Read Bladed Wings for Free Online

which could be filled with SUVs and speeding compacts at any second. He ran as hard as he could.
                  A car appeared, screaming its horn, the twin suns of bright white burning at Timothy’s vision. A vine of shadow shot from his wrist, yanking his arm as it coiled around one of the bridge’s metal beams. Then it felt like his arm would get jerked out of its socket as the tendril pulled him up. Timothy lost his stomach in that second, then the car was gone, and he hung there.
                  The tendril seemed to be suspended by nothing but shadow, a dark mist of something that shouldn’t have been solid. It looked like the tendrils from his dream. He tried to swing or pull, anything to get it to let go. A second later it did and he fell, landing on his feet, tumbling to his knees, everything jarred under the weight of gravity and pavement.
                  Morgon pounced at him again.
                  “Don’t be clever,” called the girl. “Just hit him.”
                  Timothy tried to dodge out of the way, but this time he felt something slam into the back of his skull. Somewhere he knew it must’ve been a fist. It still felt like a metal club slammed into his head. Somewhere far off, he thought he heard ringing.
     
    Light pressed against his eyelids. Timothy saw splotches of scarlet orange as the back of his head reminded him how a giant’s fist punched the back of his skull. After a few seconds, Timothy scrunched his eyes and tried to roll over. On his back, he opened his eyes to an uncovered light bulb. It wasn’t bright. His head hurt with the kind of headache he expected from a smack by an asteroid. The floor was cold, hard, smooth, and stone. Forcing himself to his hands and knees, Timothy couldn’t see any windows.
                  There was a metal door with a lock. White walls surrounded him. There was a man standing to one side, leaning against one shoulder, his legs crossed as he watched Timothy try to remember how to stand. “Isis seemed pretty impressed with you,” said this new person. His clothes looked black and expensive, tailor made. It didn’t match the dingy room.
    “Where, where am I?” His throat felt raw and jagged.
                  “You’re safe.”
                  “Right,” Timothy poked the back of his head. He felt dried blood, and his touch stung. “Who are you?”
                  “Erzu Cordinox,” he said and held out a hand. Decked out in a black collared shirt, equally dark pants, and shining dress shoes, Cordinox looked like a very expensive assassin or a mortician. He stood straight, like one of the business majors at school who wanted to prove they were serious.
                  Ignoring Cordinox’s outstretched hand, Timothy shook his head and asked, “Why am I here? What do you want from me?” After another second, he remembered his discarded backpack and wanted to know, “Where’s my stuff?”
                  Erzu smiled like a real estate mogul or chess player. “As to your last question, your books and whatnot are with Isis. I believe she was even kind enough to retrieve your cell phone. Regarding your other questions, you’re here because you became interesting when you managed to kill one of my allies,” Cordinox said. “Isis tracked Cipher and found some leftover energies in a church downtown. Then she tracked you down. Apparently you carry his scent now. To her at least.”
                  “I didn’t kill anyone.”
                  “Of course you did,” Cordinox said.
                  “There wasn’t a body. It was a dream or something else.” Timothy stopped, irritated. He didn’t want to say he suffered from delusions.
                  “Right.”
                  “C’mon,” Timothy tried to find the balance to stand. “This has to be