by Nalini Singh
Titus’s blood turned to black ice: the entire village knew of the diseased angel.
The people to whom they’d given safe haven had sentenced them all to death.
27
Sire, I thank you for allowing me to serve in your court for the past five hundred years. Though I leave now to explore other courts and lands, I will return often to challenge you to a climb—it’s my duty to ensure you maintain your strength.
Watch over my mother. I know she is your first general and tougher than I’ll ever be, but for me, she is my mother. But please never ever mention my request to her. She would strike me dead with her gaze, then revive me to sit me down and flay me alive with her words.
I will never forget all that you have taught me.
—Letter from Titus to Archangel Alexander
28
Sharine said nothing as they walked the young woman back to the village soon afterward. But once they were alone again, back at the tree, she touched her hand to Titus’s, closing her fingers around his fisted one as his wings began to glow.
“There are only two choices,” he ground out. “I steal a piece of their memory—or I end their lives.” Distant sounds of children’s voices raised in play added a painful coda to his words.
Having misty memories of her own from her lost years, Sharine had a very personal view into what it did to a person to not know their entire history; it was a hollow ache of helplessness and loss. “The decision is an awful one.” She squeezed his hand, her heart breaking and her eyes hot. “It’ll always be an awful one, but such choices maintain the balance of the world. Some knowledge dooms mortals to a life without freedom.”
“Alexander told me a story once,” Titus said, his voice sounding thick. “Of a small mountain town in what is now Italy. The people there decided to rise up against the cruelty of their ruling angel—she, the angel, wiped out the entire populace, down to the smallest mewling babe.”
Sharine’s entire body went rigid. “Why? Children would’ve done her no harm.” They were the most innocent of innocents; even Caliane, in her insanity, had not done direct harm to the smallest hearts.
“I asked the same.” Opening out his fisted hand, Titus wove his fingers through hers and she clung to the rough warmth of him. “Alexander told me it was because she was cruel beyond all sense of reason. Then he said, ‘I tell you this not to advocate for senseless mass slaughter, but to remind you that you must never permit rebellion to foment. Because in the end, it’ll lead only to endless mortal graves.’”
He blew out a breath but his chest remained tight. “So I know what must be done. It just seems such a terrible thing to do to people who have already lost so much.” Titus took in the village again, alive against the day’s light. “The only mercy is they won’t know what they’ve lost.”
Titus was old enough to have learned how to erase memories with pinprick precision, and he could do it from a distance. Still, it took him several hours to erase all knowledge of the infected angel from the village.
“It’s their courage,” he said to Sharine afterward, a sadness in his bones. “The way these mortals fought and how they thought of others to the very end . . . It’s a thing of honor, of bravery such as I would laud in any of my warriors. Yet I’ve stolen from them the memory of their own brave hearts in fighting off an angel who wanted only to butcher.”
Sharine’s pupils flared, dark against the sunshine of her irises. “But you know. You’ll honor them in your memories—as I’ll honor them in my art.” Shifting her gaze on those determined words, she took in the village in the distance. “After it is permitted, I’ll tell Jessamy, so she may write this chapter in the angelic histories. Their courage won’t be forgotten.”
He looked at the fine line of her profile, her skin shimmering with a slight golden hue that was ethereal—but she was very much real, very much a creature of flesh and blood, her skin warm and her grip firm. He didn’t release her hand, even though he knew he shouldn’t be so familiar with a treasure of angelkind. “You understand this can’t be spoken of yet, even to angels?”
A nod that drew his attention to the way she wore her hair; she could’ve been a young warrior in his court just barely stepping out into the world. “It would spread terror among our own kind and could lead to needless massacres.”
Slim shoulders rising as she inhaled. “There are some among us who’d think nothing of scouring an entire continent to bare earth in order to halt the spread of a possible infection.” She brushed her wing against his. “There’s been too much death already, Titus. We must find a way to stop this without drenching the earth in further blood.”
Titus had no disagreement with her words. But he was an archangel. “I must inform the Cadre.” It wasn’t a matter of choice but of his duty to the office he held. “I’ll take full responsibility for stopping the scourge. No one will argue with all else that’s going on—they’re all too busy battling their own fires.” And when it came down to it, he was the final authority on this continent.
* * *
* * *
Titus contacted the Cadre as soon as he and Sharine returned to the citadel.
He could tell she was exhausted after the brutal speed of their return flight—even the fact he’d carried her couldn’t ameliorate the impact. She’d curled into as small a ball as possible to reduce drag and now slowly stretched out her limbs under a cloud-heavy and dull afternoon, shaking life back into her wings, arms, and legs. “I want a bath more than anything.”
So did Titus. But this had to be done first.
“Would you like to sit in on the meeting?” he found himself asking when he should’ve been ordering her to rest.
She stared at him for a moment. “Yes.” Her expression was inscrutable.
“I need only to make a stop to put on my breastplate.” Gold, it curved over his shoulders and bore the emblem of a sun in the center, lightning bolts of power arcing out from it.
