Free Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller by Darren Stapleton Page A

the edge of Nimbus City’s Edgelands rim: a dark hulking mass of stone and window, gable and granite foundation, supports propping the body of the structure up on elbows of concrete composition, a labyrinth of gun turrets, safety fences and security posts, lights and tunnels, lawns and secret, improbably enormous stores. Smoke tendrils slaked towards the sky as if, unimpressed with the cloud’s proximity, it was dragging fingers across the cotton wool baize to test its temperature and constitution. Inside a multitude of blustering staff busied themselves about their daily duties with a passion and fervour that suggested their diligence would meet reward and procrastination punishment. Floors were swept, cutlery polished, cottons pressed and hung in an antechamber with wild Edgeland flowers so that some of their fragrant essences may seep into the boiled and starched linen, giving off the heady aromas of nature at its pampering best. Cooks worried over spices as maids attended corners, men toiled with fuel for fires and guards checked their armaments and boundaries with well-rehearsed routines that never deteriorated over time or frequency.
    In the centre of the main lawn, at the nexus of the sweep of the drive stood a lone statue of a Seraph, carved from quartz-embedded Lucite and illuminated by the up-glow of powerful arc sodium lights. He stood as a sentinel to the mansion, entirely opaque yet full of spangled glints and reflections. His wings were back, as if in the early stages of downbeat, ready for take-off, and his head was tilted up, looking into the world of sky and wind and deep blue nothing. Some said he was searching for foes and readying himself for defence and battle, others that he was merely taking in the sweep of the clouds and cobalt depths with a sense of wonder and awe, but none had ever put it better than an eight year old child of the electorate who had visited the mansion on one of its more accessible days when the Governor wanted to be seen rubbing shoulders with the mobs and masses.
    "Mum," he had said, "it looks like he’s stuck and wants to get home to the sky." The child had then started to cry at how sad the statue had looked until he and the mother had been removed for, the press were told, ‘personal reasons’. Of course they would be invited back to visit with the generous Governor Rose at a later date. Possibly when the press were not around.
    Rose’s publicity intermediary in charge of the event was later replaced and a memo circulated stating that shoulders, against which to rub, had to be more carefully chosen in the future.
    Velena looked out of her boardroom at the statue. The statue imbibed the dull light of the disappearing moon and bent it, curved it, in gentle refractions and bows, sending off crescents of luminescence intimating at energy, warmth and life. For a moment she felt the Seraph’s eyes were directly upon her, burning like two lunar phenomena in their insular orbits; piercing the sepia fugue and stabbing shafts of unforgiving light into her memory and core. She knew it was a trick of artistry and astronomy, that the quartz was merely reflecting the lutein celestial glow, but somewhere, scattered amidst the debris of her tired, collapsing thoughts and the pioneering innovations she was desperately trying to assemble for tomorrow; it shed light on something hidden much deeper, something she wanted left alone, to spoil and decay in the gloom.

    Cowlin, her Chief Security Guard came in followed by Leonora who gently closed the door behind her. They were both dressed in black military clothing.
    ‘Newton?’ Asked the Governor.
    Leonora nodded, ‘Vedett has just left. He said he would get the wings brought over now we have paid as promised.’
    ‘He is a conniving...’ The Governor thought better of finishing her sentence.  
    ‘The body is being stored ready for transport. We can wait for the wings before we ship,’ said Cowlin.
    ‘Good. Good. Thank you Cowlin, but