Seraphina and Yael flinched.
What had happened to them?
“Why do you still hide your wings?” Z asked, struggling to sit. Raziel helped him upright with gentle but strong hands. Once he was no longer flat on his belly, the others stood in front of him, acceptance and anger warring in their expressions.
Seraphina’s deep brown eyes met his. “When it was discovered that the Inner Sanctum had been breached, we were punished.”
An icy wave washed through his veins. “The Sanctum was breached?”
They nodded.
“Heaven’s Heart was stolen,” Raziel said quietly.
“No.”
To lose both Dina and the Heart...
He had failed. Truly and utterly.
Heaven would never forgive him. He was an exile.
Maybe that’s why my wings had so much trouble healing. I am no longer a true angel.
“As punishment for the Darts’ failure,” Raziel continued, “we were exiled from Heaven, and our wings removed.”
“What?” Horror made his vision fade to gray.
They were fallen?
Because of him?
Please let this be a nightmare.
He blinked, rubbed his arms, even pinched the lax muscle on his thigh...but the three of them still stood before him, wearing the same expressions, their feathers no more in evidence than they were a minute prior.
He had cost his comrades their wings.
“I am so sorry,” Z croaked.
Raziel placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It is not your fault.”
“How can you say that? I was on duty. Heaven was breached, the Heart was stolen and you lost your wings for it.”
He was clearly to blame.
“Dina was also there, and she is a squadron worth of soldiers in herself,” Yael said. “I have never seen her equal in war, not even Azrael.”
Azrael was renowned for his prowess with almost any weapon, but Dina was a force to be reckoned with.
“Dina and I failed,” Z said.
“And you clearly have been punished for it,” Seraphina said, eyeing his broken wings. Wings he’d been so proud of not an hour or so before.
Now they made him feel nothing but guilt.
“Could yours grow back?” he asked.
Raziel shook his head. “They were removed by archangels. Only they can grant them back.”
“But why did they take them?” Betrayal lanced through him.
“To set an example,” Yael said and snorted in disgust. “No matter that none of the other patrols were punished. Just us.”
“You know they have their reasons,” Seraphina argued.
“Now you see why Azrael did not take Aurora up on her offer,” Raziel said to Yael. “We could not trust that she was not working against the other archangels. They are the voices of God, but they do have their own politics.”
Yael just crossed his arms over his chest.
The room fell silent a moment then Raziel clapped his hands. “First thing’s first. We will get Zadkiel healed, then worry about Dina and our wings later.”
“It’s Z.”
“Sorry?” Raziel looked at him.
“I go by Z now, not Zadkiel.”
A slow nod. “And I am now called Raze.”
Strangely, it suited the suit-clad angel.
“You can still call me Yael,” Yael said with a smirk.
Seraphina shook her head in exasperation. “Useful as always.”
“Hey!” Yael raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t changed your name either. Although I do like Sera. Sexy Sera.”
She ignored him, addressing Z instead. “If our first action is to get Z well again, I know a healer we can use.” She gestured to his wings.
Shock kept him quiet. He seriously doubted there were any healers who could repair the damage to his wings, and he didn’t want to hope.
Couldn’t afford to.
Chapter 20
Seraphina did not trust humans or demons, or anyone else aside from her fellow Darts.
Life had taught her that even other angels could not be relied upon, not with one’s life, nor with one’s heart. But she didn’t have to trust the human before her. In these instances, coin spoke louder than words.
“I may know someone who can help,” the elderly woman said. The human had nut-brown skin, with eyes like upside-down crescents, and wrinkles from a life that had contained much laughter. But there was a fierce glitter in those brown eyes, one that spoke of keen intelligence and a little greed.
Greed Seraphina could work with.
They sat at a rickety table in the woman’s little shop in Manhattan—its walls were covered in shelves filled with herbs and spices, roots and tisanes, and the welcoming scent of old books and patchouli permeated the air.
A cabinet of crystals and stones stood next to their table, partially hiding them from general view. A young woman with red hair served a few straggling customers, but part of her attention was fixed on Seraphina and the elderly woman, like she would rush to the human’s defense if required.
Seraphina had no doubt that the grandmotherly figure needed no assistance, especially not from the likes of a younger female who appeared to have little power.
After all, this was a magic shop—the best magic shop in the country, according to her sources—and one frequented by humans and the supernatural alike. It was also horrendously expensive and had a select range of clients for certain, special services. If the store owner or her assistants took a dislike to someone, that someone forgot they’d ever entered the store...and sometimes the last week of their life.
Seraphina had little fear that memory-altering magic would work on her, but she wasn’t about to take any chances. The woman before her was a Crone, one of the most powerful witches in the country, and Seraphina was fallen.
“You may know someone, or you do know someone?” Seraphina could usually charm even the most stoic out of their shell—it was her role in their organization, after all—but she did not have the patience for it, not today.
Not after everything had been thrown into chaos.
