by Sarah Gilman
The mercenary’s mouth curled into a nasty grin, and he pulled his arm back. Raphael recoiled but not fast enough; the human’s fist connected with his face. The human’s laughter filled the hallway as Raphael spun in place from the force of the blow and crumpled to the floor.
Blood poured from his nose to his mouth, and he spat it out as the human knelt next to him. The mercenary struck him again. And again. Raphael, despite his wing and overall weakened condition, was not going to lay there and let this human beat on him. He’d be back on his feet already, but he had a plan. He let his head fall limp to the floor and allowed sobs to escape his throat, praying that the human would be too blinded by his anger and his power to notice Raphael reaching under his wing.
“That’s it, cry.” The mercenary landed another strike. “Filthy devil. Cry like the pathetic creature you are.”
Raphael’s fingers closed around a feather. With a quirk, firm jerk, he pulled the feather free. The pain was nothing compared to his broken wing and broken face. Now blinded by blood, Raphael reached out with his free hand and hastily wiped at his eyes.
The human leaned down and spat.
Raphael struck with the feather, burying the sharp quill in the mercenary’s neck. The mercenary screeched and thrashed, blood pouring out of his mouth. Raphael sprang on the writhing human and pulled the feather free. Blood flowed faster from the open wound and in moments, the human stilled.
Raphael looked over his shoulder. The door had closed. Darkness caressed the corners of his consciousness. The human had opened that door somehow, and he wouldn’t have come in with no way out. How did he operate the door?
He searched the body. Guns, knives…a cell phone? Raphael puzzled over the little electronic device. Technology had advanced considerably in the eighteen years he’d been imprisoned. Lark’s phone had at least looked like a phone: it had flipped open and had a number pad. This device was just a rectangular screen.
Raphael tossed the contraption aside, frustrated. He pulled at a chain around the human’s neck and studied the thumb-sized piece of black plastic he wore like a necklace.
A tiny button. Raphael pressed it. The electronic beep sounded, and the door slid back.
Raphael got to his feet again, aware of blood dripping from his face to his chest. Pain lit up every nerve in his body, and stars and blood marred his vision, but still he stood, determined to get out, a bone-deep need to escape propelling him forward.
“I won’t die in here,” he affirmed to himself and stepped forward. One foot, then the other. Repeat.
He came to the foot of a flight of stairs. Unfazed, Raphael climbed. When he reached the landing at the top, he collapsed to his knees. Rest, just for a couple seconds, he promised himself.
He glanced to his left and started at the sight of another mercenary, then recognized Jett and let out a long, shaky breath. Raphael had all but forgotten his psychic talent’s alarm under all the pain, but now the crawling sensation surged anew.
Jett sat against a wall in a pool of blood, his chin on his chest. He breathed, but the movement of his chest was barely discernable.
“Jett?”
Jett lifted his eyelids and surprise lit up his features. “You…made it. I’m sorry, I…fucked this up.”
Raphael craned his neck, but couldn’t see much of the rooms to his left and right. One body, its head a bloody mess, lay face down under a window. “Are there more?”
“Jasper…”
“The big guy?”
Jett nodded, grimacing. “The fucker shot me.”
“I got him.” Raphael spat more blood.
Jett’s eyes flared in surprise. “Then…the place is clear. But Lark will be back…any minute. Get out. Get…the fuck out of here. Take my phone…and my gun, in case he catches you…”
As the human’s words faded to a soundless whisper, Raphael moved closer on his hands and knees. He took the gun and the phone.
“Go.”
Raphael shook his head. “Letting you die here is no way to thank you.”
Jett arched an eyebrow. “Go, damn it. You can’t help me—”
Raphael flattened his palm on the gunshot wound over Jett’s abdomen. “You will sleep for a few hours, but you will wake up just fine. I promise.”
Jett’s brown eyes stared in open shock. “You…really are a h-healer?”
“Yes.”
