The night crawled, becoming a new day. I was at my desk, clicking away at the computer. It hasn't even been a full day, and the pictures from Henry for yesterday were sent over. I flicked through the many pictures, awed by his professionalism.
They were beautiful. They crafted and lit every picture well, which gave it a glowing glow. I'd expect nothing less than the artist's skill and perfection in every piece.
I came upon the pictures of Eric and me. Each one was breathtaking, but the one that caught my attention the most was where Eric was leaning against the bullet train, while I was lying on top of the bullet train like a cat. He was looking up, eyes wide and with a slight smile on his face. The light struck me, implying I was his guardian angel, perched on the train and safeguarding him.
A slogan slammed into my head, "Riding the Wings of Angels." I jotted it down on my piece of notepad in front of me, moving it to the file to be worked on.
I flipped through more; this time, I stopped on a picture of Daimon and me. Wow, the dramatic lightning in this picture gave it a royal feel. Daimon was sitting back as if he owned the sofa inside the VIP room. The lighting was dark around him; my lower wings wrapped around him like a cloak. He was like a king, staring straight at you with blazing cold eyes that screamed "Bow" and worshiped me. While I had my hand wrapped around his neck, looking down with half-closed eyes. My black hair flowed down, pooling over his shoulder. The top wing opened wide behind my back. They faded my figure, making it look as if I were an ethereal spirit, protecting him. He wrapped his finger around the black feather.
Another slogan spilled into my mind, "Summoned by Majesty. Powered by Speed. Board the bullet train."
I got to work on the first two poster-like ads. I flipped through a few more, finding more royalty-like pictures for the VIP section. Now, I was waiting for the more economical class advertisement.
Leaning back, I stretched. My back hurt from sitting too long.
"Sarah," Isaiah called from his desk.
"Yeah?" I replied, turning toward him.
"Boss wants you upstairs."
"Huh? Why?" My arm dropped, wondering why he was calling me.
"I don't know. You should go; he's expecting you."
I got up, heading for his room. Entering the elevator, I rode it up to the twelfth floor. The door opened, and I headed straight for the door, where the two receptionists noticed me. One of them knocked on the door as Daimon's voice said, "Come in."
The receptionist opened the door, allowing me to enter.
"Mr. Regis. You called for me?" I asked.
Daimon was scribbling a few signatures, and in his hand were my flight feathers made into a pen. My eyes grew big, surprised. Why did he do that? That…. was something my father did when he had my mother's flight feathers, making it into a pen that he used to write with. There was ink on the side as Daimon reached over; the pointed edge was dipped with black ink. The way he signed his name was elegant and beautiful. I couldn't help but stare at his handwriting.
He didn't answer me, waiting for him to finish reading his documents.
I cleared my throat, "It seems you have made it into a quill."
Daimon stopped, looking up. "Yes, it's quite sturdy. I had it tailored. The ink fills the pen, giving it a smooth letter every time I write with it. I was quite pleased with it. I haven't thought that I would find a good pen in a long while."
"Why a quill, though? Regular pens would have worked just as fine."
"As a child, my father gave me quills for my seventh birthday. I loved that pen, but it broke. I couldn't find another replacement for it for a long time. This has that same pressure and feel to it."
A warmth spread in my heart. I was glad that my feather became a quill and brought wonderful memories. I felt a pull of energy seeping through me, heading straight to the quill in his hand. A soft glow wrapped around it and disappeared. At that moment, I knew that the first compulsion had been completed.
I was completely stunned by the implications. One out of three feathers compulsion released and completed it. Did they consider writing on documents a battlefield?
The moment Daimon signed one of his papers, the ink poured out of the signature part, blacking it out as if there had been a huge spill on it. He cursed, reaching out for a Kleenex. He dabbed it, but the ink seemed to spread out, making the whole paper look like splotches of a battlefield on paper.
Daimon reached out, pressing the call button. "Abigail, bring me another copy of the Filor contract, now." There was annoyance in his voice.
"Yes, sir," a sweet voice spoke.
Daimon balled up the tissue, throwing it into the wastebasket. He pushed away the blotched paper. Abigail knocked, entering with a new contract in hand. She swayed her way over and placed it on the table. Her chest was open, showing off her cleavage.
I rolled my eyes. Woman.
