Deep in Crimson (A Return to Sanctuary Novel)

by Sarah Gilman

  “The lab assistant kept asking for my name, but I didn’t want to tell her about my ‘dreams.’ I made a name up. Why didn’t anyone say anything?”

  “Raphael thought you should hear it from Dante.” She dropped her gaze to the journal. “Um, what would you like to be called?”

  He ran a fingertip over the handwritten sentence, the letters faintly indented in the page from the heavy hand of the writer. “‘Jett,’ at least for now. It was a survival tool, a way to keep the part of me who answered to Juneau away from that tiny prison. I don’t think I’ll be able to step all the way back into Juneau’s shoes. Not any time soon.”

  Lex returned to his side and ran her fingers through his hair. Arching under her touch, he tilted his head back and stared up at her. “That drives me crazy.”

  “In a good way?” She scratched her nails over his scalp.

  “Definitely.”

  He set the journal aside and turned around in the chair, getting up to his knees. Holding her head in his hands, he kissed her, focusing on reading her reaction. Her skin warmed with a faint flush and her hands on his back trembled ever so slightly. The brush of her emotions against his mind spoke of a longing as deep as the one that swelled in his chest.

  “Maybe just once,” he murmured against her skin. “Call me my real name.”

  “Juneau.”

  The foreign, yet somehow familiar, name sent his heart off at a hammering pace. He clutched Lex close, burying his face in her neck.

  “I’m distracting you.” She withdrew slowly and sat on the windowsill, folding her legs under herself.

  Jett went back to reading, selecting a journal from the shelf a couple years more recent, and devoured page after page. The demon had written mostly short, terse entries, but the words flowed differently when the topic switched from work to family.

  I carved a sanctuary out of this valley, but I have never cared for anything as much as I do for the—a line of ink smeared across the page—little monster trying to steal my pen.

  He laughed and kept reading. Curious, he skipped ahead to the last volume on the shelf to browse entries closer to the last time they would have seen each other. Holding the heavy, red-dyed leather book, his hands shook. Not only had Juneau been kidnapped that day, Dante had been killed. The journal ended less than halfway through.

  My son planted an orange seed last spring and now has a tiny sapling in a flowerpot.

  He lifted his gaze to the tree in the atrium. “No shit?”

  Lexine grinned from her position on the windowsill. “The tree is infamous. No one thought it would grow, except you and Dante. Everyone in the colony knows the story.”

  Jett paused, a new thought occurring to him. “Did we know each other when we were kids? This is a small place.”

  “I’m a year or so younger than you. I remember your family, but like most memories from that age, nothing but vague snippets. I think we saw each other from time to time, but I don’t think we knew each other.”

  He rubbed his brow, his head aching from trying to remember anything at all. He lifted a white drape from a small table beside the desk, revealing a dozen framed photos of his family. He was perched on his father’s shoulders more often than not, he and his smiling, blond mother an odd contrast to the heavily armed Guardian. Although, upon closer inspection, his mother had carried weapons of her own. What appeared to be an unusual walking stick at first was in fact a long bow. The feathered ends of arrows stuck out from behind her shoulder.

  “My mother was an archer.”

  “A good one, too,” Lex said. “She looks innocent enough, but rumor has it she took out her fair share of humans when the colony was attacked. Want to hear the rumor of how she and Dante met?”

  “Please.”

  “This is just what I heard. When Amelia moved to Sanctuary, she wanted to train to be a Guardian, but Dante was resistant to the idea—this was the midnineteenth century and he didn’t want a female getting hurt. They fought about it for months, your mother refusing to back down. Finally, when he walked away from her one day, she waited until he’d reached the tavern and with a few quick, perfect shots, pinned him to the door by his clothes.”

  “You must be joking.”

  “Nope. You’ll have to check those journals to see if it’s true or not, but it was a Guardian who told me the story. Apparently Dante and Amelia hunted each other for days after that moment and were mated soon after.”

