by Sarah Gilman
He tilted his head and ran his fingers over the tiny Guardian emblem, a cursive, gold G no bigger than a thumbnail, stitched on the left of his neckline. Simple, but proud.
So unlike the gaudy tattoo on his arm. He pulled on the black jacket to cover the appalling artwork. Shit, the look Lexine had given him.
Rolling his shoulders to adjust the new garments, he returned to the main room. Lark stood in the open doorway of a gun closet, flipping a blade end over end with one hand.
“You clean up nice.” A taunting grin.
“Fuck you.” Jett took in the something-for-everyone display of guns, knives, and…was that a samurai sword? “Tell me something. Do you trust me as much as Raphael does?”
Lark sheathed the blade. “I trust that you belong here, not with the humans, and you know it. For the eighteen years of Raphael’s imprisonment, I haunted Thornton’s stronghold, so you’re not a stranger to me. At the time, I had no reason or desire to respect your privacy.”
Jett’s muscles stiffened to the point that pain shot up his neck. “How much did you see?”
“Enough.” The tone in which Lark spoke that one word carried the weight of a hundred of Jett’s worst memories. Lark had been there, had witnessed the degradation. The older demon held his gaze without even a smattering of pity, the muscles around his jaw flexing as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. “At your age, I doubt I would have handled such treatment half as well. You have my respect.”
Lark offered his hand, and Jett shook it. Like it or not, Lark knew things no other living person knew. Jett wouldn’t allow that to undermine him. It was over. Thornton was dead, and this was his new life.
“However,” Lark said, “not everyone in Sanctuary will be as certain about you. Be prepared, and be patient.”
“Speaking of that. Does Sanctuary have any tattoo-removal equipment?”
“Lasers? No, but…” He held up a knife. “I could carve it off and the archangels could heal your arm. That would leave a nasty scar, though.”
“Better scar tissue than this tattoo.”
“I’d consider leaving it alone.”
“What the hell for?”
“Because the scar would be just as much a reminder as the tattoo itself, and if you ask me, those fingernail marks send a clear message of where your loyalty is and is not. Think about it while you train. If you still want to be carved up later, we’ll get it done.”
They spent an hour selecting just the right weapons for Jett’s tastes. New combat blades hugged his thighs. Eight throwing knives, two sets of four, clung to his sides. Daggers nestled into his boots and sheaths on his arms. A strap held a gun at his back.
Lark showed him to a spare room. “You can come here when you need to sleep, for now, and you can leave the weapons here. You won’t need them during the early phase of your training, which starts tomorrow at dawn. But first, you need to be presentable and armed when we appear with the family at the memorial for Jac and the children, which begins at dusk.”
Jett’s mouth went dry. A group funeral, courtesy of Law-rence.
Never again.
His thoughts shifted to large amber eyes and dark hair. Despite the grim occasion, his body hummed at the prospect of seeing her again.
“If you successfully complete the training,” Lark continued, “you and I will be equal partners. We’ll know each other well enough to work together during an emergency when we can’t stop and plan. However, for the time being, you’re required to heed any and all instructions I give you. In a situation where the family is at risk, my attention cannot be divided between them and wondering what the hell you’re doing.”
He bit back a “fuck off.” Taking orders would be the hardest part of this training, he had no doubt. “Understood.”
“Good.” Lark flipped and caught his blade again. “This afternoon, we’ll get some necessary evils out of the way. All the other Guardians need to meet you, and the more the civilians see you, the more at ease with your presence they’ll become. I’ve called Devin. He’ll take you around. I need to stay near the archangels.”
Sunglasses in place, they stepped out of the dwelling into the harsh, late-morning sun. Devin waited in the garden, dressed in Guardian black, minus the jacket. A long, thin scar wound across his left forearm. Wraparound sunglasses covered his eyes, but his lips curved in a smug grin. “I have much to teach you,” Lark said, “but the basis of your training will be physical conditioning. Devin will oversee those festivities.”
Devin’s grin broadened.
“You can’t be serious.” Jett folded his arms. “Running laps and push-ups?”
Lark laughed and glanced over his sunglasses, his crimson irises harsh red in the daylight. “Five minutes into the program originally designed by your father, you’ll wish it were that easy.”
“Before we do anything else,” Jett said, “we need to discuss Lawrence. He’s still out there, and we have no leads.”
“We know he’s planning another attack,” Devin said, all humor vanishing. “I think our best option is to wait for Lawrence to make another move. He has no chance of surprising us again.”
“Not my first choice,” Lark muttered, “but you’re right, we’re out of offensive options.”
“We could confide in the Vermont State Police,” Devin said. “We know his name. They should be able to track him down quite easily, even if he uses aliases, which I bet he does.”
“No,” Lark said, his tone icy. “They won’t let us kill him, and if he hasn’t done anything against human laws, he won’t even go to jail. I want this threat eliminated.”
“This could damage our fragile relationship with the VSP. Just saying. It’s worth considering.”
“The archangels are our first priority,” Jett said. “Period.”