"Here you go, Mr. Regis." Abigail spoke with a sultry voice. "There is another copy behind it as well."
"You may go," Daimon didn't even look at her.
Abigail frowned; she straightened up and left.
Daimon dipped his quill into the ink; he placed the pen down on the signature. The ink spilled out from the quill in a large blotch once again. He cursed under his breath, annoyed. "What the heck is wrong with this pen?" He then flipped over the messed-up contract and started scribbling on it to make sure the ink was just right. Every time he wrote something, the ink came out the way he wanted.
He crumpled the messed-up paper, pulling out the third. This time, he leaned in a bit. He placed the pen down on the signature, and the moment the tip touched the paper, a blotch of ink spilled out.
"Are you serious?!" he gaped at the pen, glaring at it. "Is this defective?"
I watched him, realizing what the pen was doing. A light chuckle echoed through the room, catching Daimon's attention.
"What's so funny?"
"Sir, it's not the pen."
"What-? How could it not be the pen? It just spilled out ink."
I spoke, my eyes glittering with laughter. "First, there is a warning. The second is not an error. Following that, sir, there will be no other, as the third is a sign and a final warning. Dire consequences will follow if you push forward.
"What kind of superstition are you talking about?"
"I am not. It's what my mother taught me and what she said always came true. I tested that theory out, and I ended up with a tremendous pain, loss, or terrible life lesson, not heeding the warning that came later in life connected back to the point of that final warning. I know this isn't my place, but I recommend you look into the Filor business before you sign that contract."
"You're saying that I should listen to superstition."
"No, I suggest you listen to the signs. The signs never lie." I knew I was pushing it. Still, if the battlefield is that paper, then I would drop hints.
He took a moment, looking at the quill. Looking at it.
"You stated you haven't found a pen like that since you were seven years old. Memory like that isn't something to scoff at. The pen fills right, is the best way to describe it, isn't that correct, sir?"
His silence answered my question.
"The flow of writing is like a battlefield. Every written word creates an illustration on paper, bringing with it a life of its own: a meaning. If the flow is interrupted, doesn't that mean to stop and observe the why? Most people would get frustrated and bulldoze their way through, but that isn't always the way."
Daimon tapped the pen on the paper; the dots created were fine without a hint of expression showing. He then took a moment and glanced up at me. Placing the pen down, he crumpled the paper and threw it in the wastebasket.
"You have a way with words."
"Thank you."
"I'll take your advice. Filor did nag scratch on the back of my head for a while; I could be wrong."
I smiled. A wave of relief shot forward, glad that the final tethering energy to the feather snapped.
"This wasn't why you are here; instead, it is tomorrow's Luna Gathering."
"Is there something I need to know?"
Daimon turned his seat, reached down, and grabbed a blue box that displayed the highest quality and presentation. He placed it on the table and pushed it towards me.
"This is?" I reached out, opening it.
"Your dress and shoes. Wear this with the wings."
"Um, I have a dress." I hesitated, wasn't sure if I should take this. Why was he giving this to me?
"This will be better and will fit the image of our company."
"Yes…sir." Curious, I opened the box; in it were black and golden heels. Pulling it out, I saw small diamond-like stones embedded in the shoe. Next was the dress. Holding it up, the one-piece dress revealed a V-shaped back. Black and gold feathers lined up on the edges of the dress, giving it a gentle floof. Detailed embroidery showcased itself on the front with a light, see-through fabric that would stress the breast, and hide most the chest. They split the side of the dress.
"Thank you." I put back the dress, shocked. This was a high-quality dress; I could feel the texture in my hand and saw the tag. The dress came from Gillian's Boutique, a premier clothing store. "Would that be all?"
"Yes, you may leave."
I got up, but before I left, he spoke again, "I would prefer you call me Daimon."
"That wouldn't be appropriate, Mr. Regis."
"I heard you were on a first-name basis with Eric."
"He pushed me to it."
"Then think the same."
I sighed. Are all CEO's this pushy? "I'll call you Mr. Regis at work and Daimon outside, would that work?"
"Yes."
I then headed straight for the door. My hand reached out, turning the knob. I stopped. "Mr. Regis." I looked over the shoulder. He looked up at me.
"I suggest you sign all your contracts moving forward with that pen. It'll be useful to you in the long run." I smiled and pushed the door open as I left.
