Uriel: The Inheritance (Airel Saga Book Five)

Chapter I

Cape Town, South Africa—Present Day

"DAD," WAS ALL SHE said.

Kreios fell to his knees in the dirt beside his daughter. His eyes were tender and his voice shook. "Eriel."

She smiled, weak. "Dad, I've told you a thousand times. It's Uriel." She coughed up blood. "I've missed you."

Kreios broke into deep, heavy sobs, weeping bitterly. Thousands of years had passed since she had disappeared. He'd believed she was dead. And now, just when he'd found her again . . . After a few moments he regained his self-control and asked, "What happened?"

"I took the Mark upon myself."

Kreios was stunned and confused. "But why?" was all he could manage. He crouched back on his knees and squeezed his eyes shut, realization sinking in.

"Michael and Airel are..." Uriel began, "...more important."

He looked at her, overcome with sadness. "But you are important to me. I cannot allow this." What then came to him to do was dangerous. But were there any other options?

He closed his eyes and weighed his decision.

Finally he broke the silence. "Airel," he said, his eyes still closed, "Airel, take Michael and your father and get off this mountain."

"What?" she said.

He turned to her and said gently, "It will not be safe for you here. Not for anyone. You must go."

He turned back to his daughter, to his Uriel—his Eriel. More tears escaped from his eyes. "If we . . . if what I am about to do makes an end of my daughter, you must go and find what is next for you. I may not be able to continue on." His tone was flat, resigned. He knew what he was about to do. There was only one choice remaining; there was no sense delaying anything.

He turned and looked straight at Airel. "You are ready; this is what you were born to do. Listen for El and keep your head. Now go."

He turned back to Uriel's sick and dying body. "I must now do what I can for her, and I am afraid. There is not much time left."

"But, Kreios, we—"

"Airel," he thundered, snapping his head to glare at her. Light pulsed from his tattoos; his teeth clenched. "Go now, and do not make me ask again."

Airel turned to go, reluctance written on her every feature.

Uriel looked into her father's eyes with surprise. "No, Father, leave me. Stay with Airel—you must."

But Kreios shook his head and began to open himself to what might very well kill him. This was his daughter, and he would not let her die.

***

NOT ON YOUR LIFE. No—just try to make me leave you, Kreios. I wanted to scream at him, but I was confused and still trying to process that Ellie was in fact his daughter. Not only that, but she had saved Michael. At what cost?

"Go," Kreios said again, but this time it was almost a whisper.

My movements felt robotic as I obeyed Kreios. Having only just been reunited with him, I hated the idea of leaving his side again, but he was not taking no for an answer—and I feared what I saw there in his eyes. I turned to see Ellie one last time, the little baby I'd read so much about, the one Kreios lived for, his only daughter. She gripped his shoulder and tried to pull herself up, but she couldn't.

Is this the last time I'll see her? I couldn't speak.

Michael scooped up my father in his arms and carried him. My mixed-up life will be the death of everyone I love. I looked on at the limp motionlessness of my dad and wondered if he was going to make it. Will he live? What has he been through for me? Am I worth all this?

I looked back at Kreios. I had to fight to hold back tears. He was draped over his daughter's dying body, the muscles of his back jerking in spasms of grief as he sobbed. I wanted to run to him, to help somehow, but I knew—I could feel—this was something far beyond me.

Michael touched my arm and I searched his eyes for some hidden strength. He managed a small smile and said, "Come on, Airel. Let's go home."

***

FRANK WISEMAN WATCHED THE sun beginning to burst upon the predawn sky over False Bay from the verandah of his posh villa in Simon's Town. He hated it—he hated all of it. His harpy of a wife was scratching and clucking like a yard-bound hen again, nagging him into getting a bit of exercise.

"But you'll live longer," she always said. He hated that too. She only wanted him to live longer so she would have someone to nag. If she didn't have that, she wouldn't have a single reason to live, he ventured.

Nevertheless, he was up at sunrise. Why? Because he was hopelessly stranded in the rut of his life. The truth was, if he didn't have her around to make him miserable, he wouldn't have anything. He had come to enjoy fighting with her. But he never let that show. It would ruin the game for both of them.

"Well, Frank, let's get a move on," she said, her voice strident and grating.

"After you, princess." He used her pet name like an insult.

They walked down the steps together to the beach. She was talking again, and he tuned her out. There was some mention of, "... you've got to quit the salt ..." and a little more of, "... at your age, you know ..." He rolled his eyes and kept up with her.

The sun was about to peek over the mountains across the bay. It would be blinding and she would go on about how magnificent it was and "Oh, Frank, isn't it lovely to be up and out before the dawn so we can see all this," but it would be blinding anyway and all it would mean was another wretched day had come upon him, that there would be heat, sun, misery, and his dear wife, Kimberley, in increasing order of irritation.

He kicked at a stone embedded in the sand, but his foot caught on it and he took a tumble, soaking his nice new pants in the wet sand. "Ow. Dash it all."

"Frank? Oh, dear. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Just help me up, will you?"

She reached to help him. "Are you sure? Did you break anything? You should be more careful. You know how brittle your bones are."

"No, Kimberley, no broken anything. Lucky for you." He tried his best to dust the sand from his bottom, but he was still wet and uncomfortable. Yes, it was rather like Kimberley.

He looked down at the offending rock, more than a little bemused at the effect it had taken on his morning exercise.

But it was not a rock.

It was something bright pink.

"Well, now, what is that, do you suppose?" he muttered to himself. "Princess, will you help me with this?" He kneeled in the sand to dig around the edges of the object.

The more his hands scraped away the wet sand, the more intrigued he became. He did not know where the impulse was coming from, but it seemed ... it seemed ... it seemed like something important.

Frank dug while Kimberley stood with her arms crossed, clicking her tongue in disgust.

Finally, the earth gave up its buried treasure. It had been embedded in the sand by the tides. "Some child's book bag," Frank exclaimed, beginning to fumble for the zipper.

"Well, don't open it." she scolded, but he did anyway. "Really. I don't see how it's any of your business, Frank. I really—"

"Kimberley," Frank said in annoyance, "shut up."

She did, but not without a huff and a foot stomp.

The zipper fell back to reveal a bright red jewel. As the sun threw open the day, the first rays fell upon the stone and lit it with an unreal light.

But hold, Frank thought, quite unlike himself, what's this? The stone was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Still, he wondered what else might be in the knapsack. Perhaps more treasures?

He opened the bag further and looked inside it. "It's a book," he said absentmindedly. "A right nice-looking one, too." He reached to pull it out, and as he did so, his fingers brushed against its hidebound cover. Like a shot in the dark, one word rang out in his head:

AIREL.