Out In Blue

by Sarah Gilman

  “Lark is still searching for Wren, and he has the means to make phone contact, assuming Wren survives his injuries. He intends to torture you and use you to lure Wren here—”

  “No!”

  Jett held up a hand. “I’m a killer. I can give you a quick, painless death. Wren will have no reason to give himself up if you’re dead.”

  Raphael swallowed the acid that rose in his throat and flicked his wings. For Wren’s safety, his life was a small price to pay. But was Jett being honest? Was this a trick? How did he expect to get away with such a thing under Lark’s watch? “What about Lark? He’ll kill you.”

  Jett scoffed. “I can handle myself. Deal or no deal?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d consider getting me out of here, instead?” Raphael met the human’s gaze.

  Jett paused, then shook his head. “I can kill you with a silencer, walk past the guards and disappear. Getting you out is a very different scenario. I cannot take on all the other mercenaries as a group. And Lark? Forget it. My offer’s on the table. Take it or leave it.”

  Raphael kept his chin high. “I’ll do anything to keep my son safe.” He swallowed. “I’ll take your offer.”

  Jett nodded and his hand went to the semi-automatic at his hip. But at that moment, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway beyond the door. Raphael tensed; he knew that gait. Sure enough, a second later Lark’s voice rang out, commanding Jett to get a move on.

  “I’ll come back later.” Jett’s throat worked. He turned on his heel and left the cell.

  §

  Wren circled his childhood home several times before landing. Unexpected relief swept over him as he approached the familiar structure, the arched windows circling the second and third floors like ribbon. He had assumed the memories of the attack that destroyed his family so many years ago would be overwhelming upon his return, but instead, he felt drawn in and relieved.

  He gazed down at the little harbor formed by the rocky shoreline where his mother had swum. His father would fly her above the water and drop her, at her request, over and over again. It was her favorite outdoor activity. Wren, even as young as he’d been, would stop whatever play he’d been engaged in and watch his mother swim. Archangels couldn’t swim; wings made it impossible to negotiate the water. Indeed, an archangel trapped face down in the water would quickly drown. Wren often fantasized what it would be like to dive beneath the surface, to be weightless. Like flying, without the work?

  The old elm tree still occupied the back yard, its thick branches reaching higher than any other tree in the vicinity, its leaves yellow for autumn. His father had often carried him to that tree in the evenings and taught him the constellations. The legends and lore behind the patterns of stars had been Wren’s favorite bedtime stories, and he’d often fallen asleep in his father’s arms in that tree.

  The flight deck—constructed of granite, like the rest of the house—encircled the second floor, no railings or other obstructions. He beat his wings to reduce his speed, found his footing, and helped Ginger to her feet. Folding his wings, nostalgia knocked the air from his lungs like a physical blow.

  “Is this where you lived?” Ginger gaped at the house, clutching the paper bag full of clothing to her chest. Wren followed her gaze. Simpler in design than most Romanesque architecture, the home still appeared elegant and pensive, like an aging queen mother. Beyond the windows that lined the flight deck, ghostly furnishings sat, covered in white sheets.

  “Yes. This is home.”

  “I never would have expected a building like this all the way out here,” she said. “All the stone work. Haven has all log buildings.”

  “Granite grows in Vermont like weeds.” He grinned. “It was before I was born, but everyone in Sanctuary helped build this place, and most of the other buildings in the colony.”

  Wren led her to the double doors. He took the slip of paper with the new security codes out of his pocket, and entered the numbers into the keypad on the wall. When the locks released, he pushed the heavy doors open and led Ginger inside.

  Light filtered in from the wraparound windows, leaving nothing shadowed in the wide open space. Wren stripped the sheets off the furniture, as if the dusty veils mocked him with his family’s grim past.

  “This is beautiful.” Ginger turned in a slow circle. “But why is the kitchen up here?”

