A severe punishment while he was a youth had altered their course. It happened that way at times. Aodhan had once had an art model with feathers of pristine white who’d endured a catastrophic fall that ripped off large parts of her wings. The damage had been so severe the healers had decided she’d be better off regrowing her entire wing structure.
Her wings had come back a pale lavender.
And none of that had anything to do with Illium. Aodhan was avoiding facing this head on—and he’d never avoided anything with Illium.
Child, be honest. You were the one who flew so far.
Again, the voice of Lady Sharine haunted him. She knew him too well, did Eh-ma. “Come,” he said. “I’ll show you to your quarters.” There was an empty suite directly opposite his. Thanks to Aodhan’s efforts, and self-driven interest from strong angels and vampires who wanted to take on the challenge of a new court, Suyin now had a stronger standing team. It was, however, still small enough that the stronghold was at nowhere near capacity.
Illium, this angel who was always talking, said nothing, falling silently in step beside him. He was also careful to maintain space so their wings didn’t so much as brush.
Aodhan’s hand curled into a fist at his side.
Touch had been used to torture him once. Now, he craved it . . . but only from a scarce few. Illium was at the top of the list.
But that wasn’t a topic he could bring up, not with this Illium. “Where are your things?” The other angel was carrying only a small pack designed to fit against his spine, between his wings.
“Should arrive by plane within the next couple of days. I have enough with me to get by until then. Just show me the laundry and give me a scrubbing brush.” The amused comment was pure Illium, and yet it wasn’t. That veil of distance, it lingered.
Striding inside the cool stone of the stronghold, Aodhan walked to the closest door to the left and pushed it open. “This is yours. I’m over there.” He pointed across the wide hallway big enough for three angels to stand abreast without coming in contact with each other.
The amount of space and light within the stronghold was one of the undeclared reasons Suyin had chosen it for her interim base.
Because she, too, had once been a prisoner.
They’d never spoken of their confinements to each other, and he wasn’t sure she even knew anything of what had happened to him, but they had the quiet understanding of people who’d survived similar pain.
The irony that this light-filled citadel had proved to be a place of the worst evil was nothing unexpected in a land stamped by Lijuan’s mark, but it had caused Suyin to speed up her plans for the future. “For in this nexus of darkness, Aodhan,” she’d said, “I cannot stay and my people cannot heal.”
Another voice merged with the memory of hers.
“I see you decorated in my favorite color.” Illium’s lips twitched.
The room was pink and white.
Aodhan shrugged. “Mine’s yellow and white. We think this wing was reserved for certain high-ranking courtiers.” Lijuan’d had a large number of soldiers in her court, but like many angels, she’d also had a coterie of what Illium had been known to call “the pretties”—angels and vampires whose sole task was to be decorative.
All of them were dead.
Lijuan had spared no one in her quest for power.
Only their colorful, delicate rooms remained. Broken blooms, no life to them.
“Pink is supposed to be restful,” Illium said, and stepped inside. “I need to get clean.”
Then he shut the door in Aodhan’s face.
* * *
* * *
Illium collapsed with his back against the closed door, his heart thumping like a metronome on speed and sweat breaking out along his spine. It felt as if his skin was about to burst, his muscles so tense they were going to pop.
To see Aodhan after so long and not touch him?
It was agony.
But something in Illium had snapped over the past few months. He’d taken heed of his mother’s advice and supported Aodhan while his friend was in this place far from home. Hell, not taking care of Aodhan was harder for him than otherwise. He’d been watching over him for centuries.
But there had to be active participation for a friendship to continue.
And while Aodhan always responded with thanks to any care packages Illium sent, and replied to his messages, their conversations had been stilted, forced. Aodhan had only once reached out to Illium on his own. That had been when Illium’s mother got together with Titus.
Aodhan had wanted to check in, see how he was doing with the news.
A whole year, and he’d been worth the effort of reaching out to a single measly time? Enough. Illium was done with this. He knew Aodhan as no one else did. His friend was a warrior who’d stand his ground against any enemy, but he’d never been a confrontational person when it came to his personal life.
Aodhan’s response to emotional pain was to withdraw.
Illium had watched him do that two hundred years ago, Aodhan’s spirit more badly shattered than his brutalized body, and Illium had never given up. He’d known Aodhan needed him to persevere, needed his help to haul himself out of his personal hell.
But now? When he knew Aodhan did call Ellie to talk, that he stayed in regular touch with Illium’s mother, and with others in the Tower?
Illium had received the message.
Normally, he wasn’t one to assume anything. Illium’s way was to ask the question to people’s faces. He and Aodhan, they’d never not spoken about things . . . except for the one terrible act that had forever marked Aodhan. About that, he spoke to no one. Not even Illium.
Perhaps that had been the first sign that Illium shouldn’t have ignored.
But even a man who always asked questions, always confronted life head-on couldn’t be expected to put himself out there without any shields when he had been so quietly and thoroughly rebuffed.
There was no need for questions or conversations.