A wet laugh escaped Jett’s throat and blood appeared on his lips. “I thought Lark was bullshitting me…”
“Sleep now,” Raphael said. “And thank you, human.”
Raphael let the healing energy flow and the mercenary’s tissues slowly knit together. Jett’s chin dropped heavily to his chest in deep sleep. Covered in blood as he was, he looked good and dead. Hopefully, no one would check him too closely, and he’d escape.
Perhaps Raphael should have left the assassin to die for the greater good, but he didn’t have the energy or the time to debate the decision. A feeling told him he’d made the right choice, and that would have to be good enough under the circumstances.
But he paused to consider something else.
Jett, even though his injury was only minutes old, had felt feverish under Raphael’s hand. Was that possible, for a human? He was bleeding out, and should have felt cold. Only an archangel or demon would go into a raging healing fever…
Raphael pressed his wrist against Jett’s forehead. He jerked away from the heat. No human could reach a fever that high. Very carefully, Raphael lifted Jett’s lip to expose his teeth.
No fangs, but…Holy shit. Jett didn’t have any canines at all. Just four gaping holes, two on the top and two on the bottom.
But his incisors had the sharp edges unique to demons. Damned things could bite through bone.
A demon. But…his fangs…
When torturing a demon, the fangs were a prime target. All the nerve endings associated with the venom system made for a great deal of agony.
“Who are you, really?” he asked, but it was no use. Nothing could wake the human—the demon—from the healing sleep for the next few hours.
Raphael stuffed the gun into his back pocket and gripped the phone tightly in his hand. As he stood, stars filled his vision and he caught sight of his wing. Blood soaked his feathers and more bone protruded. He watched blood flow freely from the wound and realized the bone had cut one of the major blood vessels of the wing. Cold absolution flooded his veins.
He wouldn’t heal from this. He was going to bleed to death.
Raphael staggered into what looked like a normal dining room and continued on to an immaculate kitchen. His eyes locked on the door, lacy curtains over the window. He had two goals for the time he had left.
He had to get outside, to die under the open sky. Free.
He had to hear his son’s voice once more.
The unremarkable wood door opened with a simple turn of the dead bolt. Cold air, heavy with the bite of frost, rushed in at Raphael. Breathing in the scent of freedom, hot tears ran down his cheeks.
He stumbled outside. Frozen grass crunched underfoot and stars glimmered overhead, dulled slightly by the first hints of a sunrise. He stared at the stars and lifted his good wing, relishing the feel of the icy breeze on feathers.
With the last of his strength, he fumbled with the cell phone. So many saved numbers. Which was Wren’s? It began with an eight…
The phone fell from his numb fingers. “Wren… Kora… I love you…”
Clinging to the last remnants of consciousness, he stumbled forward, away from his prison, toward the open field beyond.
He collapsed in the grass.
Chapter Fifteen
Wren could have clawed his way out through the side of moving van with his fingers. He despised road travel, as most archangels did. The confinement. Even though he could walk around the empty space, the lack of windows made him feel smothered. Wren paced, forcing down the overwhelming urge to throw open the back door and jump.
His father had live
d in a cell for eighteen years. Underground. Wren’s muscles tensed, and he flicked his wings to give the nervous energy an outlet. The friction of his feathers brushing across each other sounded loud in the small space. The only other noises were the humming of the tires on pavement and his own pulse hammering in his ears. During the hours of travel, he had not exchanged a single word with Devin, who sat on the floor against the wall.
The platinum-blond demon seemed perfectly at ease, but Wren wasn’t fooled by Devin’s meditative manner. Hands resting on his knees, his body swaying loosely with the movements of the van, Devin betrayed his focused, calculating thoughts with the intensity in his eyes. Weapons hung from every nook of the demon’s body. Throwing knives and fighting blades were strapped to his arms and legs. Guns hugged his hips. His jacket hid even more artillery, and behind his lips were the demon’s venomous fangs.
“Not much further.” Devin turned his head to meet Wren’s stare and tapped his ear where a communication device was hidden. “And good news. Scouts just reported Lark left the property with two of his men. That leaves only three mercenaries on site.”
