The Dark Lands

Chapter 4

4

Worms.

Why does it have to be worms?

Purgatory hosts farms for cows, puppies, chickens, and—my personal favorite—baby goats. So why am I trudging through Enmity Farms, my homeland’s biggest producer of worms at this very moment?

Because my honorary older brother Walker asked me to.

Plus, Walker’s a ghoul and his kind love worms. Long story.

It took me twenty minutes to get Walker to spill about the worm thing. And discovering our goal for the morning has been even harder. So far, here’s what I know. We visit a farmhouse, meet some quasi demons and then … something something something something.

In other words, Walker’s being very sketchypants about the whole deal, to which I say: Meh. I do tons of official visits. No doubt, this will be pretty standard stuff.

Shake hands.

Force smiles.

Pose for a group photo.

No biggie.

Then something unexpected happens. Walker lags behind me. The guy with mile-long legs and a constitution of iron actually limps along the cobblestone path.

Huh.

I pause.

Stare.

Do a double take.

Stare some more.

Nope, I’m not seeing things. Walker’s limping. Even worse, the sharp angles of his face pull tight with pain.

A chill of dread crawls up my neck. Walker has the magical power to self-heal. As far as I know, only Walker and his forebear, the archangel Aquila, have this ability. So why is Walker limping and in pain? He recovers from almost any injury with lightning speed.

I adjust my pace so Walker and I step in sync once more. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

Walker’s shoulders tighten ever so slightly. He’s bracing himself for something. That sets off my internal danger alarms because nothing worries Walker. In fact, I’ve seen my honorary older brother face down the dreaded Mordere, a demon that combines the worst of a humanoid vampire bat with the best in poisonous porcupine quill action. At a minimum, fighting a Mordere should cause a nervous twitch or two. But Walker? The guy didn’t flinch. Then Mister Cool took that Mordere down in two minutes flat.

All of which adds up to one conclusion. Whatever’s bothering Walker today, it’s serious business.

“What happened to my leg indeed?” intones Walker at last. As always, his voice is deep and resonant. “That’s not easy to answer.”

My mind quickly sorts through recent Walker-related news. One item stands out in huge neon letters. “Mom says you had some trouble in downtown Purgatory. Is that when you got injured?”

For the record, I hate that Walker trucks around Purgatory without guards. Sure, the Viper is running around, but that’s not all there is to worry about. My people hate ghouls. Walker’s a great warrior—he even invented a new style of fighting called Ghoul Chi—but he’s just one guy.

“When did your mother say such a thing?” asks Walker.

“This morning when I dropped off Maxon. Mom’s super worried that you got targeted by the Viper.”

Walker doesn’t say anything for a long minute. He’s definitely debating whether to finally open up. The question is, what will Walker choose? Will he blab or keep acting sketchy?

“How is your sweet baby boy?” asks Walker.

And I have my answer. That would be keep acting sketchy.

“Maxon is giggly. Adorable. Perfect.” I wag my finger at him. “Stop trying to change the subject.”

Walker shakes his head. “Your mother shouldn’t worry about what happened. Many people have been targeted by the Viper.”

“What? The Viper targeted you? How many times have you been hit?”

“Four or five. The Viper just likes to knock me out and move on. Doesn’t steal any valuables. It’s more an annoyance than anything.”

I stop. “Walker, it’s Myla here. Can you tell me what’s happening? I know you want to.”

Stepping in front of me, Walker grips my shoulders. His large, soulful, and all-black eyes lock onto my gaze. “I’ve been trying to tell you for a week,” he says, his voice rasping with grief. “This is so hard.”

Before a little chill had been working its way up my neck. Now that sensation transforms into a full-on body freeze of fear. “You’re scaring me.”

“It’s been my privilege to help raise you,” says Walker, his tone still rough. “I want you to know that.”

I frown. “Still scaring me.”

“I was born part archangel,” continues Walker. He speaks with the careful rhythm of someone who’s practiced this speech many times. “When I became a ghoul after death, it should’ve limited my afterlife. Ghouls don’t attend Heaven’s Citadel for warrior training. My older brother Drayden was the first ghoul ever accepted.”

“Drayden was brilliant.” This is my standard statement whenever Walker mentions his older brother. Which is a lot.

Walker’s all-black eyes turn dreamy. “As a descendant of Aquila, Drayden received the gift of a magically enhanced intellect. He focused that gift on battle planning. My power is self healing.” Walker rubs his injured leg. “And that’s been failing lately.”

“Becky talked about that on Good Morning Purgatory,” I offer. “It’s a side affect of being attacked by the Viper.”

That dreamy look remains in Walker’s eyes. Not sure he heard me there.

“After Drayden died, your father brought me to the Citadel council.” Walker lifts his voice into a dead-on Dad impersonation. “‘I’m the General of the Angelic Army,’ your father said. ‘This man is Drayden’s brother. He gets trained.’”

“That sure sounds like Dad.” When my father makes up his mind on something, you have two choices: get out of his way … or get out of his way, fast.

“Without your father’s help, I’d never have become an angelic warrior. To this day, I live by the sacred values of his Angelic Army: honor, service, and sacrifice.”

I can only repeat that last word. “Sacrifice?”

This time, Walker heard me clearly. He meets my gaze straight on. “Yes.”

Oh, no.

“Look,” I begin. “I’ve watched my share of movies on the Human Channel. No question what you’re up to here. This is a hero speech. It happens right before the good guy does something like …” I wave my hands, trying to find the words. “I’ve got it.” I snap my fingers. “Like fly his fighter jet slap-bang into an enemy battle cruiser. BOOM!” My pulse speeds. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

A sad smile rounds Walker’s mouth. “This is indeed a variety of hero speech.”

Panic shoots down my spine. My mouth starts moving on its own. “No way. Nuh-uh. You’re not flying your figurative fighter jet into someone else’s battleship. That whole concept stops right now. Share what’s up and spare no details. We’ll figure something out.” I point to the earth. “Your aircraft is grounded, buddy.”

“Not this time.” Walker’s mouth thins to a determined line. “I require your assistance on something. After that, I must leave you.” Then he adds a word that shatters my world.

“Forever.”