Wingless (The Lia Hunter Chronicles #1)
Chapter 3

Strolling into the women’s locker room I glanced around to make sure it’s clear before stripping off my clothes. I didn’t like people to see the scars on my back. The two thick lines or raised skin were centred near my shoulder blades and even with my healing powers the scars still remained ugly reminders of what I’d lost. Two years after I lost them I’d had my back tattooed. A pair of black wings covered my upper back and swept down the backs of my forearms, the feathers beautifully detailed. Sometimes it hurt to even look at it, because my wings were never so perfect. They were broken and deformed but they were mine.

Only very few people have seen the scars, one of them being Captain Hutch, the man who found me the night I lost my wings, bleeding, broken, dying... After my mother’s suicide he and his wife took me in and we both silently agreed never to talk about that night or what happened ever again. The doctors who treated my wounds in the hospital knew but they were bound by doctor patient confidentiality. Another was Tess and that was by accident. She never mentioned them and for that, I was eternally grateful. It was my best-kept secret. To everyone else, I was just a typical Seraphim hybrid like Gabe, and due to complicated reasons, I didn’t correct them.

Quickly washing the soap from my body I turned off the water and dried myself with a towel before tugging on a pair of sweats and a shirt I kept in my locker. Moving in front of one of the mirrors I examined my hair. The ends were lightly charred and I sighed. Grabbing a pair of scissors I cut off the burnt tips with a skill acquired after years of practice. After I’m done my fiery red hair rests about five inches below my shoulders. Shadows hung under my gunmetal gray eyes making my face appear gaunt. I wouldn’t ever be considered classically pretty, my bone structure, and imposing features too strong for such a soft word, but on more than one occasion I’ve been referred to as striking. Looking in the mirror now all I can see is a woman who needs a really good nap. Grabbing my stuff I moved out of the showers and headed to the garage. Jumping in my crappy little car I crossed my fingers as I turned the key and let out a sigh of relief when it coughed to life. Pulling out onto the street I made my way home.

My home was my sanctuary. I know a lot of people say that but for a kid who grew up in a sketchy neighborhood, surrounded by crime and the uncertainty of whether I would become a statistic it was especially true. Opening the door to my apartment I was immediately covered in a feeling of tranquillity. The wide open space exuded softness. There were no harsh edges or stark colors instead the walls were a calming cream, the floor covered in plush carpet that was tough on my bank balance but worth every cent. The plush couch was practically begging to be sat on, the whole space warmly lit and inviting. Every time Hutch came to visit he cracked a joke about me building a veritable bird’s nest.

Closing the door behind me I quickly flipped the four locks on the door before checking the inbuilt security system. Overkill maybe, but I had made enemies in my line of work and I wasn’t going to risk it.

Toeing off my shoes I threw my bag onto the kitchen counter before ambling towards the bedroom. Quickly checking my gun for bullets, I placed it on the nightstand before pushing away a pillow or five and slipping under the covers off my bed. The tension left my muscles in a surge and I sighed with relief. Closing my eyes it didn’t take long for me to fall asleep.

The dreams didn’t come straight away. Instead, they crept up like shadows, slowly taking over my peaceful sleep in a merciless attack.

I’m hovering above the alleyway where I was attacked. My wings beating an even pace behind me. In my dreams, my wings are still there. In my dreams, I can finally fly.

I watch helplessly as I’m tugged into the alley. The three sinister figures converging on me as I scramble to my feet. I watch as I land the first blow and pray, for the millionth time, that I’ll get away. That I won’t have to watch it happen again. Hovering there above them I scream at myself to run. To keep on fighting until I can escape but my voice is lost in the wind.

I watch as I’m shoved to the ground.

I watch them straddle my bucking figure.

I watch them make the first cut. And the dozens of cuts after. With each slice of the blade, my own back screams in pain. Blood pours down my back as if I’m the one being cut and still all I can do is watch powerlessly from above. The knife cruelly cuts a final time and my own wings disappear like smoke.

Bleeding, wingless, I fall out of the sky.

I woke with sweat pouring down my body. My chest heaved with gasping breaths and I swiped angrily at the tears pouring from eyes. The scars on my back burned with phantom pain and for a moment it felt as if my wings were truly there. I could almost feel the tickling brush of feathers, the comfortable weight of them. Then, all too soon, dream and reality detach from one another and I remembered they were gone. I forced down the sobs that wanted to surface. Instead, I stumbled into the bathroom, cranking the shower onto the hottest it could go, I quickly stripped before jumping under the scalding spray. At least now I could pretend the tears still stubbornly leaking from my eyes were just water.

