by Nalini Singh
His eyelids flicked up; he was on his haunches before she saw him move, his head turned toward the sound. “We have to run.” Taking her hand, he hauled her up.
And they ran.
“Should I fly?” she gasped, her chest straining at the speed. “You’d be faster on the ground.”
He shook his head, the silver of his hair flying. “They’re in the air.”
Swallowing, she wanted to go for the sword she hadn’t removed even in sleep, but had a feeling that wouldn’t help. Not with this. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw a deeper darkness against the sky. Memories of the recordings she’d seen of the Falling rolled over her—thousands of birds had fallen to the earth before the angels started to plummet. “Charisemnon.”
Her left wing caught on a trailing branch. Biting back a cry of pain as she tore it free, she continued to run but the buzzing was getting closer and closer with every heartbeat.
Not birds. Bugs. Locusts? Bees?
Naasir halted without warning, looked back. “Not enough time to get to shelter.” Dropping her hand, he went to the ground and, using his claws, began to dig up the arid soil.
Andromeda began to dig beside him, all but able to feel the insects on her back. In normal circumstances, bugs might make her skin crawl, but they couldn’t hurt her or Naasir. However, if this was Charisemnon’s doing, these weren’t normal bugs. The tiny creatures might be infected with the same disease that had taken down New York’s angels.
The angels had been hurt because they fell from the sky onto the unforgiving city below, but the disease had killed vampires—and Naasir had vampiric characteristics. Even if she was safe, he wasn’t.
She dug hard enough that her nails broke.
Sweat dripping down his temples, Naasir glanced back. “In.” Grabbing her arm, he all but threw her in the hole. “Facedown!”
Andromeda went to tell him he was the more vulnerable one, but knew she didn’t have time to argue. The faster she went in, the faster he could get to safety, too—because she knew he wouldn’t do anything for himself until she was protected. That in mind, she obeyed his order, cupping her hands in front of her mouth and nose to create an air pocket—more for her own psychological need than because it was necessary.
Even extended lack of air wouldn’t kill her, but it could leave her unconscious for hours or even days—in which time, anyone could cut off her head, dig out her heart and brain.
“Don’t be afraid.” That was her only warning before Naasir began to shove the soil back on her.
Being buried alive, her wings under the earth, was a terror, but she lay motionless and willed him to go faster. Her fear for him was viscous in her veins.
Then she was completely buried, the world hushed but for the roar of blood in her ears. A muted buzz surrounded her what felt like a heartbeat later. Panic stuttered in her lungs. Where was Naasir? Was he safe? Heart punching so violently it was painful, she listened as hard as she could, but all she could hear was the buzzing, as if the insects were right on top of her, determined to burrow through the soil.
But Naasir had spent precious time covering her up and the bugs finally seemed to give up. Though her heart screamed at her to get out, find him, she forced herself to stay under for ten more minutes; she would not cheapen his sacrifice by making herself a target.
When she did stir, she did so slowly. But the insects were gone, no buzzing in the air. Shaking off the soil that covered her, she rubbed away the dust on her face and looked for any sign of Naasir.
Nothing. No tracks, no glints of silver, nothing.
Breath coming shallow and hard, she thought of what he might’ve done. He hadn’t had time to dig another hole, but he was fast. Really, really fast. He could keep up with her flight speed; that meant he could have made it to a small cave they’d passed on the way here.
She went to head toward the cave, hesitated. He’d probably want her to stay in place. “Hell, no,” she muttered. If he was hurt, she had to find him. And if he wasn’t hurt, he could track her easily enough.
Sword out of its scabbard and in her hand, she began to stride toward the cave. Ten minutes of walking later, she wasn’t yet there and she’d seen no signs that Naasir had passed this way. Part of her said he couldn’t have made it this far. Perhaps he’d gone toward the water instead.