  Wren glanced to his left. The kitchen occupied the northeast corner, an island separating it from the rest of the living space. All new appliances, as Jac had said, but the ivory cabinets and dark granite countertops were just as he remembered them, and his mother’s orchids continued to grow in the windows. One plant stood in full bloom.

  “My father designed this house. Archangels don’t live on the ground floor if they can avoid it, and we prefer wide open spaces, even inside. There are enclosed bedroom suites on the third floor, though even they are designed for wing room. The ground floor is just storage.”

  Wren glanced around, struck by the little things that were missing. Everything was neat and clean and in place, but it was too quiet, too orderly. His mother’s piano, which she had played for hours every day, stood under its brown cover. His father’s books were arranged on their shelves, instead of scattered on various end tables.

  Wren turned away from the scene and headed toward the stairs. Ginger followed in silence, as if she sensed his sudden unease.

  The stairs and the hallway above were wide, similar to fancy, human mansions, but for archangels, the width was a necessity. Wren lifted his wings so his flight feathers wouldn’t drag on the stairs.

  On the third floor, he stopped at the first set of double doors—no narrow, single doors in this house—and led Ginger through. Floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall windows dominated the far side of the otherwise nondescript, empty room. A large, stripped bed occupied the center of the space. Jac and Lexine must have put everything away. Just as well. Walking into his room just the way he’d left it would have been too much. A clean slate was much better.

  “This is bigger than my entire house. Was it your room?”

  “Yeah. Like I said, wing room.” He stretched his wings, uninhibited in the large space. He pointed toward a wide archway. “The bath is through there. I’ll be downstairs.”

  “Okay.”

  “May I use your cell phone?” He struggled to keep the edge out of his voice as he mentally prepared himself for what he was about to do.

  She gave him the device and headed for the bath. He left the room, hurried down the stairs, and stepped out onto the deck.

  Wren didn’t intend to leave, but he needed the cold air to quell the molten fury that threatened to burn him to ash from the inside out. He’d long since stopped asking himself why Lark had turned, so completely and brutally, on his family. The reality of Lark’s atrocities rubbed like sandpaper against older memories. Lark…the Guardian who’d killed dozens of human extremists to protect the family when Sanctuary was attacked…who’d taken Wren to the colony’s market to get holiday gifts for his parents… who’d stood sentinel outside the house in all weather conditions, night and day, without complaint…who’d taught Wren basic self-defense and how to throw knives without a hint of impatience. Lark had laughed and cried with Wren’s family and, right up until those last, terrible moments, Wren would have sworn Lark had loved them.

  Wren dialed the number that had called Ginger over and over, five times total now. Lark’s number.

  “Hello?” A smooth, calm, and familiar voice answered.

  Wren didn’t bother to greet the demon. “What do you want?”

  A pause. A low chuckle. “Wren? I was expecting the woman. Ginger, correct?”

  “You have nothing to talk to her about.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “She is a stranger with a thing against murder who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all.”

  Again with the low chuckle. “They weren’t going to kill you, young one.”

  Wren tasted acid in hi
s throat at the term Lark had called Wren as a child. “About that. My father. Is my father alive?”

  Lark went silent, but he hadn’t hung up. Faint background noise came and went. Unintelligible voices. Footsteps. More voices.

  “Lark, damn it. Answer me!”

  “I’m not the one you want to answer your question.”

  Before Wren could speak again, another voice came on the line.

  “Son?”

  Hearing his father’s voice, Wren collapsed to his knees, his wings lifted behind him, all air knocked from his lungs.

  “Wren?”

  “I’m here, Father,” Wren managed to speak.

  “Don’t let them catch you,” Raphael said in a rush, his voice rising in panic. “Don’t worry about me. Keep yourself safe no matter what—No! Get off me—”

  “Father!”

  “Does that answer your question?” Lark’s voice returned to the phone.

  Wren heard his father scream in the background, the strangled sound of someone trying to hold it in, but whose lungs had other plans.