But the breastplate wasn’t a thing of vanity. Neither was it a warrior’s armor in the strictest sense, for an archangel had no need for such—anything that took him down wouldn’t be halted by a shield of metal. No, this was a symbol of power, and today, he needed the symbolism.
Sharine waited silently while he put it on, then gave a crisp nod. “Your face bears streaks of dirt and sweat, as do your arms. You look exactly what you are—an archangel fighting a battle.”
Warmth spreading inside him, he led her first to his most senior technical specialist, and asked her to hand over her phone for a minute so the relevant photographs could be copied.
That done, they walked into a large room set up with screens that would connect him to the rest of the Cadre. “You’ll have to stay out of sight of the cameras.” He pointed out the devices that would broadcast his visage to the others. “You’re not a consort and thus automatically entitled to attend.”
“I understand,” she said, but there was a scowl on her face. “Which one will show Aegaeon’s face? I must prepare myself not to smash it to pieces.”
Startled, he threw back his head and laughed, his chest expanding and light flooding his veins to push out the heaviness and darkness. “Alas, there’s no specified order,” he told her. “It simply depends on who responds when.” He smiled at her. “You’ll just have to be strong, Shari of the Throwing Knife.”
* * *
* * *
Shari of the Throwing Knife.
His playful words, his smile, the tone of his voice, it all hit Sharine hard, it was so . . . real. With no hint that he was laying on his vaunted charm or chancing techniques of seduction. He was simply smiling at her, the two of them sharing a moment of humor. She hadn’t been joking about Aegaeon, but Titus’s smile had her lips tugging upward. “I’ll grit my teeth and clench my jaw.”
“Think only that he’d be most satisfied to see you lose control, and it’l
l be enough. I gather he is that kind of angel, yes?”
“Yes,” she said and settled her yet-cramped wings. “I’ll keep it together.” Words she’d heard Tanicia use on one of her soldiers when that man was crying over a broken heart. Tanicia wasn’t the gentlest of generals, but Sharine had been in sympathy with her on that occasion—for the soldier in question fell in love every Saturday and cried over a broken heart every Thursday, or so it seemed.
“Now I must do this.” Smile fading, Titus turned to face the screens. He shifted his stance in the same movement. No longer was he the relaxed angel who’d hit her with that glorious smile; he stood with his feet apart, his arms loose and ready by his sides, and his wings held with precision control. His muscles carried a subtle tension.
A warrior angel at ease but ready to shift into an attack stance in seconds.
Exhaustion made it impossible for her to do anything similar. Saying to hell with pride, she slid down to sit on the floor.
Sharine?
I’m fine. I want to focus on the discussion, not my aching muscles.
Titus nodded. A moment later, the dark screens in front of him lit from within and began to show the image of a turning hourglass. He must’ve sent a mental command to the member of his staff in charge of this technology.
As she waited for the other archangels to respond, Sharine considered the fact that this was the first time she’d ever be in the presence of the entire ruling Cadre. She’d been a significant part of Aegaeon’s life, yet he’d never bothered to do her the respect of introducing her to the other archangels.
By contrast, Astaad had introduced his Mele to everyone, and she’d often accompanied him to formal events. Even Sharine had met her, though she’d gone to few large gatherings in the past several hundred years; she still remembered Mele’s stunning dark eyes, clear intelligence, and graceful way of speaking. But most of all, she remembered Astaad’s quiet pride in having her by his side.
How foolish Sharine had been not to see through Aegaeon’s motives. All she’d ever been to him was a shiny trophy. He’d never loved Sharine, had just wanted to own the Hummingbird. And she’d been so needy and wounded that she’d accepted the dregs of affection he threw her way.
That was on her.
You judge yourself harshly.
Even as the memory of Titus’s words reverberated through her, the screen on the top left cleared to reveal Neha’s face. From what Sharine could see of her torso, the Queen of India was dressed in warrior leathers of darkest green, and those leathers were dusty, as was her face. Her braided black hair bore the same patina of dust.
“My apologies for the slow response, Titus.” Tight words. “I was in the field, helping Suyin clear out the nests of child victims Lijuan left behind.”
A shudder rocked Sharine.
“I thought the children had already been given mercy,” Titus boomed, his expression taut with rage. “You’re saying there were more?”
Neha nodded, her brown eyes tired in a way Sharine had never seen in any archangel. “Either Lijuan was keeping them in reserve, or they didn’t respond to her order when she gave it during the war. They’ve turned on each other in the interim. It is . . . a difficult scene.”
Sharine couldn’t imagine the horror of what the archangel was describing, the utter nightmare of having to execute children who’d been made monstrous without their consent or desire. Used as tools for an insane archangel. There’s no hope of a cure for these children?
No. Titus’s responding tone was somber. There’s no cure for any of it.
“Suyin was dirty and bloody to the extent that she needs a moment to wash.” One of Neha’s beloved snakes twined its way up her arm, a living jewel of brilliant orange. “As she has no functioning communication center close to this border, she’ll be entering the discussion from another room in my border stronghold.”
Once more, the Archangel of India and the Archangel of China were working together, as they’d done often throughout history. But never in such a horrific circumstance.