She hesitated, caught exactly halfway between the possibilities. The cave would’ve provided shelter but it wouldn’t have stopped the insects from getting in. The water on the other hand, would provide a shield—and Naasir was an almost-immortal. He didn’t need to breathe for long periods, though the need to breathe was instinct.
She ran through a grove of peach trees toward the narrow end of the teardrop, the part hidden from the village. Her wings were heavy weights that created drag on the ground and scraped against branches and thorny bushes. She knew she was leaving a trail, ignored it. Chest painful, she tumbled out on the water’s edge and looked frantically in both directions, the moon a spotlight that lit up the world in a soft wash of silvery gray.
Nothing.
A closer look showed her tiny corpses washed up on the rocks not far from her. As if the locusts—or whatever the bugs were—had tried to dive toward the water and drowned.
“Naasir,” she called in a low tone that wouldn’t carry beyond a short distance. “Naasir.”
Hearing no response, she slid away her sword and focused on the tiny insect corpses. They were gathered in a particular area, but the water had a quiet current. Walking her way upstream, she saw a spot on the edge where the grass was crushed and the soil disturbed—as if Naasir’s heel had slid as he dived in.
She got on her knees and peered into the water, but couldn’t see much. Everything was too churned up. There was only one option and Andromeda didn’t hesitate to take it: leaving her sword on the bank, she kicked off her boots and dived in, searching the murky water using her arms and legs. Swimming on top of a body of water was one thing, diving quite another; she had to combat the buoyancy of her wings to go under and stay under.
She didn’t find anything in the first pass, or in the second, but her right hand hit something that wasn’t stone on the third pass. It was cloth over flesh.
Feeling her way up Naasir’s body, she noted his head was hanging limply. Her muscles tensed to painful tightness—Naasir was old enough that he could survive a broken neck, but it depended on the intensity of the injury.
Fighting her instinct to breathe, she tried to pull him up but he wouldn’t rise. She made herself let go. Searching all around his body using her hands, she finally discovered the large branch that was hooked into a tear in his pant leg.
Unhooking it, she managed to get him to the surface. She gasped in air and lightly slapped his cheek. “Naasir. Wake up.”
No response.
Teeth clenched, she swallowed her panic and touched his neck with gentle fingers, trying to discern if it was broken. It didn’t seem that way to her inexpert touch, but as she made her way upward, she felt a knot on the back of his head. Her eyes went to the large stones scattered amongst the grasses on the bank.
Naasir must’ve slipped and hit his head as he went into the water. That was survivable as long as his neck wasn’t broken. Floating with him toward the bank, she kept on talking to him. She didn’t want to risk wrenching his neck by trying to haul him out of the lake, so she stayed in it with him, holding him so his head remained clear of the water.
Her arms were starting to tire and her throat beginning to choke with all the scared emotions she refused to allow free rein when she realized she was an idiot. Tilting back his head, she deliberately pressed her wrist against his mouth. No response. She looked around for something to break the flesh. Her sword was too far away, but she was just close enough to a sharp rock to graze the skin and bring a bare hint of blood to the surface.
Placing it against Naasir’s mouth, she waited. Nothing.
“Drink, damn you.” It came out a snarl.
His fangs burned into her flesh. There was no pleasure this time, just the suction of him drinking her blood.
Each time his throat moved as he swallowed, she felt her smile widen. Even when her head began to grow heavy, her blood surging into him, she didn’t pull away her hand.
The suction suddenly stopped, Naasir’s eyes flicking open in a blaze of silver as he lifted his head. “Your neck’s not broken.” Her voice came out slurred.
Naasir moved, hauling her out of the water with primal strength. Leaving her on the bank, he disappeared. She stared up at the blurry night sky, her mind trying to hold on to thoughts without success.
Then Naasir was beside her again. He had a pack with him. A pack. One of their packs, she realized dully. They’d left it behind when they ran from the swarm.
Opening it, he took out strips of jerky and said, “Eat!” When she just stared at him, he began to tear the jerky into tiny pieces and feed them to her.
