Page 11 of Demon Touched

“Pull up, pull up, pull up,” a young man next to me mutters tensely under his breath, his lips moving against the fingers he’s holding to his mouth, as if he doesn’t want anyone to see.

The diving ephilium are close enough to see their faces now. Five of them, more or less flying parallel to each other, eyes fixed determinedly on the stretch of lawn in front of the crowd.

It looks like they’re going to crash straight into it any moment now.

One of the male fledglings in the air falters and peels away, dragging his wings back to pull himself out the dive. The young man next to me breathes a sigh of relief. A moment later, a woman with short, white-blonde hair bares her teeth and falls back from the dive too.

“For fuck’s sake, Zinah,” a woman in front of me curses, kicking the ground.

A third diver quickly follows suit, leaving only two ephilium still locked in, side by side as they speed toward the hard, unforgiving earth that’s only seventy—maybe fifty—feet away, and closing in fast. On the left is a broad-shouldered blond man with a scruff of beard and unusually dark eyes, on the right a tanned, square-jawed man with chestnut hair.

I can’t quite work out what the goal is. Is this just a game of aerial chicken?

Unable to stop myself, I dip my head forward to catch the attention of the ephilium woman closest to me. “What are the rules?”

“Rules?” She glances sideways at me, barely turning her head. “They have to stay next to each other. No overtaking. Last to pull up wins.”

“Wins what?”

“Glory, obviously,” she huffs like I’m an idiot.

I blink, watching the fledglings risk breaking their necks for bragging rights.

“So why isn’t everyone up there?” I ask, curious.

“Because some of us aren’t foolish enough to believe we could beat Rowan Gradis in a death dive, of course,” she bites out, defensive. “Why aren’t you up there?” She turns to get a better look at me, her eyes widening when they fall on exactly what isn’t on my shoulders. “Oh shit.”

Her surprise is so unfiltered I give in to a smile. “Not to be down on myself, but I think I might come off in that contest worse than the rest of you.”

“What are you—” she starts to ask, but her question is cut off by a shout, and we both whip around to see the big, blond ephilium has changed course and is barreling through the crowd right toward us.

I grab the woman beside me and pull us both down just in time to feel the gust of air from his wings blow past our heads. He’s obviously struggling to recover from a messy termination of his dive, banking awkwardly and wobbling in the air as he pivots to avoid a stone gazebo.

Loud whoops drag my attention back to the ephilium still diving. He’s held his nerve even now that he’s alone—closing in on the last thirty, then twenty feet. He can’t be more than fifteen feet from the ground when a slight readjustment of his wings sees his body swoop smoothly out of the dive, arcing back up into the air.

The crowd loses its mind as the woman and I get to our feet.

“Thanks,” she says begrudgingly.

I nod to indicate she’s welcome, then look back at the winner of the contest, now touching his feet to the earth as his fellow fledglings crowd around him.

“He made it look easy,” I say, a little awestruck.

“I know,” she says, squinting as if she’s sizing him up. “It’s something to do with the way he curves his primaries,” she stretches her wings out, tilting the bottom feathers as she tries to emulate him. “It gives him lift at the last moment even as he straightens out.”

The broad, blond ephilium is trudging back toward us now, glaring at the man with chestnut hair. The victor is too busy chatting to one of the other contestants to notice, clapping him on the shoulder as he says something that makes the loser laugh, shaking his head.

“Better luck next time, Keros,” the woman next to me says to the blond, though she doesn’t sound very sympathetic.

“Get plucked, Bianca,” he says, scowling. Then he shifts his gaze to me, eyebrows rising as he notices my lack of wings.

“Ancestors.” A smug grin spreads across his face. “What’s a human doing here?” he asks loud enough to attract the attention of those around us. Several fledglings turn to see me for the first time.

I roll my eyes. “I’m nephilim, actually,” I say, crossing my arms. I’m aware that how I handle this will probably set the tone for how everyone treats me going forward. If it’s obvious I can’t be shamed for what I am, people won’t bother trying. “But if I were you, I’d focus less on me and more on not overestimating yourself.” I look pointedly over to the ephilium who bested him—Rowan, Bianca said his name was—who’s watching this interaction from afar.

“Nephilim?” Keros repeats, looking me up and down with a sneer. “You look completely human to me.” His expression shifts into anger. “Don’t tell me you’re a fledgling?”

He looks around for support from the crowd and soon finds it in a thin woman who looks similarly appalled.