That pen was now a relic. I knew it in my gut, especially tailored to what he needed it for. But the catch was , it needed my feathers to activate it and so far, he has two more. I felt that fate wanted that to happen, a second way to use the feathers when I wasn't there.
Aeon's a race name we were given; many gave us different names, from messengers, seraphims, cherubs, etc stepped into the history that transcends time. One would say we have fallen; another says we are not. I say we are neither, put here for a job to watch over humans. Still, there aren't many of us; hell, we are scattered across the globe, dwindling fast. Hunted, killed, sacrificed, and worse, used. Staying hidden was what my mother reminded me, always stay hidden as we weren't supposed to come out yet. We were still humans, just with wings and had an ancient bloodline running through our veins.
Yet. I sighed. We were all waiting. When? When were we allowed to come out? But I had to agree. We weren't a race that best worked out in the open; time had reminded us not yet, wait. Wait for the signs, wait. We followed in silence, moved in rhythm with the will, and most of us failed to understand why we haven't been able to understand the plan.
And from that, half of our kind fell. We call them the Fallen, black wings that eat through space and vengeance that rotted the soul. I was taking those forsaken paths, each step was like an anchoring festering of hatred that pulled at my core. Blood for blood. Pave with revenge. Death of my parents, the wings of revenge.
Our history documented many living beings representing our kind, yet we understood death was not final. Our ancestors still worked in the spiritual realm, moving to the beat of the Will of I Am. They are living in their own way.
The feathers, the energy of our connection to our God. A source of power that fuels many things to happen, we can always decline the urge. Free will was the gift God gave us, and God never forced us. Free will was the gift God gave us, and God never forced us. Because it would hamper the full potential of an unwilling, tampering with the effect of the feathers.
My mind raced with thoughts of what else that the feathers that were left behind would do, but I knew I couldn't let my mind spiral. It didn't do me any good. Who knows what I was called to do next or the empowered relic that Daimon had would use the feather as another cost. Either way, that would be better for me as I would not have to deal with him.
I sat back down in front of my computer. This wasn't the time to think about those feathers; I still needed more information about the murder that killed my family. So far, nothing. No other clues, no other paths. That information vanished as if removed.
Was being here at the Regis Corporation the right call?
I wasn't sure.
With a click, I scrolled through the news. The news feed displayed a picture of Daimon and the woman who was in his arms a few days ago in glaring letters. Ariel Laughton, Daimon's girlfriend. A famous, popular model who had been with him for five years. There have been talks he was planning to marry her.
Their dates and destinations multiplied; I paused on an unexpected scroll. A less big news of a different woman. She was beautiful in her own way. Brown hair, high cheekbones, and an S-line curve that was beautiful. Racheal Mills, that was her name. Different from Ariel Laughton, who was high-class, bright, and with enormous smiles. Racheal Mills was soft, and smelled of a white lotus that one would want to protect.
Racheal Mills, Daimon's former fiancée, had been his sweetheart since their teenage years. Their story is a wild, beautiful melody, much like a love song. What didn't make sense was why they broke up? If such an amazing flame existed between the two, what separated them?
Looking into it, they brought Ariel Laughton into the picture the same week they called off their engagement. This looked like a cover-up. Moving from one woman to another was not normal, unless there was something going on that I didn't know.
What caught my attention was the names Eric Sol and Tyler Hills in the same picture with Racheal and Daimon. They all knew each other. My mind raced with different scenarios, but they were all what-ifs.
I tapped my fingers on the mouse, searching for other information. I looked for Racheal Mills, noticing that she was the head doctor of a hospital. Her father was wealthy, owning many hospitals. She was stationed in a different country at the moment, having left five years ago. Married to another man, and just divorced. A prearranged wedding right before the call-off of the Daimon's and Racheal's.
Clicking off, I searched for information on the Luna Gathering. Tons of pictures of wealthy men and women came to this gathering. What was interesting was that many of the people who went to this gathering were all looking for marriageable candidates as if they were searching for partners. Numerous news reported perfect pairings and marriages following the gathering, many calling it the premier singles destination.
This year's gathering was being held here at Hillmont County. They planned the Bellerose reception and landed here. The single-day event lasted all night, and it even booked the surrounding hotels to the brim.
A tingling sensation in my gut roared in my mind, telling me that tomorrow night was going to be a fascinating night.