by Sarah Gilman
Jett sprang back to his feet, his fists raised, his feet grounded, his muscles tensed to strike again.
“Hold on a second!” The other demon, as blond as Jett himself, took a deep breath and held his hands up, palms out. He pointedly glanced left and right. “We’re here to help. I’m Devin. Raphael sent me.”
Jett followed Devin’s gaze. The search party had closed in on all sides, forming a wide, but complete, circle. “Does Raphael wish me killed?”
Devin’s eyes widened. “No. I said we’re here to help—”
“I don’t want your help.” Jett dropped his hands to his sides. “So, unless you want to help against my will, please leave.”
Devin cocked his head. “Did Lark do that to you?”
“Did Lark do what?”
“Your fangs.”
Jett clenched his teeth. He had no desire to commune with these demons, but maybe if he answered their questions, they’d leave. “Yes.”
Devin stood, staring, for a long moment. “Why were you working for him?”
Jett took a step forward, holding Devin’s gaze. The circle of demons shifted, clearly ready to assist Devin if a fight arose. Not that Devin, who stood several inches taller than Jett, would need the help. Jett knew an excellent fighter when he saw one. Every nuance of Devin’s posture pronounced him deadly.
Jett stared at Devin’s fangs, visible through his parted lips. “That’s no business of yours.”
Devin folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Fine, that’s none of my business. But Raphael is my business. Today’s events aside, you helped keep him prisoner for how long?”
“Five years.”
Devin’s eyes flashed. “Were you, or were you not, doing Lark’s bidding of your own free will?”
Jett shoved a hand through his hair. Apparently Devin wasn’t going to give up that line of questioning. “I owed Lark a debt I couldn’t walk away from.”
“A debt?” Devin closed the distance between them so that they were nose to nose. His voice hissed through his fangs. “What…debt…could justify aiding in the imprisonment of an archangel?”
Jett didn’t flinch. “At the time, I didn’t give two shits about the fallen archangel Lark had locked up in the basement, aside from the fact that it was one less devil free to roam the earth. Hell, I was pissed when Lark assigned me to bring it food. I didn’t want to go near the loathsome creature.”
Feline-like hissing filled the air. The gathered demons crouched into fighting stances. Devin, without shifting his gaze from Jett, held up a hand to keep them back.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Acid filled Devin’s voice.
“I was raised in a human research facility.”
The hissing around him stopped. The demons stared at him in total silence, their wide copper eyes the brightest color amongst the dense tree trunks.
Jett cursed under his breath. Why the fuck had he blurted that out? It was none of their damned business. Now he had to explain, or he’d never get rid of them. “I didn’t know anything about my own kind or the archangels, except what the humans taught me. I don’t know the details of the relationship between Lark and the human scientists… I assume he’s half-human, though.”
Devin arched an eyebrow. “He’s not.”
“He has both a demon and a human scent.” Jett lifted his shoulders. “Makes no difference to me. Lark took me from that place when I turned twenty-one. Lark was the only other demon I’d met, and he did nothing but confirm what I’d been taught about my kind. I became a mercenary on his payroll, believing that evil was in my nature. It wasn’t until I got to know Raphael that I began to second guess the worldview I’d been force fed.”
Devin lifted a hand toward Jett’s arm.
“Don’t touch me.” Jett stepped back and a warning growl filled his throat.
Devin dropped the hand. “And your fangs?”
Persistent bastard. “Discipline, the first time. We hadn’t even made it ‘home’ from the research facility. I tried to run. He caught me and smashed my fangs with a sharp rock. After that, Lark wanted Raphael and the other mercenaries to believe I was human, so they wouldn’t know I could overhear every whisper, smell where they had and hadn’t been, or that I rarely had to sleep. I was his best security tool. The deception, and the extractions required to pull it off, were a condition of me not going back to the humans.”
Devin, white and slightly green, said, “Your fangs will grow back in a month or so.”