  Jett turned back to the photos. His mother, beautiful and deceptively delicate. She and his father made sense together. In a fight with humans, she could protect herself, and then some.

  “Now, this,” Lexine said, coming over with a book in her hands, “you should remember. He’s a couple years older, so I bet he does.”

  “What? Who?”

  She handed over the book, which turned out to be a photo album, the date on the cover corresponding with the year before the kidnapping. The first pages held photos of Jett and Wren, mostly outside the archangel house. In one, they were covered in mud, even Wren’s wings. They grinned like lunatics.

  “I don’t remember this at all.” He stared. He and Wren had been friends?

  “It makes sense,” Lex said. “Dante invited Raphael to Sanctuary in the first place, if I recall my colony history correctly. Your families were close. This I do remember well, because it was a big deal. Wren couldn’t spend much time with the other kids. He’s half human, so there was concern he’d be susceptible to demon venom. And demon kids can be very nippy.”

  “Really? What happens if two demon children bite each other? You said mutual biting led to a mating bond.”

  “The venom doesn’t gain that characteristic until well after puberty.”

  “Ah.”

  “Anyway, I remember being constantly reminded by my mom to stay away from Wren. The kids played in groups, and I recall Wren getting frustrated when he couldn’t join us.”

  “Why me, then? Being Dante’s son couldn’t have made me less dangerous.”

  She stared at him, ghosts of memories in her eyes. “I think you were naturally calmer than most, and mature for your age. Because of your strong empathic trait, perhaps.”

  “Still, he was older than me.” Jett grinned, looking at the photo of them covered in mud. “He was a very bad influence, it seems.”

  Lex laughed.

  Jett checked the date below the photo and turned to the corresponding entry in the journals.

  My son is turning into a remarkable empath, for an earthborn. I can’t express my pride in words. Last night, Juneau protected Wren, with a stick and a rock as weapons, from an imaginary monster in the woods. They’d ventured quite a ways out. Lark was with them, of course, but he kept out of sight. Juneau, who loves playing in the woods at night, dropped the game and brought Wren home. This despite Wren being the older of the two and not the least bit afraid. I’ve never seen Juneau look so serious and focused as when they returned to the house. I have no doubt my son will become a Guardian one day. Perhaps, even, a dedicated Guardian to the archangels.

  “Working on that, Dad,” he whispered. The written words branded into his mind’s eye, he replaced the album and journals, the burden of his lost past heavy enough for one day. He turned to the far left of the shelf, where he’d been told he’d find the official documents Dante had meant for Guardians in training, along with books of demon and archangel history. He took the first leather-bound book to the desk and settled down. He began to read, a smile stretching his lips as Lexine curled up in the chair next to him with a book of her own.

  How did she warm his whole body simply with her presence?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jett reached the archangel house just as the last of the colorful sunset faded. It’d been over two weeks since he’d last seen Lexine and her absence distracted him. He’d been spending too much time thinking about her instead of focusing on his tasks. Forcing her from his mind by remembering Raphael in the underground prison, he prepared hims
elf for whatever trial Lark would launch at him tonight. The Guardian emerged from the woods and stepped in Jett’s path.

  “Wren is missing.”

  The words struck like a bullet. “What?”

  Lark held up a hand. “This is an exercise.”

  “Damn you!” Jett took a deep breath, a hand over his thudding heart. Tempted to beat Lark’s face into a bloody pulp, he ground out, “Start with that fact next time.”

  “And miss the chance to keep you on your toes? Never. Tonight your goal is to find Wren and bring him back to the house using only your empathic skill. You never know when technology will fail you, so you can’t rely on it in emergencies.”

  “I understand.”

  “Humans have been spotted in the woods and they’ve taken down the cell tower. I’m guarding the house with Raphael, Ginger, and the twins inside. Wren hasn’t returned from his flight and gunshots have been heard to the south. Guardians in the woods represent poachers and they have dart guns. If Wren gets hit, you lose the exercise. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “The ‘poachers’ have a head start on you. Begin.” Lark turned away and vanished into the forest.

