought.
We
were constantly at the mercy of The Powers.
About
the Author:
Gemini
Emery is a horse trainer living in Colorado with two yappy dogs and a
few quirky horses.
She
graduated from Regis University with a BS in Business Administration
and a minor in philosophy.
A
life-long reader, Emery has always had a special affection for the
urban fantasy and paranormal romance realms.
When
not riding horses or writing she actively searches for adventure and,
as such, partakes in archery, skydiving, and shooting. In her
downtime she reads until her vision blurs, writes, hikes, spends time
with family and drinks an excessive amount of chai and coffee.
Devoted
is her first novel.
@Emeryskye
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