She turned her head away after a few pieces of the cured meat. “Salty.”
He hauled her back with a grip on her jaw, his fingers clawed. “Eat this or I’ll hunt and make you eat raw meat.”
She scowled at him but ate the jerky—there was a grimness on his face that told her he was dead serious. Waiting until he saw she was doing as ordered, he went and got some water from the lake, then dropped a cleansing tablet in it.
“We don’t need that,” she muttered as the water cleared, sick of jerky.
“It’ll taste better.” Helping her to sit braced against him, he brought the bottle to her lips and she drank. “Eat the rest.”
She ate it, slowly able to feel her mind start to clear much as the water had done after he dropped in the tablet. When he handed her a fistful of high-energy candy, she ate that, too, drank more water. “Enough,” she said. “I’m feeling better.”
Coming around to face her, he stared at her for a long time before nodding. Then he picked up her wrist and licked over the bite marks and grazed skin to seal the wound. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said afterward, tone harsh.
She rolled her eyes, fingers curling gently into her palm. “I should’ve let you drown?”
“Vampires can’t drown.”
“Are you sure?” She didn’t know if the theory had ever been tested with long-term immersion. “And you’re not a vampire.”
He brushed the pad of his thumb over the bite bruise, his fangs flashing as he bared his teeth at her. “You almost drowned yourself.”
“Do you know the words ‘thank you’?”
A growl rumbled in his chest . . . but then he bent his head and pressed a soft and sweetly unexpected kiss on the bruise.
Her heart skipped a beat, fell right into his hands. “You’re welcome,” she whispered, and when he lifted his head, hugged him tight. “I was so afraid for you.”
His arms came around her, his jaw nuzzling against her temple in a caress that was becoming intimately familiar. “I moved too fast because the bugs were almost on me.” A squeeze. “We’re both wet.”
“At least we have dry clothes this time.” No replacement leathers for her, but gear just as tough and durable.
They held on to each other for a long time before separating to dress after Naasir went and retrieved the second pack. “I hid our trails, too,” he told her once they were both in dry clothes. “Buried your broken feathers.” His eyebrows drew together. “How hurt are you?”
“Already healing—it hurt at the time, but the damage wasn’t major.” Leaving her still-braided hair as it was, Andromeda went to where the water had trapped the dead bugs against the rocks.
About to pick one up, she decided not to risk touching it with her fingers. Instead, she found two sticks and, while Naasir watched from a crouching position across from her, she used the sticks like chopsticks to pick up the insect.
It had a locust-like body and was a yellowish shade with faint blue-green markings—according to Naasir, since her own color perception was skewed by the moonlight. What she could see was that its wings were silver, a glittering shade as bright as Naasir’s eyes and hair. And those wings looked as if they were formed of thin, thin, pieces of metal.
“Not Charisemnon,” she whispered, feeling her eyes go huge.
“Alexander?”
She nodded slowly after checking the other winged bodies she could see. All had the same metal wings. More than one was crumpled from the impact against the rocks, making their composition even clearer. “It must be some kind of a defense mechanism to drive off the too-curious.”
“We said his name.” Naasir peered at the bug she held between the sticks. “He heard.”
It made sense. Alexander had been a master tactician after all. “If he is listening,” she said, having to fight not to whisper, “I don’t think it’s conscious. We talked about Lijuan’s plans during our walk in, about how we wanted to stop her, yet the defenses activated.”
“They may be driven by a primal part of the brain.”
“So more defenses could activate without warning.” She put three of the bugs in a small plastic bag that had held trail mix. “I hope they survive the trip. I want to show Jessamy.”
Naasir watched her store the insects in an inner pocket. “There is a silver lining to this.”
Seeing his laughing eyes, she knew the pun had been intentional. “Yes?”
“We’re definitely in the right place.”
Andromeda’s breath whooshed out of her; she’d been so focused on the minutiae that she’d missed the larger picture. “Yes.” She swallowed. “Should we tell Raphael?” If Alexander Slept below lava—whether true lava or molten metal—only another archangel could get to him.