Lark nodded. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We will involve the state police, but only concerning the threat of another attack on the colony by poachers, and we’ll prepare colony-wide for that attack. Vin is already planning as much.
“We won’t confide in the VSP about Lawrence, but any poachers they unearth may provide us with valuable leads. We’ll wait him out. Bastard has to make a mistake eventually Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Devin said.
“Fine,” Jett said.
Damn it. He fucking hated waiting.
…
Dressed in a heavy mourning robe, Lexine approached Sanctuary’s mausoleum—an edifice of granite and stained glass. She paused at the stone steps and glanced back at the gathering on the lawn. As with every death, the colonists had gathered together in silence, dressed in gray, their candles like stars that had sunk beneath the navy-blue, late-evening sky.
The archangels stood near the front of the crowd but off to the side, the white of their wings stark in the low light. They wore gray, just like all the demons, the traditional mourning color. Catching Ginger’s gaze, Lexine strayed from the mausoleum procession to embrace her friend. Holding the sleeping twins, Raphael and Wren whispered their condolences, followed by Lark and Devin. When the scent of rich tea and honey filled her nose and a fourth voice murmured in her ear, Lexine shivered under the verbal caress and glanced up.
Jett had traded his jeans and shirt for Guardian black, the distinctive golden G embroidered into the collar of both his jacket and the shirt underneath.
Her lungs deflated, and she tried to speak, but no sound came out. A Guardian? What? How?
“Lexi?” Her mother’s voice pulled her attention back to the open doors of the mausoleum, but Lexine’s feet remained frozen in place.
Jett lifted a hand to her arm.
She yanked free and shoved him in the chest, a fierce heat rising within her blood. His lips parted in surprise, revealing a hint of fangs longer and thicker than her own—typical of the male half of the species. The sight accelerated her heart rate along with her burst of temper. How dare he do this?
Hissing through her own fangs, she whispered, “Your life wasn’t
dangerous enough? You had to go and paint a bigger target on your back?”
Being a Guardian put him on the front lines when dangerous humans attacked. He was significantly upping his chances of getting killed.
Dream or no dream, relationship or no relationship—after rescuing Bryce, Jett would always be a treasured part of her and her little brother’s life. To ever see him laid out in the mausoleum would chip off a piece of her heart, and under the crushing pain of her older brother’s death, the image was too much to bear.
She pivoted on her heel and hurried under the stone archway, joining her family.
The parents and siblings of the murdered children also occupied the grand room with its cathedral ceiling. The four urns sat under white veils, the moonlight from the stained-glass windows adding a shadow of color, a whisper of the lives that had once been.
She held her mother as the time-weathered demon collapsed to her knees and sobbed, the sounds cutting in the acoustic space, joining the weeping of the other mourners. Though aging, as humans would recognize it, had just started to kick in for the five-hundred-year-old, giving her hair gray streaks, the stress of the last couple days had taken all the color from her skin and left her thin and brittle in Lexine’s arms.
Lexine held her own tears back. She stepped aside so her father could hold her mother. Sitting next to the largest veil-covered urn, she pulled Bryce into her lap and hummed in his ear.
Gradually, the room grew quiet, the steady decrescendo the only mark of passing time. Her mother took Bryce, and Lexine leaned against the wall. Pain filled her body, but she could not, would not, let it out.
“It’s okay to cry, sweetie,” her father whispered.
“I can’t. It’s too…final.”
He took her hand. “Jac’s gone.”
She squeezed his hand, but pulled away and ran out the back door of the mausoleum. In the cool night air, her knees gave out and tears broke free.
So much for being strong.
Warm weight settled against her side and over her shoulders. Jett sat in the grass with her, flames licking down his arms. He lifted her and resettled them in a private corner created by the stone steps and the wall, and she didn’t protest. She gave in to the hypnotic comfort of the fire and leaned against him.
“You are strong, Lexine.”
Had she expressed that doubt out loud? She wiped at her face and held her breath in an attempt to dam the sobs.
He shook his head, his chin rubbing against her hair. “Let it out. You won’t feel better until you do.”
God help her, she did as he said. She gripped his jacket and set her grief free. Sobs shook her body, choked her throat, and continued until the sodden place they seeped from ran dry. She pulled away long enough to clean her face with tissues from her pockets. Steadied by Jett’s embrace, she shut her eyes and breathed in his scent. His flames caressed her cheek.
An owl lifted off from the mausoleum roof and disappeared over the trees in startled flight. Much larger silhouettes followed a moment later as the archangels headed home, the rustle of their feathers a harsh sound in the still night. She’d lost all track of time, but the colony’s vigil traditionally broke up at one in the morning.
Lexine leaned away. “Shouldn’t you be following them?”
“Lark cut me loose for the rest of the evening. My pre-sence with the family tonight was more ceremonial than anything else. My training starts at dawn.”
“Well, congratulations.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.
“Why does my decision upset you?”
“Because you seem intent on getting yourself killed.”
“They offered me a purpose that will outlast Lawrence. I accepted.”
“After not even speaking to anyone for months?” She sighed, gripping his shoulders. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled you’re joining the community, but a Guardian?”