The best course of action was collegial distance. The last thing he ever wanted to do was make Aodhan feel obligated to stay his friend—or worse, to make him feel coerced, caged. The thought of it was a physical blow that made him want to curl over his stomach.
Forcing himself to move away from the door, he took off his pack and threw it on a flimsy-looking white chair with curved legs and a velvet seat cushion, then headed straight through a door he assumed led to the bathing chamber.
He was right.
Ignoring the empty and cold bath, he stripped, then stepped into the baroque shower with its ornate gold showerheads. The tiles were pink marble, the abandoned shower brush fluffy white with a pink handle. A laugh bubbled out of him at the ridiculousness of it all, but it was a laugh without humor.
At least the shower area was open, clearly designed so it could be utilized by angels as well as vampires and mortals. Or perhaps it had been meant for orgies. There were multiple showerheads from every direction. He turned them all on, then stood there under the pounding spray.
He had to get a handle on his responses.
His and Aodhan’s friendship might be dead and buried, but Aodhan was still one of the Seven, and Raphael had sent Illium to support him—including in his decision about becoming Suyin’s second, no matter if that decision led to him leaving the Tower.
Illium would not fall down in that task, would back Aodhan every step of the way. When it came to their lost friendship . . . time would fix the bleeding wound inside him. It might take an eon, but it would.
His shoulders knotted, his jaw clenching hard enough to hurt as water pummeled his bare skin. He. Was. Done.
5
Yesterday
Sharine’s heart bloomed at seeing Aegaeon bend down to grab their son, who was toddling toward him as fast as his little legs co
uld carry. He was a big man, Aegaeon, with wide shoulders and muscled arms, his hair a vivid blue-green and his eyes the same vibrant shade.
His wings were a darker green interrupted by streaks of wild blue.
It was from his father that Illium had inherited the blue that tipped his hair. The same blue had begun to color the fluffy yellow-white of his baby feathers.
Now, Illium laughed in delight as his father picked him up and swung him around. Aegaeon laughed, too, open in his pride in his son, and in his happiness at being with him.
Sharine knew Aegaeon didn’t love her, not in the way that Raan had loved her. Aegaeon kept a harem at his court. He had lovers aplenty. But Sharine was content. Because he’d given her Illium, the greatest joy of her life. And he loved Illium. That was what mattered.
They’d already spoken about when Illium grew older and could be taken to Aegaeon’s court for visits. Sharine would go with him, of course. That had never been in question. Aegaeon was a good father, but he didn’t know how to look after a rambunctious little boy—he’d admitted that himself.
She hated the court, but Aegaeon had promised her that she and Illium would have an entire wing away from the venomous menagerie of his harem. “Even should your paths cross, they won’t dare touch you, whether by voice or by act,” Aegaeon had promised. “You are the mother of my son.”
Regardless, Sharine wasn’t looking forward to that part of things, but she was glad for Illium. Right now, at so young an age, he was happy to live with her, and to see his father only when Aegaeon came to visit the Refuge, but there would come a time when her boy needed his father’s guidance.
She’d seen that with Nadiel and Caliane’s boy.
Her heart ached at the thought of the new archangel who’d once been a youth devastated by the execution of his father. But Raphael had never blamed his mother for her actions, old enough to understand that his father was no longer who he’d once been, and needed to be stopped.
Still, she knew he missed Nadiel.
Boys and their fathers, it was a different bond than the one they had with their mothers.
Today, her boy sat proudly in his father’s arms as Aegaeon closed the rest of the distance to Sharine’s cottage. Aegaeon was shirtless, as was his predilection, and the swirl on his chest shone silver in the sunlight. He was a handsome man, and once, he’d taken her breath away.
That first flush of love had passed, but she still turned her face into his palm when he cupped her cheek, her heart sighing at his return. “Welcome home.”
“It is good to be here,” Aegaeon said, his voice a deep pulse she felt in her bones, and his smile blinding. “What a treat you are for my eyes, Sharine.” A low rumble. “My court is a place of constant battle, but here, there is peace. I would live always in the Refuge were I able.”
Sweet, sweet words that fell like nourishing rain on a heart that had never again thought to fall in love. “We have missed you.” Before him, she’d believed she was content in her aloneness, in her small circle of friendship and art.
Then he’d swept into her life, made his way into her heart, woken her up again. “I wish you could be here always, too,” she said, pushing aside the knowledge of his harem, and of his life in a far-off land kissed by another ocean.
None of that mattered as long as he loved their son.
Freedom and love are entwined.
—Lady Sharine
6
Today
Aodhan hadn’t slept. He was old enough that he didn’t need sleep as a mortal did, but he still usually got a few hours a night. That had been impossible last night, with Illium behind a closed door across from him.
At any other time in their history, he’d have thought nothing of just opening that door and walking in, sprawling himself down in a chair and talking to the other man while Illium wound down from the stress of the long flight.