Azrael appears to be involved with a demon, and Zadkiel has been tortured by God-knows-who, then rescued by said demon...
Love, it appeared, could soften even the hardest of demon—and angel—hearts.
Then why hasn’t it worked for me?
Enough! She did not believe in self-pity and there was work to be done.
Thankfully, there was always work to be done, now they lived in the Human Realm.
“What’s got your panties in a knot?” the Crone asked, her voice dry and cracked with age.
“Who says I am even wearing panties?” Seraphina countered.
The old woman cackled and took a sip of what appeared to be green tea. Seraphina hadn’t been offered any—she wouldn’t have accepted it, anyway. Witches were crafty creatures and Seraphina didn’t feel like being poisoned.
“You want a healer,” the human said, “but you don’t say what for. How can I be certain that I can provide such a service, when I don’t know what you need, exactly?”
“The individual has been tortured. There is extensive damage to their anatomy. I need someone who can repair tissue and bone.”
She wasn’t about to let this woman know that the prospective patient was an angel. It was too risky—while angel feathers were prized by demons, witches coveted their blood, skin and hair for spells.
Intelligent eyes met Seraphina’s as the woman played with her teacup. “It will be expensive.”
“I will pay what it costs.” She leaned forward. “Provided it works.”
The Crone jabbed a finger at the table. “I can’t guarantee anything without seeing what we have to work with. You will pay for the time, material and expertise.”
“I will pay what is fair.”
Witches were mercenaries. They would charge their own mothers
if they thought it would benefit them. Seraphina couldn’t let the Crone think she was desperate—even though she was—because the check might be something they couldn’t pay.
Raze is very rich, though.
But Zadkiel’s wings had been ruined.
He is the only one of us left with flight. He deserves a second chance.
Oh, many would say he should lose his wings as she had lost hers; after all, he had actually been present while the Heart was stolen. But she wasn’t petty like that, and anyone could see the soldier had been through Hell and back. Also, he wasn’t technically fallen, not yet. Not until the archangels removed his wings.
He, at least, had a chance at restoring his former life.
He might even be able to enter Heaven and plea for their cause.
No one has helped you yet.
Well, there had been the archangel Aurora’s offer to Azrael; but Raze believed it was a poisoned chalice. Other than that, they had been largely left to their own devices, tasked with finding the three pieces—not just the one segment that had been held in the Inner Sanctum—of Heaven’s Heart.
“I’ll come and see this patient for myself,” the Crone said and drained her green tea.
Seraphina clenched a fist in surprise. “You will?”
“Yes, it’s not every day that a fallen angel walks into my humble store and asks me to heal someone.” A sardonic smile graced the woman’s wrinkled face. She turned partially toward the counter and yelled, “Rowan!”
How had she known what I was?
Most of the people Seraphina worked with for the Falling Star—the Darts’ mercenary company—had no clue as to her species, just that she was powerful and trigger-happy with it.
The red-headed shop attendant abandoned wiping the counter down with a cloth and hurried over. “Yes, Gran?” Bright-green eyes surveyed Seraphina.
“We’re closing up early,” the Crone said. “Get your purse, we’re going on a field trip.”
Chapter 21
“Why is this whore not dead?” Lord Farcon demanded.
Peony raised her eyebrows. Did the Mortus only have two forms of insult for females? ‘Bitch’ and ‘whore’?
It probably reflects how they view women.
“You question how my uncle would rule his kingdom?” Godric asked coolly.
The lordly demon took a deep breath and stepped back. “Apologies Your Highnesses, I became overwrought. The loss of my brother has been difficult to deal with.”
When a human said those words, Peony knew it was because they grieved their loss, but she didn’t think that was the case here. The demon seemed angry, if anything, without a touch of sadness in his expression.
“You have been quite vocal in your discontent about how the matter has been handled,” King Alvin said.
Lord Farcon swallowed.
The guards stepped away from the demon.
“She,” the Mortus shot a glance at Peony, “killed him.”
“He was a willing participant in the experiment.”
“She slashed his face open!”
Peony bit the inside of her cheek. Dru’s claws were razor sharp—the damage would have been horrendous.
“Trifling wounds,” the king said and waved a hand in the air dismissively.
The Mortus must heal fast.
Peony and Dru did, so it stood to reason their demon relatives would, too. It was good to know, since she would now be making her home amongst these people.
How long will it take me to work off my debt?
Although the better question was: would they let her?
“Untie her,” King Alvin said, nodding at Peony.
“What?” Lord Farcon looked wildly around the room. “She’s a murderer!”
He’s afraid of Dru.
Emotions clashed within her: pride that her sister hadn’t been broken by the Mortus, horror that she had killed her own kind so easily.
The Mortus are evil.
Yes, but everyone deserves a chance at life. It’s what her mother had taught her and why she’d wanted to become a doctor. According to most demons and humans, Peony shouldn’t have been allowed to live, because of her contaminated genetics. She wasn’t about to judge someone else because of their species, no matter that she could feel their evil in her bones.