Lark’s absence was good news for the rescue attempt, yes, but a sinking feeling filled Wren’s stomach. The traitor couldn’t get away!
“Is Lark being followed?”
“Of course. We’re going to take the bastard out if at all possible, but we can’t risk taking a shot yet. We need surprise on our side to get your father out safely. If we moved on Lark now and the mercenaries back at the house got word of trouble…”
Hatred for Lark and raw fear for his father laced Wren’s veins at the reminder of the worst-case scenario they faced. The underground, concrete bunker where Raphael was imprisoned was secured with several sets of reinforced doors. If the mercenaries locked the place down with the security system, Raphael would be sealed in alive.
Don’t think about it, Wren ordered himself.
The van slowed and lurched over uneven ground before coming to a stop. Wren caught his balance before sweeping his gaze from the doors to his bodyguard.
“Give me a minute to verify the location is secure,” Devin said.
Devin unlocked the doors and jumped down, shutting Wren in behind him and leaving a plume of fresh air in his wake.
Wren often wondered what the world looked like to a demon through their unrivaled senses. As Devin walked around the van, he’d be able to see, hear, and scent everything in their vicinity, from a squirrel to a sniper.
The van’s back door opened and Devin reappeared, the silver light of the moon spilling in over the demon’s shoulders.
“Okay,” Devin said. “Get out here before you go stir crazy.”
Feeling like a plastic bag had been ripped free of his face, Wren dropped down to the pavement. The van sat on a single, paved lane, surrounded by thick trees. Small, evenly spaced clearings blemished the forest on either side of the road, and as Wren’s eyes adjusted to the predawn light, he realized they were in a campground, empty for the winter.
“How far away are we?”
“A few miles,” Devin replied. “Vin and his men are moving into position as we speak. This will be over soon.”
Wren stared at the star-packed sky.
Devin paced about, his head cocked toward the device in his ear, listening as his eyes scanned the trees.
“They’re moving in now,” Devin said. “They—”
Devin stiffened, his hand going to his ear, his eyes narrowing.
Wren seized the demon’s arm. “What?”
Devin met Wren’s gaze, his eyebrows high. “Your father just walked out of the house. Hold on…” his expression darkened as he listened to his earpiece and air hissed past his fangs. “Jesus, fuck. Wren, you need to go. Now. Three miles, straight that way.” He pointed. “I’ll follow.”
Wren didn’t waste time questioning the sudden change in the Guardians’ nowhere-near-the-house philosophy. Dread heavy in his gut, he beat his wings and got airborne.
While his senses weren’t as sharp a demon’s, Wren could see quite well in the limited light. Even in Vermont’s most-populated area, the landscape was mostly dark at that hour of the morning. So quiet, so still. The opposite of the turmoil of Wren’s emotions and the furious beating of his wings.
He crossed the distance in a minute and flew low, looking for the house. His healing talent lit up the nerves in his skin like an electric current, signaling that someone in his vicinity was seriously injured. Just as he leaned toward the preternatural pull, a demon-fire flare arched into the sky, confirming his destination. Wren adjusted his wings and dove. Hell, the Guardians were sending up flares? To risk drawing human attention like that confirmed every second counted.
The farmhouse sat in a wide clearing, far back from the road. Demons littered the otherwise unmarked landscape, and Wren headed straight toward the cluster of them at the front of the house. Wren saw the white of his father’s wings splayed across the dark grass. The nearly invisible black-clad demons crowded around, their coppery eyes reflecting the sunrise as they looked up at him.
Wren hit the ground and let his momentum carry him the remaining few yards to his father’s side. The scent of blood hit him hard, as did the sight of his father’s condition. He was unconscious and beaten, covered in blood. The broken wing lay at a horrible angle. Two demons—one of them Vin—pressed their wadded up jackets down on Raphael’s bloodied wing, their own faces pale and horror-struck.
Wren didn’t have time for shock, fury or any other emotion. He needed to act.