  Jett resisted the urge to sprint into the woods and head south. Wren would get as far away from the shooters as he could, leaving too much land search for his scent. Without cell phones, that left the empathic skill as Jett’s only tool.

  In a real situation, Wren would be angry or scared or both, a beacon of emotion in the woods, making this exercise harder. Jett closed his eyes.

  Raphael and Ginger were truly in the house, their nervous anticipation raising the hairs on his arms. He searched for Wren’s emotional voice. While Raphael kept his emotions buried deep under a facade of calm, like a whisper in the back of Jett’s mind, Wren’s mental voice often came through with more clarity. Indeed, now that Jett practiced every day, fine-tuning his mental connection to the family, Wren’s clearer signal provided a constant reminder that the archangel’s trust in Jett was at best tentative.

  Jett couldn’t afford to lose this exercise. He needed to build Wren’s trust, not weaken it.

  There. Wren’s emotional voice, a mix of worry and tension, a long distance away to the southwest. Jett ran in that direction.

  He hadn’t gotten far when a scream split the air. Male, but not Wren.

  “Help! Please!”

  Jett veered to the left and took cover behind a large pine trunk. Beyond, two Guardians held a teenaged civilian. The boy stared toward Jett and yelled again. “Help me! Jett, please!”

  “Lark, you sick son of a bitch,” Jett muttered, but he understood what this was: a test. His responsibility was the archangels. No one else, not even Lexine, not even kids in danger. Moments spent here could be moments poachers found Wren. Being a Guardian dedicated to the archangels meant honoring that responsibility without fail. Otherwise, there’d be no point.

  “Help!”

  The Guardians hauled the teen away through the trees.

  Jett clenched his teeth and continued southwest. The teen is the Guardians’ responsibility; Wren is mine.

  What if that had been Lexine or Bryce? His body wanted to be sick, but he forced control and pressed on. There’d be plenty of time later to question if he could really do this.

  He sprinted, sacrificing silence for speed. A Guardian leaped at him from behind a boulder and after precious moments spent wrestling, the other demon put up his hands, acknowledging a killing strike from Jett.

  Wren’s mental signal grew louder—a spike of anxiety that sent Jett’s heart rate sky-high. Jett tore in that direction, sweat beading on the back of his neck. This was supposed to be an exercise, but that level of emotion from the archangel couldn’t be faked.

  In reality, his cell phone worked fine. Should he call Lark? No, in a legitimate emergency like this, Lark needed to stay at the house with the others and Jett would be entrusted with Wren’s life. He pressed on, not risking calling Wren either. The ring could alert poachers to the archangel’s location.

  Wren came into view at the same time Jett picked up on his scent, his wings like ghosts among the trees. He stood in front of an old, twisted maple. Jett scanned the area with all his senses as he ran over. “Wren.”

  The archangel jumped.

  “What’s wrong?” Jett grasped Wren’s shoulder with one hand and drew a blade with the other, still focused on the forest around them. Nothing moved except for a squirrel; no human or Guardian scents carried on the breeze.

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Don’t give me bull.”

  “Really.” Wren shuddered and shivered, though the evening temperature hadn’t dropped much. “There’s nothing dangerous going on, I promise. There’s a spirit here.”

  “A what?”

  “A ghost. As Ginger’s mate, I gained her psychic talent to see spirits.”

  Lark had said as much. He also said that ghosts were rare but potentially a major concern. Psychic talents drained energy from the archangels, so if a ghost refused to leave, Wren and Ginger’s lives would be threatened. “Better be Casper the friendly ghost.”

  Wren shivered again. “Not how I would describe Dante.”

  “D—” Jett’s mind went utterly blank for moment, until the fatigue radiating off Wren broke through.

  “Demons,” Wren said, struggling for breath, “are nothing like human spirits.” He spoke, it seemed, to the maple tree. “We’ll need to try this again later.” A pause. “Yes, I’ll tell him.”

  “What’s happening?”