Even during the years immediately after his rescue when he’d been lost in a nightmare so profound that he’d been all but dead, Illium had been a familiar and welcome presence in his life. Aodhan had stopped talking for a long time, but he’d always stayed in the room when Illium spoke to him—Illium had told Aodhan of his latest work for Raphael, spoken of his newest fleeting romance, or of things amusing and interesting that he’d thought Aodhan would enjoy.
Illium burned so bright with energy and life that it was impossible to be anything but compelled by him . . . overwhelmed by him.
Now, Aodhan stared at the single blue feather he’d painted in the hours since his shift ended. His preference was natural light, but he’d learned to work in artificial light. He’d only switched off those lights a half hour past, when early morning sunlight began to slant onto the balcony.
The dawnlight picked up the glittering silver he’d added to the filaments, the myriad tones of blue. Most people thought Illium’s feathers were a single shade of blue, but they weren’t. The shade people saw was made up of layers of others.
Aodhan knew every single one of them.
Dropping his paintbrush onto the small table he kept out here, he stared at the blue that stained his fingers. What the hell was he doing? Spine stiff, he walked into the suite’s bathing chamber to wash off the betraying color. Nothing spotted the dark brown of his pants, or the simple white of his long-sleeved tunic.
He never wore sleeveless clothing in Suyin’s court. These people didn’t know him as those in the Tower did; the occasional accidental touch happened. Nothing overt and no one had pushed against his request that they keep their distance, but they forgot. No one back home ever did.
And back home, he had people whose touch he welcomed.
Aodhan. Suyin’s mental voice was as elegant and gentle as her physical presence; it held none of the violent power of Raphael’s. Yet it was unquestionable that they were both archangels. Aodhan had never experienced a clearer indication of different types of power.
Suyin. In an act of respect for her position—and though theirs was meant to be a temporary alliance, he’d called her sire at first.
It was Suyin who’d asked him to drop the distance. “You’re the one person in my court who I can trust without worry at this point in time,” she’d said. “Be my friend, Aodhan. You know far more than I about how an archangel–second bond should work. You’ve seen it firsthand in Raphael and Dmitri’s long relationship. Teach me how that happens.”
“I can’t teach you that,” Aodhan had said, because he wouldn’t lie to her. “The sire and Dmitri were friends long before they were archangel and second.” Neither one spoke often about their initial friendship, and Aodhan had picked up enough over the years to understand it was because in that deep past lay a haunting loss.
Dmitri’d had a wife he’d loved. Children.
Every now and then, however, a sliver of their history would slip through. Once, Dmitri had joked about Raphael’s utter and total failure at plowing a field. “He wanted to help, so I let him—but I ended up laughing so hard I couldn’t even supervise. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a mud-covered angel trying to command a pair of stubborn oxen.”
So when Aodhan made his comment to Suyin, it had been a thing honest.
She’d accepted his words with grace. “I won’t have that opportunity. I must choose a second who is already in their power.” Eyes of impenetrable obsidian meeting his. “But at this moment, I need a friend even more than I need a second. Will you be that?”
Aodhan wasn’t a man to make quick friendships, had a small number for an immortal of his years. But he saw in Suyin an echo of himself. She, too, had been held captive by a cruel jailor. She, too, had been thrust into a world for which she was unprepared. But where he’d been encircled by a wall of support, Suyin had only a limited number of people on whom she could lean.
Yes, Raphael was available to her at any time and would never lead her astray, but he was also a mem
ber of the Cadre. The same with Lady Caliane. It made their interactions complicated on a level no one who hadn’t been around archangels could hope to understand.
So he’d said, “Yes, Suyin. I will be your friend.”
Today, her voice held a thrumming tension that ignited his instincts. I would talk to you. Will you join me in the wild garden?
I’ll come now.
Bring Illium if he is rested.
Aodhan’s jaw set, but he made himself walk out and knock lightly on Illium’s door. It opened moments later, a bright-eyed Illium looking at him. He’d changed out of his traveling outfit into faded old leathers of black with blue accents that left his muscled arms bare. Soft with wear and molded to his body, the outfit was genuinely ancient and one of Illium’s favorites.
“I’m starving.” A grin open and wide—and not fucking real. “Please tell me you’re about to lead me to copious amounts of food.”
“Archangel Suyin would like to speak to us,” Aodhan said, his voice coming out stiff and formal. “We can eat afterward.”
“We going off the balcony?”
“No, it’s faster to go through the stronghold.”
“Lead on.”
They walked in silence. It should’ve been comfortable, just two warriors heading down to speak to their archangel, but it was like prickles on his skin. Illium was never like this with him. So charming and lighthearted without giving away the smallest piece of himself.
Pretty and amiable and so false that Aodhan wanted to yell at him, have it out in a knockdown, drag-out fight to end all fights. And Aodhan didn’t yell or pick fights. Except it appeared, with everyone’s favorite Bluebell.
“Nice décor.” Illium pointed at a painting of a masked ball manic in its use of color, the brushstrokes going in countless serrated directions. “Good thing I didn’t see that before turning in. Imagine my dreams.”
“We haven’t had the time to worry about aesthetics,” Aodhan muttered, sounding like one of the stiff-assed old angels even to himself.
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