Free Phoebe Wren and the Vortex of Light by Julie K. Timlin Page A

The sneaky little demon was so intoxicated by his own cleverness and pride that he could not wait to tell his commander what he had done, and therein lay his downfall. Without even a thought for the more pressing need to remain at his post, Graygor unfurled his spiny leathery wings and zipped out through the airport building’s roof on a direct course to the Mooar Mountain, dwelling place of Abaddon the Defiler. He could not wait to tell Schnither what he had done – perhaps his Captain would report his enterprising actions directly to Abaddon, and then who could tell how he might be rewarded?
    Unfortunately for the premature little demon, in his haste to seek recognition and reward he did not loiter long enough to realise that Neam had witnessed the whole mischievous plot unfolding – he had watched as Graygor whispered into a tall, dark haired stranger’s ear, planting suggestions that he should talk nicely to the pretty Araco Airlines attendant, and maybe he’d be lucky enough to get her number. He had stayed hidden and observed how the Araco lady had smiled coyly and twisted her feathery bangs, obviously flattered by the handsome man’s attention. And he had seen Graygor messing with the computer system while her back was turned, and knew that he had freed up seats on flight 454 on Friday 16 th July.
    When Graygor fled the scene, Neam had remained behind and was next to the Araco Airlines lady when Jack Wren’s call came through, and he had watched as she amended the Wren’s booking from Thursday 15 th July to Friday 16 th July. Neam knew precisely what Graygor would report back to the enemy and now, armed with this potentially life-saving information; he knew that there was not a second to waste. He must get back to Cosain and the others and bring them up to speed.

 

C HAPTER 15
    Graygor could scarcely contain himself as he arrived back at the demonic headquarters in the Mooar Mountain. Dumpy little wings flapping frantically, he shot towards the gigantic black mountain where Captain Schnither and Lieutenant Garshwell were awaiting their audience with Abaddon.
    Inside the cavernous nerve centre, Schnither was not quite as excited. He knew that he had blown it – again – with the Wrens, and Abaddon’s fury would know no appeasement when he learned that they were still alive and on track to fulfilling their sickeningly positive destiny. Schnither shuddered. He was still seething at the thought of the celestial intervention, which had so annoyingly thwarted his plans, but more than this, he was petrified at the thought of the fate that awaited him in Abaddon’s chambers. How could Braygor have failed so miserably with the elevator? And how on earth had Lasair known to distract the Wrens so they never stepped on to that weakened elevator? The ability of the Atoner’s angelic troops to outsmart Schnither’s demons at every turn frustrated and infuriated him, and the very thought of Cosain’s annoyingly perfect face made his blood boil until he thought his evil heart might burst in his chest. Schnither’s overwhelming rage wrangled with his growing sense of dread at the thought of what Abaddon might do to him until the emotional turmoil within him was almost beyond containment. Just as he was about to use his fists to relieve the tension by battering a wall – or a subordinate demon, whichever happened to be at hand first – Schnither’s angst was interrupted as a small black demon skidded to a halt right in front of him. Aggravated by the interruption, Schnither raised a gnarly fist to strike him, when he realised it was Graygor.
    “What is it, Graygor?” he hissed, his fist still clenched and ready to strike – if nothing else, taking a good swipe at the diminutive gargoyle would make him feel better should Graygor’s report be anything less than positive. As it was, Graygor’s very presence was grating on Schnither’s already frayed nerves, and anything less than good news would earn Graygor a