“Yes. We’ve been repeating the grow, pull, grow, pull cycle for the last five years.”
Devin let out a long breath and shut his eyes for a moment. “Come with us back to the colony.”
Jett scoffed. “You go back to the colony. I have my own plans.”
“Such as?”
Jett met Devin’s challenging stare. “Once again, that’s none of your business.”
“The hell it isn’t. You really were raised by humans if you think we’d leave you out here alone, no matter how much of a jackass you’re being.”
“And the humans taught me the truth about demons, if you’re prepared to take me against my will.”
Devin growled. “Fine, Jackass. Do as you please.” He paused and shook his head. “But consider the invitation a lasting one. Feel free to show up at the colony if you change your mind. Unarmed. Demon or no, because of your association with Lark, any hint of aggression on your part will not be tolerated. Too many civilian lives, not to mention Raphael and Wren, depend on the colony’s security. I’ll kill you myself if you so much as look at them the wrong way.”
Jett took another step back as the circle of demons parted to allow him an exit. “Both Raphael and his son are safe now, yes?”
Devin arched an eyebrow. “As safe as they can be with Lark still on the loose and humans willing to spend millions to own archangel feathers. They’re both back at the colony, recuperating. Raphael is very concerned about you.”
Jett scrutinized Devin in a new light. “Are you, Guardian, personally in charge of Raphael’s security?”
Devin’s lips parted in hesitation for a moment before answering. “While the long-term plan has not been set in stone, no, Raphael and his family’s team of Guardians won’t include me, for personal reasons. But a full team there will be; never again will an archangel be entrusted to only one Guardian.”
A muscle to the side of Jett’s eye twitched. “This team will be the best Sanctuary has to offer?”
“Of course.” Devin cocked his head, one side of his mouth curling up. “Why? Interested in the position?”
“No!” Jett snapped, even as he acknowledged to himself the strong desire to make sure Raphael and his family were indeed as safe as they could be. The protective urge, one that had grown over the last couple years, almost made Jett cave. Instead, he fisted his hands and folded his arms. Raphael was no longer his business.
Devin’s half-grin persisted. “You know, while any demon capable enough can become a Guardian, there is a strong bloodline involved. You’re taller than average, well built, and volatile as hell.” Devin made a point brushing some dirt from his jacket, left from their brief fight. “But the cornerstone of a Guardian’s makeup is the obsessive need to protect others, and the tendency to develop a strong bond to those he or she protects, a bond that is rarely broken. How long have you been around Raphael, again?”
“Fuck you. I have no idea what you’re driving at, Guardian, and I don’t care. I have my freedom for the first time in my life, and I don’t intend to spend it trapped in a colony. I’m out of here.” Jett turned on his heel and stalked past the barrier of demons.
“Remember, my invitation stands,” Devin called after him.
Cursing under his breath, Jett launched into a sprint.
§
Ginger looked over the photos as she picked them up from the floor. No wonder she hadn’t found her messenger in Vin’s death album: Lark still lived. She couldn’t explain it, couldn’t rectify the viciou
s murderer and the desperate spirit, but visually there was no room for doubt.
Movement in her peripheral vision drew her attention, and she turned toward the far windows. Wren landed on the deck, wings blocking the sun, and set another archangel on his feet. Ginger exhaled in relief at the sight of Wren and his father.
The blanket Raphael had wrapped around himself slipped to the granite deck as he found his footing.
Ginger teetered on her feet. Blood covered the pale skin of Raphael’s torso, his worn jeans, and his wings, especially the right wing, the feathers matted in a congealed mess. His flight feathers were missing on both sides, rendering his wings to less than half their proper size.
Wren helped his father drape the blanket back over his tattered wings, covering the blood. Raphael clutched the edges of the blanket in front of his chest, and he and Wren approached the door.
Ginger hesitated. Wren had asked her to be here, but Raphael didn’t appear ready for company by any means. She wiped her moist palms on her jeans, wondering if she should make herself scarce.