Another screen cleared, this time to show Alexander’s face, lines pressed into his cheek and the golden strands of his hair appearing finger-combed. It was the most natural Sharine had seen Alexander since . . . a time long, long ago.
A flicker of memory that had her fingers itching for a pencil—of a young and shirtless Alexander laughing with an equally young Caliane as they contemplated jumping into a waterfall. His hair had been damp already from the spray of water, droplets rolling down his chest, his limbs more slender than they were now. And his eyes had been . . . bright, untouched by life.
Was she so very old that she’d known Alexander as a youth?
Sharine had no answer to that, time having become an endless slipstream in her mind. But she knew the memory was true; a true memory had a taste, a textured reality to it. She’d ask Caliane about it when her friend rose from anshara.
“Titus, you’ll have to excuse my appearance.” Alexander’s voice evidenced the grit of sleep. “I finally had to surrender and lay down.”
As archangels needed even less sleep than ordinary angels, he had to have been on the verge of collapse.
The other screens cleared one after the other before Titus could reply, and none of the Cadre looked any better than the rest. Suyin’s hair was sleekly wet, and damp spots marked the dust of her leathers—as if she’d dunked her head under a tap—while Raphael had streaks of what appeared to be grease on his face, and Qin just looked haggard.
Aegaeon was as bare-chested as Titus had been earlier, and on that chest was a silver swirl familiar to Sharine . . . below fresh claw marks. “One of the sick ones got me,” he muttered while using a cloth to wipe away blood crusted around the edges, the blue-green of his hair matted and as wet as Suyin’s. “Vicious animals.”
“Do you feel any effect?” Titus asked, a new stiffness to his body.
“An itch, but it’s already healing,” Aegaeon said without concern.
The most powerful among angelkind were used to being unkillable except in very specific circumstances. Those circumstances always involved another archangel.
As she looked at him, this archangel with wings of deep green streaked with wild blue, Sharine felt both a deep rumble of anger and a crashing sense of relief. She saw him now, would always see him. Aegaeon would never again fool her, and with that realization went a fear she hadn’t even realized she was carrying.
She was so glad he’d bequeathed nothing much more than a little of his coloring and a touch of his power to their son, so glad that he’d left the raising of Illium to her. Her boy would never be cruel, never purposefully cause others pain. Illium was more akin to Titus than he was to Aegaeon.
Neha was the one who first understood the import of Titus’s words. “Does your question to Aegaeon have anything to do with why you’ve called an emergency meeting when none of us have time to spare?”
“Yes. I’ve discovered evidence of a reborn angel.”
Silence.
It was Raphael who broke it. “You’re certain?” The searing blue of his eyes was locked on Titus; today, he had no Elena beside him, his consort no doubt in the city helping to handle the chaos left behind by war.
Elena and Raphael were equals when it came to their relationship. One an archangel and one an angel barely born, yet it was true. The times that she’d seen them together, never had Sharine seen dominance and submission, an alpha and a beta. Together, they were simply two people who loved each other.
Her gaze went to Titus, this arrogant, beautiful, honorable archangel who valued her opinion enough to invite her to this meeting . . . and who hadn’t thrown off her touch when she sought to offer comfort, had instead curled his fingers around hers and held on.
29
As certain as I can be without the results from my scientists,” Titus said, then described the site, th
e burned-out body of the angel, and the evidence of the clawlike hand. “Lady Sharine was with me and she took photographs—they’re being loaded onto the screens now.”
“What was she doing there?” Aegaeon demanded, the golden hue of his skin stretched over bone as he raged. “I’ve been told she’s extremely fragile, her mind fractured.”
Even as Sharine’s temper ignited, Titus proceeded to ignore him.
Temper morphing into humor, she had to clap a hand over her mouth to stifle the urge to laugh. If there was one thing Aegaeon couldn’t stand, it was to be ignored.
Restrain yourself, Shari. A repressive order . . . given in an amused tone.
“Look with your own eyes,” he said aloud after the photographs were all available. “None of us need scientific confirmation to know those are angelic wing bones.”
More silence, though she could see Aegaeon’s face growing hot from within. That flush of red at the very tops of his cheekbones, it was a dead giveaway to a rising temper. Be careful, Titus, she warned. Aegaeon is about to blow.
If you believe that I’m afeared of a temper tantrum from a doddering Ancient, you don’t know me at all.
She almost snorted in laughter this time. If only Aegaeon could’ve heard himself being referred to as a doddering Ancient. On the other hand—I’m of a similar vintage. As so poignantly demonstrated by her earlier memory of Alexander and Caliane. She’d forgotten her age; she’d lived too long, had too many memories in her head. All she knew was that she was old, had been old for a long time.
You don’t feel old.
Titus’s response was a molten kiss. She didn’t feel old, either; she’d felt strangely young ever since her new awakening. As if she’d been given a second chance to soar.
“I respect you, Titus,” Alexander said, and in that patrician face, Sharine noted new lines of pain. “But I hope you’re wrong. If this disease has crossed the immortal boundary, then we’re fighting a battle we may never be able to win.”