  “What the fuck did you just do?”

  “Don’t worry, young one. He’ll heal. I won’t kill my cash cow.”

  Cash cow? His feathers… Lark had been farming his father’s feathers? Wren almost broke the phone in his grip. “You sadistic bastard—”

  “I’m just getting started. You see, I’m out of patience. I’m damned tired of looking for you and I’m very—”

  Another muffled scream.

  “—very upset that you got away yesterday.”

  “Will you let my father go if I turn myself in?” Wren ground out.

  “No.”

  “God damn you!” Wren pulled at his hair. “What do you want from me, then? I’ll do anything—”

  “I’m not negotiating with you, Wren. This is what’s on the table. I’m done chasing after you; consider yourself free to go. What I planned to do to you, I’m just going to do to Raphael instead. You know, I’m amazed how many nerve endings archangel wings have. Fascinating biology.”

  Another choked sound of pain in the background.

  “Get your fucking hands off him—”

  “However, if you give yourself up and come here, I will let Raphael resume the comfortable life he’s had for the last eighteen years.”

  Comfortable. Right. But anything was comfortable compared to Lark’s torture methods.

  “Wren!” Raphael yelled, hoarse and strained. “No. Stay away—”

  The plea cut off with the gut jerking sound of breaking bone, followed by keening. Wren broke out in a cold sweat and went so numb, he no longer felt the wind.

  Lark returned to the phone. “Tell you what, Wren. In a show of good faith, and because I want him alert when you get here, I’ll leave your father alone to heal that wing. A broken wing will take a couple days to knit, even for an archangel.”

  Wren shook. “God damn you… God-fucking-damn you…”

  “I’ll contact you with a location to meet my men. If you don’t show at the appointed place and time, Raphael will lose his wings entirely.”

  Chapter Eight

  The multiple showerheads hung from the ceiling in the very center of the large bathroom. No shower walls. Just tile and open space. Like everything else in the house, the room was perfect for a being with wings. As Ginger hunted around for a way to turn the water on, she heard Wren’s muffled voice from outside, his angry tone drawing her attention.

  She hurried out through a set of glass doors onto a small balcony and heard another shout.

  “Lark, damn it. Answer me!”

  Lark? She looked down—wary of the lack of railings—and saw Wren on the deck below, alone, holding her cell phone to his ear. His lips moved, but she couldn’t hear the words over the wind unless he raised his voice.

  He dropped to his knees, his wings splayed out behind him.

  She stayed rooted in place. Was Lark the one who’d been calling her cell phone? Since the police were cooperating with Lark’s men, getting her number was plausible.

  “Father!” Wren shouted, his voice thick.

  Oh God… Ginger covered her mouth with her hand. Lark really did have Raphael. Alive, from the sound of it. Nausea swept over her. A Guardian… Lark had been a Guardian. How could he do this to the archangel he’d taken a blood oath to protect?

  Guardians assigned to personally serve an archangel swore to do so at the expense of all others, forsaking their own lives if need be. Lark would have made that vow. Would have been one of the most capable and trusted among the Guardians to have been assigned to an archangel…especially one with a child.

  What the hell had happened to cause this madness?

  “What do you want from me, then?” Wren’s furious demand reached her ears, chilling her more than the wind. Ginger imagined the answer to that question and cringed. Lark wouldn’t be dangling Raphael in front of Wren for any reason other than bait. Panic welled up in her chest. Wren couldn’t turn himself over to that madman. No…

  Ginger sucked in a deep breath. Yesterday, when she’d overheard the poachers’ plans to attack Wren, she’d helped because she’d thought it was the right thing to do. It was different now. More than just her conscience, this time. Even though she could count the hours she had known Wren, the idea of him getting hurt tore her up.

  She reminded herself that she was leaving for Alaska tomorrow. Also, despite the chemistry she thought thickened the air around them, Wren had turned away from her when she’d tried to kiss him. What she felt was one-sided. Grateful for her help, he was just making sure she got back to Haven safely by bringing her here. Her opinion on how he dealt with Lark probably wasn’t wanted, but she had to say something.