One of the guards stepped up behind her and untied the rope around her wrists. Slowly, so as not to startle anyone, she drew her arms around to her front and rubbed the abused flesh through her gloves. Pins and needles zinged through her hands and forearms as the blood rushed back through her veins.
“Touch him,” King Alvin ordered her.
Peony stared at him. “It will kill him.”
“It may not.”
“What? Touch me? Her skin is not toxic.” Confusion warred with the anger on Lord Farcon’s face.
She clasped her hands together and shook her head. She was not a killer: she would not break her promise, not now. She wasn’t like Dru. She helped people.
The king took a threatening step toward her. “I said, touch him!”
She had to think of a way out of this. “I’m a doctor, I took an oath!”
There. Since they were demons they might not know exactly what human oaths entailed. Vows were binding for most demons.
Godric frowned. “Do no harm, I think that’s what human doctors must swear to.”
Peony had never been so grateful to the media and its misrepresentation of Lasagna’s Oath before.
“You swore this?” The king looked baffled. “But you’re Mortus.”
“Only half,” Peony said quietly.
“Abomination,” Lord Farcon spat.
The king stared at her for a few moments before nodding at Godric. As one, the guards on either side of her grabbed her arms, holding her in place while Godric clasped Lord Farcon’s hand in a tight grip.
“Take off your glove,” Godric ordered Farcon.
Peony shook her head, and tried to back away, but the guards‘ hold tightened. “No, don’t do this.”
She didn’t want his death on her hands—she already had enough guilt to live with. I should have taken Dru or Sylvester up on those advanced self-defense lessons. Metcalf had also offered, but his version of self-defense was a little too brutal for her liking.
Lord Farcon removed his glove slowly, and Godric dragged him forward by the arm. “Touch her.”
“I really don’t see the point in this,” the demon argued.
“Prove your loyalty to the crown and touch her!” King Alvin roared.
Green skin paling, Lord Farcon extended a shaking hand. He paused just before touching her face, rage in his brown eyes, then drew his hand back. She heard the slap before the sharp stinging pain registered. Shutting her eyes against it, she licked her lip and tasted blood.
A scream tore through the air.
Forcing herself to watch, she saw Godric step away from the flailing Mortus demon. Lord Farcon hit the floor hard, where he convulsed for three heartbeats and went still.
She didn’t need to check his pulse or airflow to know he was dead.
The urge to vomit was almost overpowering, but she swallowed back the bile. Her stomach already hurt enough.
He just...died.
She stared in shock at the deceased Mortus.
You didn’t do this, this wasn’t your fault.
No, it was the king’s and Godric’s.
Your vow is still unbroken.
Godric prodded the body with a toe. “The other one’s skin didn’t do this.”
King Alvin stepped forward, examining the dead lord with a critical eye. Then he focused on her. “All your skin is like this?”
Peony nodded, mute.
“We will have to work out what to do with you, then. For now, we cannot use you for breeding.” He glowered. “I do not like having people who do not contribute living on my generosity.”
Thank the gods.
>
She didn’t want to become a broodmare—she didn’t want to be used and impregnated. How could the females here stand it?
“If she is a healer, she might come in useful,” Godric murmured.
“Put her in with the harem for now.”
The harem?
*
Peony was led through a warren of tunnels and corridors until she reached two large bronze doors guarded by more cloaked Mortus demons.
Why wear cloaks inside?
She guessed she’d find out eventually.
Godric nodded at one of the guards, who executed a short bow then opened the right-hand door.
Peony wasn’t sure what she expected inside, but this wasn’t it. Light spilled from various lamps and torches, illuminating every corner of a large open area that stretched for about two hundred yards. It felt airy, despite the fact it was deep underground. Bright turquoise and carnelian tiles lined the floor, woven in intricate geometric patterns, and gold and silver divans and sofas punctuated the room. Expensive Turkish carpets were carefully placed under tables and chairs.
A woman appeared from a side corridor, her head downcast and shoulders slightly hunched. While the room looked like something from an ancient Near Eastern palace, the female Mortus was dressed in clothes better suited to Victorian England.
“Your Highness.” She dropped into a deep curtsey.
Wow.
Having grown up in America, the whole concept of lords and ladies and servant obedience was a tad foreign to Peony. Her experience with it hadn’t improved since her relocation to Tartarus, either. She rarely left the Halcyon Guild buildings, and it wasn’t like their Hell-lord, Hades, made a habit of visiting his subjects. His ruling style was more iron-fist-when-needed.
Which seemed to suit the guild perfectly.
“Please show...” Godric turned to her with a frown. “What is your name?”
“You didn’t read the paperwork?” Peony asked, and immediately wanted to slap her hands over her mouth. This was not Trick. She was no longer in the guild.
The female Mortus gasped.
Godric raised an eyebrow. “You are new, so I will be tolerant. But take note: most others would beat you for that.”
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