The double doors parted as she argued with herself. Wren stepped through first. His gaze swept the space, locked on her, and he crossed the room to her position in a few long strides.
“Gin.”
Her self-consciousness was momentarily squashed under her relief at seeing him safe. She rushed in to his arms and buried her face into his neck.
After a moment, he pulled back, hooked an arm around her waist and a wing around her back. His fingers brushed her cheek, and he stared into her eyes for a brief moment, then he led her forward.
“But…”
He squeezed her waist and whispered into her ear. “He wants to meet you.”
Raphael, despite slumping against the wall as wearily as if he’d been through all the circles of hell, gazed at her with a faint smile and brightness in his silver eyes.
“Father,” Wren said, as they reached the elder archangel. “This is Ginger.”
The introduction seemed oddly short to her, like an explanation of her presence at such a homecoming should have been tacked on, but the thick warmth in Wren’s voice as he said her name weighed more than any declaration. He said her name as if that said it all.
Wren introduced his father. Raphael held the blanket in place with one hand and reached out with the other. Ginger stepped forward, out of the curve of Wren’s wing, and grasped Raphael’s chilly fingers. He squeezed her hand.
“Ginger. I’m so pleased to meet you,” he said, quiet but steady as he held her gaze.
“Likewise. I’m so happy you’re safe.”
Raphael lifted his eyes and scanned his surroundings, his face ashen.
Wren touched his father’s arm. “You need rest now. I insist.”
Raphael closed his eyes and nodded. He took a deep breath. “What’s that wonderful smell?”
“Pasta and soup,” Ginger said. “Would you like some? I can bring a tray upstairs.”
“Please. I would be most thankful.”
Wren squeezed her hand and led his father toward the stairs. Ginger returned to the kitchen, found a platter, and quickly covered it with a bowl of soup, a plate of pasta, a glass of juice, and a bottle of water. Pleased with her presentation, she carried the platter upstairs and through the open door opposite Wren’s bedroom.
“You should get some rest, too, son,” Raphael was saying. He smiled as Ginger walked in. “Thank you. I haven’t had real food in…well, in too long.”
She set the platter on the bedside table and went to stand next to Wren. He wrapped his wing around her back and pulled her close.
She leaned into the warmth of his feathers.
“Really, son, it’s okay. I’m going to clean up, have some of this food, and pass out. You don’t need to fuss. Get yourself some food and rest. Don’t make me worry about you.” Raphael grinned.
Wren nodded slowly. “All right.”
Raphael squeezed Wren’s arm and headed for the bath.
Wren escorted Ginger from the room and down the stairs, holding her so close, they stumbled more than once. She admired Wren’s face as he laughed off their awkward footing, certain this was the first time she’d seen him this relaxed.
“Devin went back to Burlington,” Wren said. “He took a team to try to find the mercenary who helped my father.”
Ginger always worried for her father, but she trusted his ability to bring himself back alive from anything. She took a breath as they reached the kitchen.
“Any word from Vin?”
“Nothing.” Wren touched her face. “If Lark escapes today, I swear I’ll hunt him down myself.”
“Wren—”
“I will not let him keep you from me. Nor will I allow him to continue to be a threat to my father and myself. His power over us will come to an end.”
Wren paused, his fingers lingering on her cheek. “When the threat is gone, will you stay with me, Gin?”
“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and dug her fingers into his feathers. He gripped her back with crushing force.
Ginger leaned back. She had to get this over with. “About Lark…he’s the redheaded demon in the family photos?”
“Yes.” Wren sounded like he’d just swallowed something disgusting.
Ginger slumped onto a bar stool. “He…he’s the spirit.”
Wren’s jaw dropped and his eyebrows pressed together. “What?”
“The messenger.” Ginger bit her lip. “It was the demon from those photos.”
“That’s not possible.”
“I’m certain.”
Wren leaned forward on the counter as if the granite had punched him in the stomach. “Lark isn’t a spirit; he’s very much alive.”