“For the archangels.”
“That’s worse.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s nothing more dangerous.”
“I’m in training. If it will work out remains to be seen. I want more in my future than brook trout, wild berries, and no one but the squirrels to talk to. I’m not trying to get myself killed. I’m trying to start living.”
She rubbed her face. She’d be selfish to argue that point.
“You should go back inside.”
“I’d like to head home, actually.” She shivered and pulled the robe tight. “I could use some extra sleep.”
“I’ll walk you, then.”
“All right.” After ducking inside to check in with her family, she fell into step at his side, her arms folded.
“Do you give all new Guardians the same reception?” he murmured as the path curved around a large boulder in the forest, bringing them closer to the lakeshore. Intermittent lanterns hung from the trees, providing a reddish-orange glow.
“No. The Guardians have my respect. You’re no exception, especially after all you’ve done for Bryce. I just…”
“What?”
The words rushed out of her mouth. “One of my brothers was just murdered. The other, kidnapped. Poachers attacked the colony. Ginger is a dear friend and the constant threat that hangs over her family haunts me. It’s too much for me to see another person I care about added to the boiling water!”
He arched an eyebrow. “I’m a person you care about?”
“Of course. You saved my little brother.”
“Ah, so you’re just grateful.”
“I’m very grateful, but it’s more than that.”
He stopped. Unmoving, he stared at her, those eyes of deepest crimson richer in the darkness lit only by the lantern hanging above his head. “How so?”
“I want to kiss you again, Jett.” She pressed her palms to his chest, stood on her toes, and tasted his lips.
His arms anchored her waist to his and he parted her lips with his tongue. The sweet taste of his venom—more honey-like in flavor than her own—filled her mouth as his tongue slid against hers. She sucked on one of his fangs, drawing out more of the nectar. A tremor ran down her body.
One of his hands lifted and tangled in her hair; the other dropped and squeezed her ass. Despite his passionate grip, he eased off, kissing her with leisurely strokes of his lips. His tender caress eased the tension out of her muscles.
She ran her hands down his arms, over the unmistakable lumps of knives under his jacket. A Guardian for the archangels, but how could that be? In her dream, he’d been her mate. Lark had never taken a mate, had never even indulged in courtship as far as she knew. Most of the Guardians had families, but Lark, and now Jett, had a responsibility that owned and defined their lives.
Certainly he wouldn’t fail the training, would he? Knowing what he’d done for Raphael in the past and feeling the coiled strength beneath her hands, the idea that he’d fail seemed absurd.
The future in the dream was easily changed, after all. The thought left her with an ache in her chest. She’d barely started getting to know him, had gotten just a taste of where things could go between them. Now the potential was gone, snuffed out like a tiny flame.
But, he deserved to do well. He’d been through so much.
She broke the kiss, her fingers lingering on his shoulders. “Good luck tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” He offered her his arm and resumed walking. “As soon as I have time, I want to see you again.”
She bit her lip. He’d have no such time. “I look forward to it.”
Chapter Twelve
“Savages,” Jett said, coughing on water as he threw his bound hands over the edge of the large canoe. Three weeks had passed since the funeral—one continuous training session except for a few precious hours of sleep. “Vicious, evil degenerates—”
“Hold that thought.” His blond head haloed by the first colors of dawn, Devin lifted Jett by the arms and shoved him down. Again.
Jett had been in the water long enough
that the cold no longer bothered him—he’d gone numb. His lungs and muscles burned. Using a whole-body writhing motion that he’d perfected since the moment Devin had first tossed him overboard with hands and ankles bound, he propelled himself back to the surface. This time, he stayed the hell away from the boat, so he’d have a moment to catch his breath.
Devin grinned with satisfaction, as if he’d been waiting for Jett to make that move. “You’ve shaved off half your time. Excellent.”
Fighting to keep his head above the surface with his hands and feet bound, Jett heard a different voice.
“Start the fire now,” Lawrence insisted.
Shivering, thirteen-year-old Jett tried to climb out of the icy bath. Hands grasped his shoulders from behind and pushed him back down, chin-deep in the water. Answering from behind the metal gag that clamped around his head, he managed, “I c-can’t.”
Oh, he wanted to. Wanted to light up the entire room, especially his keepers. But the water left his ability useless, as the scientists apparently wanted to prove.
Lawrence and the two men in white coats murmured to each other in low voices. One of them, the balding one with the mustache the size of a rat, shook his head. “Make sure.”
Firm hands pushed Jett’s head beneath the surface.
“Still with me?” Devin’s brow furrowed.
“I fucking hate water.”
“Of course you do,” Devin said. “We all do. But not as much as the archangels hate it.”
Jett coughed, focusing on the here and now. If he told Devin to fuck off and swam to shore, no one would stop him. So, he didn’t. The freedom made all the difference. “Why the archangels?”
“Imagine one of them face down in the water.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the cold lake ran down Jett’s spine. With their wings, it’d be impossible to right themselves. “I’d hope they’d stay away from water at all costs.”