He dropped to his knees, his wings held high. The demons backed away, taking their blood-soaked jackets with them, revealing sharp points of bone protruding from Raphael’s blood-soaked feathers.
If his father had lost consciousness from the blood loss rather than the beating he’d taken to his face, he’d lost much more blood than Wren had from the gunshot days ago. But as long as his father still had a heartbeat, Wren could fix even the blood loss.
Wren pressed both hands over the break and felt the faint, thready thrum of a pulse. Hope surging anew, he touched the edge of the wound with his fingertips and let just enough healing energy loose to stop the bleeding from the artery. He needed time to fix the break; he’d come back to that.
He pressed both hands to his father’s chest and let the healing energy flow freely, inciting his father’s system to replenish his blood supply. Moving his fingers to Raphael’s throat, Wren waited until his father’s pulse was strong and steady, then, shaking with relief, returned his attention to the broken wing.
He manipulated the bone into place and let the healing energy flow. The damage knit in seconds and Wren lifted his hands to inspect the wing. It appeared straight, but they wouldn’t know for sure until Raphael tried to fly.
Wren cursed. His father’s flight feathers were gone. Cash cow, Lark had said. The sick bastard.
“Wren—” A hand touched his shoulder.
Wren jerked, glanced up, and saw Devin at his side. The van idled a few yards away, the back doors open.
“He’s going to be all right, Wren.”
Wren let out the breath he didn’t realized he’d been holding. Devin’s presence eased him a bit, to his surprise. Maybe he could learn to trust again, after all?
“Help me move him.”
Devin nodded, and together they lifted Raphael onto a hastily made pile of blankets in the van. Of course, Wren had never lifted his father before, but no way should an adult have been so light. Or frail. Every one of his father’s ribs showed, and his wing muscles, once powerful, were withered from lack of use.
Nearby, the demons talked about the house in low voices. Three dead mercenaries littered the interior. The door to Raphael’s holding cell stood wide open. No explanations forthcoming.
“What about Lark?” Wren turned to them before climbing into the van.
“He’s headed north. The scouts are still shadowing him,” a bald Guardian replied. “Vin has taken a team to hunt the bastar
d into the ground.”
Wren closed his eyes and nodded. He climbed into the van and knelt at his father’s side. A violent urge to join Vin flooded his system, but he needed to be here more than he needed revenge.
He healed his father’s face with his fingertips and accepted a cloth from Devin to wipe the excess blood away.
As soon as the demon shut and locked the doors, the van started to move. Devin crouched on his toes, the movement of the vehicle not affecting his balance at all. “He got the prick who beat him.”
Wren tossed the used cloth aside and cocked his head.
“The mercenary with bloodied knuckles died of a feather quill through the jugular. Looks like Raphael got the means to open the security door from him. We still don’t know how your father got out of his cell, however.”
“A feather quill.” Wren shook his head, and a short, dry laugh escaped his throat. His eyes stung. He rubbed his face and stretched out on the blankets. Even tightly folded, their combined wings spanned the cargo area. Wren extended a wing over his father to provide extra warmth in the unheated space.
Exhaustion took over. Healing all of his father’s injuries had drained him, and he’d been at less than max capacity after lending energy to Ginger only hours before. Adrenaline deserting him now, he felt groggy and weak, a feeling he loathed. The vulnerability, the reliance on the Guardians.
He wished Ginger were there with him. Despite the mere hours since he’d last seen her, he missed her. He wanted to hold her close and whisper his relief and his joy in her ear. Wanted to rest with her warm at his side, as part of the family.
Wren shivered. He rested his head on his arm and tucked his face under his wing. Listening to his father breathe next to him, he felt crushed under the weight of all he had gained and lost in the last fifteen minutes, if Lark escaped Vin. His father, after God knew what kind of scene inside that house, was safe for now. But if Lark vanished, he’d take with him Wren’s hope of safety for his father and any chance of Ginger staying in Sanctuary. Staying at his side.