  Wren got to his feet and disconnected the call. Ginger rushed back inside, down the stairs and across the living area to the main doors. Looking out the wall-to-wall windows, she spotted Wren on the deck. He stood with his back to her, the angular pattern of black markings on his wings in motion as the wind whipped across his feathers. She opened the door and stepped outside.

  “Wren?”

  He lifted his gaze to her, his eyes so haunted, the green seemed to have bled out, leaving a lifeless gray.

  “Go back inside, Gin. It’s freezing.”

  She moved closer, arms wrapped around herself. “I heard some of that conversation.”

  If her intrusion upset him, it didn’t show on his face. He possessed too much turmoil in his expression already, but he flicked his wings.

  “Eighteen years… My father is alive, and he’s been a prisoner for eighteen years…”

  The vibes coming off Wren were those of a coiled snake, not a man who wanted to be coddled. She reached out and placed her hand on his arm, anyway. He dropped his gaze to where she touched him, but to her surprise, he didn’t pull away.

  “You couldn’t have known,” she said.

  His face tight and grim, he shook his head. “I know now. I have to do something. In two days, Lark is going to contact me—”

  “You can’t turn yourself over to Lark!”

  That earned her a glower. She’d expected as much.

  “If that madman promised to release your father in exchange, don’t believe—”

  “He didn’t,” Wren said, his voice as cold as the wind. “Lark only promised that my father would be tortured if I don’t show. And as if I needed more incentive, Lark broke my father’s wing. He held the phone close enough, I heard the bone snap.”

  Ginger swallowed, so sickened she struggled to speak past her gag reflex. “Once you turn yourself in, Lark will have no reason to honor any promises.”

  Wren covered her hand with one of his and guided her back into the house. He shut the door firmly behind them, muting the howl of the wind.

  “I have no intention of serving myself to Lark.” He met her gaze.

  She relaxed a tiny bit. “You don’t?”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “I will not stand by while Lark butc
hers my father. But even if I could trust him to uphold his end of the deal, his terms are unacceptable. I won’t settle for anything short of my father’s freedom. There must be a way. There has to be something I can do. I need to think…”

  “The Guardians,” Ginger said. “They will help you. You need to trust them.”

  A muscle jumped at the corner of his eye, but he nodded.

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “I have no other choice. I’ll talk to Vin as soon as he arrives.”

  Wren pulled his arm away and stalked across the room. He paced around like a bird in a tiny cage, flicking his wings and muttering under his breath.

  “God damn Lark,” he said. “Could’ve asked me to come immediately. He’s deliberately making me wait, now that I know my father’s alive. Taunting me, taunting my father. He’s enjoying every minute of this. Sick, sadistic bastard—”

  Ginger rushed over and threw her arms around his neck. He froze, tense under her hold, his arms limp at his sides. She let one hand drift down to his wing and ran her fingers through his feathers. A tremor went down his spine and he finally lifted his hands and touched her back.

  She didn’t bother with “it’s going to be okay,” or any other words that meant nothing in the face of such a dire situation. She just held him, content to stay in that position as long as he let her. To her great surprise, minutes passed, but he didn’t pull away. He rested his head on her shoulder, silent and still.

  “Tell me something,” he said into her neck.

  She swallowed. “Anything.”

  “Why does it matter so much to you if I go to Lark or not?”

  She hesitated, debating just how honestly to answer. But she’d never been one to shy away from hard questions. Besides, with Alaska looming in her future, this certainly fell into the “seize the day” category.

  “I don’t want you to get hurt because I care about you.”

  She stroked the edge of his wing, as far as she could reach from his back outward. He responded with a shiver.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “You let me touch your wings. You held me under your wing at Jac’s. Yet, you don’t want to kiss me.”