Nodding, Naasir took out the phone he’d stored in the front pocket of one of the packs—he hadn’t wanted to risk losing it as he had his other phone during their escape from Lijuan’s citadel. She was almost expecting his harsh imprecation.
“It doesn’t work, does it?”
“It should work anywhere.” Naasir pressed something on the screen, tried again. “Dead.”
“Alexander’s done something.” She thought of the lack of photographs of Amanat, of Caliane’s sheer power. “It may not be on purpose.”
Naasir slid away the phone. “It doesn’t matter. If I don’t check in, help will arrive.” It was said with the confidence of a man who had absolute faith in his sire and his comrades. “We need to locate Alexander’s exact Sleeping place before then, so Raphael doesn’t have to be away from New York long.” He rose to his feet and held out a hand. “Let’s go annoy an Ancient archangel who has a distinct preference for age over youth.”
Smiling, Andromeda slid her hand into his and let him tug her up. “No one else I’d rather do it with than you.”
A wicked grin—followed by a mutter. “Stupid Grimoire book.”
31
Xi was amassing his troops on the outskirts of Rohan’s palace with the intention of taking it before Favashi was ever aware of the attack, when one of his commanders walked up to him with an urgent look on his face.
“What is it?”
“We’re hearing rumors of a swarm of insects above an oasis in the east, about five hours on the wing from here.”
Xi waited because the solid, stable man in front of him wouldn’t come to his general with such a thing unless it had a bearing on their proposed plans.
“Our closest operative in the area caught the report from an angel who was passing by. He admits he only glimpsed it from a distance in the moonlight, but he says there was something unnatural about the swarm—according to him, they were too perfectly in formation.”
It could, Xi thought, be a sign of Alexander’s awakening. It could also be a clever distraction or a moon dream on the part of the angel. This location still made the most logical sense, regardless of Raphael’s attempts to muddy the equation by putting the scholar on a jet to Michaela’s territory.
According to Xi’s people, the jet had been sitting on t
he tarmac since it landed, all doors closed. No way to know if the scholar and Raphael’s silver-eyed enigma were still inside. “Take half a squadron and check it out,” he said, on the small chance that his instincts had led him wrong.
After his commander gave a crisp nod and went to gather his soldiers, Xi turned his attention back to the matter at hand: how to get into Rohan’s home. Alexander’s son had grown into himself in the past four hundred years and he’d absorbed the lessons of his father.
Rohan was now one of Favashi’s most feared generals, having decided to give his loyalty to her when she became the Archangel of Persia. Prior to that, he’d technically been allied to no archangel and no one had challenged it, both because Rohan commanded the respect and affection of tens of thousands as a result of his bloodline, and because he was a powerful fighter and leader.
No archangel wanted to destroy an asset when he or she could win it to their side.
“Where is Favashi?” he asked the scout who’d just landed, because if Favashi was close, his plans would have to change accordingly.
“In Astaad’s territory.” The scout’s chest heaved. “She accepted an invitation to attend a festival there.”
Astaad’s territory was on the other side of the world. Even if she left at the first sign of trouble, it would take her considerable time to return. “Prepare your squadrons to storm the palace,” he ordered his commanders. “We’ll take Rohan by surprise.”
Decision made, he sent a message through to Lijuan. As he did so, he thought of the scholar with her translucent brown gold eyes and wings delicately patterned like a bird’s, and of her question about how he could follow Lijuan after all she’d done. He hadn’t punished Andromeda for the impudence of the question both because she was a scholar and as such, curiosity was expected, and because he’d found her intriguing as a woman.
Xi had always preferred intelligence over commonplace beauty. Had Andromeda not escaped, he’d intended to ask Lijuan leave to court her. He wouldn’t have taken the scholar without the scholar’s full consent—that was not the way of a true warrior . . . and it was a rule Lijuan had taught him when he first came into her service.