“My messenger wasn’t in Vin’s death album. I can’t explain it, but I have no doubt. It’s the same demon.”
Wren straightened up, hurried around the kitchen island, and seized her by the shoulders. “He didn’t try to hurt you in any way?”
“No. Only the energy drain. He was immaterial.”
Wren didn’t let go, but he stared through her and seemed to talk to himself. “It doesn’t make sense…why would he…a trap. He must have been trying to set a trap. But what happened—”
“Wren.” She freed an arm and touched his face. “I’m sorry. If anything had happened in Burlington—”
He squeezed her arms. “Don’t be sorry, Gin. Even if you’d recognized Lark, we’d have gone. My father would have died today if I hadn’t been there to heal him, and I wouldn’t have been, if it weren’t for you.”
She swallowed.
He let out a long breath. “This ability of his must be a psychic talent. But it must cost him energy. Growing up, I never saw him tired.” He pulled out his cell phone and began to text. “I’m letting Vin know.”
Ginger tapped her fingers against the countertop. “Does this mean I can’t see ghosts?”
Wren lifted his shoulders and put the phone away. “Maybe, maybe not. Interacting with Lark cost you energy; you do have a psychic talent. We’ll figure it out, Gin. You must have inherited this trait from your archangel ancestor. Maybe my father will recognize it. Because of his healing talent, he’s been a pillar of our community for centuries and knows every archangel who’s lived in the last two hundred years.”
The suggestion kicked Ginger’s heart into high gear, but the idea of archangel blood in her background still didn’t seem real. “If I have an archangel ancestor.”
“There’s no if,” he said. “Your heritage is not up for debate.”
He kissed her for emphasis, and a deep ache etched its way through Ginger’s chest. She pulled away, rubbing her sternum, remembering the discomfort Wren had tried to hide when they exchanged energy in Vin’s office.
He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. It took everything I had to tend all my father’s injuries. I got a couple hours of sleep, but I’m still—”
She took his face in her hands and kissed him. The flow of ene
rgy from her to Wren stung deep in her chest and made her limbs tingle, but the satisfied purr from Wren’s throat relaxed her. As Wren had put it, the giving of energy was a “good hurt.” Satisfying. She ran her fingers through his hair. In less than a minute, the aching sensation passed, their energies equal between them.
“Thank you,” he whispered, slowly leaning back.
Ginger, altogether too warm from the kiss, watched as he turned to the food. Her stomach knotted in hunger and she reached for a plate, but he caught her wrist. He forked some ziti and held it up to her mouth.
“Huh?” She couldn’t help her surprise.
“Please.”
Wren’s non-joking tone made her part her lips and let him feed her. His fingers brushed her cheek before he pulled his hand away. He forked more pasta.
“Wren?” Heat flooded her cheeks.
“Humor me,” he said with a grin, and held the offering up to her lips.
She relented and let him feed her a full serving of pasta and some soup. The expression on his face was nothing short of triumphant. He opened a cardboard box she’d left on the counter, picked out a chocolate croissant, and tore off the piece thickest with chocolate.
The pastry was among the best she’d ever eaten, but it was the intensity in Wren’s gaze that held her attention, and the way he picked over the heavenly box of desserts as if only select pieces were good enough.
“You should eat, too,” she said, after swallowing something lemony and exquisite.
“I will.” He appeared more interested in examining some chocolate pieces until he found one he didn’t reject. Instead of eating it, he again offered it to her. She let the morsel dissolve on her tongue, then forked some ziti and held it up.
“I insist,” she said, as he lifted his eyebrows.
“Gin—”
His hesitation surprised her. “What’s wrong?”
“For archangels, a female offering a male food from her own hand is one of those gestures traditionally reserved for bonded mates.”
She arched an eyebrow and pointed at the chocolate. “What about a male feeding a female?”
Holding her gaze, he leaned forward. “Same, except an unmated male can feed a female he has serious interest in.”