I stayed in the shower until the water ran cold. Pulling on a pair of shorts and a cotton shirt I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. It was only just past six in the morning. I’d gotten less than three hours of sleep and my body was aching with fatigue, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep.

Moving into the kitchen I flicked on the coffee maker before picking up the remote and flicking the television on to fill the apartment with something other than silence. The upbeat murmur of an especially perky breakfast news host filled the air and I closed my eyes with a sigh.

A headache had started up in my temples. The persistent thump, thump, thump a reminder of the dream. I didn’t have them often. In fact, this was the first one in months. But when I do it was followed with by at least a week of sleepless nights, spikes of pain shooting through my back, and a general recklessness on my behalf. Last time this happened I jumped out of a burning building.

From the third floor.

The only thing that had saved me from being a stain on the sidewalk was my Jaxai blood and even then I was confined to a bed for a week to heal a broken ankle, three broken ribs, and minor burns.

It was my way of coping, Hutch said. I threw myself into dangerous situations to make myself feel alive again. To feel like I had control over my life. That theory was a little too close to the truth for my liking so, of course, I had denied it completely.

I was on my second cup of coffee when the story blew up my television screen. The ‘breaking news’ banner flashed across the bottom of the screen. The bubbly host practically vibrated with excitement. Used to relaying puff pieces about dieting, puppies and the like she clearly struggled to contain her excitement at being the first to break such a huge news story. Her features battled between professional seriousness and gleeful eagerness resulting in a strained grimace.

“We have just received word on a breaking news story, coming to us from the Seraphim embassy. It appears that a woman’s body was discovered earlier this morning by a passer-by. The woman in question was Sandy Carlyle, a Seraphim Jaxai.”

On the screen, an image of Sandy appeared. A young woman, in her late twenties, blonde haired, warm brown eyes, and a piercing white smile. Sandy’s photo exuded the otherworldly beauty of most Jaxai. She seemed vaguely familiar.

“Ms. Carlyle was well known for her strong support for a prosperous and peaceful relationship between Jaxai and humans. Recently she advocated for the combination of the Jaxai and human education systems. A controversial topic that has split the nation.”

The memory came back with a snap. She’d appeared on several talk shows both human and Jaxai, to promote her idea of combining human and Jaxai schools. Institutions that had so far remained firmly separate. I had thought it was a smart idea, but many were opposed to the idea, claiming it ‘dangerous’ to combine the two groups. A ridiculous, fear-mongering notion.

“We now cross to our correspondent Tessa MacLauchlan who is currently at the scene of the crime. Tessa, what can you tell us about what’s happened?”

The screen flicked to another shot of a woman who stood in front of the embassy. Behind her police tape had sectioned off an area in front of the embassy steps. Police filled the area, scurrying back and forth, and every now and then a light flashed as the press scrambled for the money shot.

“Well at this point in time we don’t have a lot of information regarding Ms. Carlyle’s death, however, the police have confirmed that it was, in fact, a homicide. Ms. Carlyle’s body also has been stated to have been mutilated in some fashion leading police to believe this may be some sort of hate crime. However, it is still unknown whether the purists are behind this brutal attack.”

The purists. A faction of human extremists who believed that all things Jaxai and magical should be wiped from the face of the planet. They were behind some of the most heinous crimes in history since the Jaxai’s exposure. Mass shootings, suicide bombings, murder victims maimed with an almost ritualistic meticulousness. They were the real life boogeymen Jaxai children feared were under their beds at night. No-one knew who was behind the organization, or how they operated. They came, destroyed anything they could get their hands on and vanished into thin air.

Shivers danced across my spine and unease flipped my stomach. The ringing of my phone caused me to jump. Placing a hand over my racing heart I picked up my phone. Casting a quick glance at the caller ID, I hit accept.

“Hey, Hutch,” I said.

“You watching the news?” He asked without any preamble. Hutch wasn’t a man to waste time with niceties but even so, I picked up on the note of tension in his voice.

Straightening in my chair I quickly turned down the volume. “Yeah. Why?”

“You’ve been requested for a job. You’ve twenty to get to HQ.” He said before hanging up.

Slightly shell-shocked I stared at my phone for a second before what he said processed. Jumping up from the couch I dashed into my bedroom, changing into a pair of jeans, and a bureau shirt, my leather jacket, and boots completing the outfit. Tucking my gun into its holster, I grabbed my bag, stuffing my phone and keys in before dashing out of my apartment.

Whatever job had Hutch serious enough to request my immediate presence at HQ must be big. With adrenaline running high and the urge to do something dangerous flowing through my system, I sped to HQ with a grin tilting my lips.