  Wren’s shivers stopped. “Your father has come to see you.”

  Jett stared at the tree.

  “He’s gone, for now. Human spirits are waifs, drawing small amounts of energy from sources around them, especially me. But a demon manifestation…” He nodded at the tree. “Lark is nothing like this when he steps out of his body—the difference, I suppose, between a psychic talent like his and true death. Dante was a concentrated mass of amber light. The entire tree flamed around him. I felt like I was bleeding to death, he drained so much energy from me so fast.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll live.” He stretched his wings and arched his back. “We need to get back, though.”

  “Yes,” Jett murmured, still trying to get his mind around the idea his father had been here, just now.

  “Lark told me to make like I’ve been shot out of the sky. No flying, no running. Of course, now I don’t have to fake being that out of it. And I can’t see in the dark like you can.”

  “Good times. All right, I’ll get you home.”

  “Thank you, Guardian,” Wren said, his tone sincere.

  As they began walking through an area thick with maple trees, soggy forest peat underfoot, Jett stayed close to Wren to keep him from tripping in the darkness, despite the wing contact. He said quietly, “He came to see me?”

  “There’s a lot he wants to tell you.”

  Jett focused first and foremost on their surroundings, letting it sink in that his father had returned from wherever it was the dead “lived.” If “dead” was correct word for a demon who, like the fallen archangels, came to this earth from someplace else in the first place.

  Wren stopped. “First, he said to tell you, he’s sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Everything you’ve been through.”

  “It wasn’t his fault.”

  “That doesn’t mean it didn’t kill him every damned day he watched it play out. He was dead, but he didn’t walk away. You weren’t alone at any point in that hell.”

  “Is that supposed to make some sort of difference now? It’s over. I survived.”

  “Yes. And he’s proud of you. As a new father, let me suggest, it’s not supposed to change the past. It’s just supposed to matter.”

  Jett caught the scent of another demon, turned, and disarmed the clever, young Guardian who’d snuck on up them in his distraction. He paused, facing a tree, and rubbed moi
sture from his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, forcing control and returning to Wren’s side. “It matters. Thank you.”

  They kept walking, Jet trying in vain to keep Wren from being such a visible target. Thankfully, the humans would have a harder time spotting him in the dark than the Guardians who tracked them now.

  “Branch.”

  Wren ducked under the low tree limb. At the same moment, a Guardian “poacher” jumped down from the tree.

  Jett fought him off, plus a half-dozen other attackers, then took a less direct path to the house over more difficult terrain. Many more scents carried on the wind. By himself, he’d have opted to fight his way through the “poachers’” dragnet but keeping Wren out of their crosshairs was priority one.

  “Tell me something, archangel,” Jett prompted as the lights from the stone house finally came into view. “How much trouble did you get into for getting caked in mud when we were little?”

  Wren laughed. “I didn’t—my father was too amused. Mother wouldn’t let me in the house until I’d cleaned every last speck off, though, and the hose water was cold. You remember now?”

  “No. I saw the picture.”

  “Oh. Well, you started the mud brawl that got us both so filthy.”

  “What! I did not. You’re the older one—”

  “Doesn’t mean you weren’t the troublemaker.”

  “Ridiculous. The only reason I was allowed near you—”

  “Angel.” Wren pointed at his own chest, then at Jett. “Demon. Angel. Demon.”

  “Oh, hell no! You wanted to go down to the lake, even though you weren’t allowed near the water. We ended up in the mud when I tried to drag you back.”

  Stepping into the light that spilled across the front lawn, Wren smiled. “You remember.”

  Jett shoved a hand through his hair. Images and voices from that part of childhood played in his mind for the first time in his adult life. “Yes, I do.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Son.” Raphael met them on the lawn, his face pale and his worry over Wren evident in the emotions that bled into the back of Jett’s mind. The archangel brushed his son’s wing with his own and held out a hand to Jett. “Good work, Guardian, and thank you for not bringing him back covered in mud this time.”