Archangel's Sun

23

Titus knew he should keep his distance from Sharine as they flew on after the fire was dead. She was clearly in a mood. But he was so fascinated by the contradictions of her and so aware of the gift he’d been given to safeguard that he stayed within an easy distance.

Not that she looked anything like the mythical Hummingbird. She looked like the straight-talking and confident angel who’d embedded a blade in a reborn eye. Her pants had mostly escaped being splattered with gore, but they weren’t pristine by any measure. But pants were far enough from the nose that you could mostly ignore the stench. Her boots, she’d managed to clean using the grass; he’d done the same.

He refused to focus on her form-fitting white top, though he’d seen many of his warriors fighting in far less. Not so many centuries earlier, the vast majority of them had fought with nothing but paint on their chests and fury in their hearts. It wasn’t the lack of coverage that bothered him, but the lack of coverage on Sharine.

The great artist Titus had been sent by the Cadre wasn’t meant to be a flesh-and-blood woman who had excellent aim with a blade, boasted breasts that plumped out slightly over the scooped neckline of her top and skin that glimmered with sweat. Neither was she supposed to have a curved-in waist and hips that flared just enough to have a man considering how they’d fit into his palms.

And it wasn’t her body alone that was giving him trouble.

She’d pulled her hair back into a tail that caught the light with every shift in the wind, every angling of her wings. The silken black tipped with natural gold—a gold that glittered here and there elsewhere in the strands—was astonishingly beautiful. As beautiful as her wings. No one in the world looked like Sharine. But it wasn’t a question of beauty, either. Many, many angels were strikingly beautiful, as were an equal number of vampires.

Plenty of women in his court could stand next to Sharine and not be deemed her lesser in beauty. Yet Sharine would shine regardless. She had in her a radiant light that drew others—the same rare light existed in her son. And Titus had a soft spot for young Illium. The youth was a little reckless at times, but Titus hadn’t exactly been less so as a youth.

The most important thing was that as Titus had been loyal to Alexander, Illium was loyal to Raphael. He was also a warrior who fought with fierce intelligence, the reason why he was a squadron commander. And wherever he went, the blue-winged angel drew others, the flame inside him a bright, beautiful thing.

That flame had come from his mother. It certainly hadn’t come from Aegaeon.

He growled deep in his chest, wanting to smash that hind end of an ass into paste, but sadly, his hands were tied on that score. Firstly, Charo would never forgive him for bringing up the pain of the babe she’d lost in the aftermath of Aegaeon’s heartless rejection, and secondly, the world needed every archangel it could get.

It was the latter thought that reminded him of a question he’d intended to ask—or perhaps he just wanted an excuse to talk to Sharine. “Have you had any word from Suyin’s court beyond the reports she herself has made to the Cadre?” The newest archangel in the world had been scrupulous in making those reports, conscious that everyone else needed to know how she was dealing with the devastation in her territory.

They’d all been honest in that way, and where possible, they assisted one another. Titus, for one, had used his Cascade-born ability to create a deep gorge between his territory and Alexander’s so no one could cross over on foot. While Alexander was known as the Archangel of Persia, his territory actually began on the other side of the isthmus that had connected Africa to Asia until Titus shattered the link using his power.

The lack of a land bridge meant the two of them didn’t have to worry about incursions from the other side, and could concern themselves with the dangers already present in their territory.

In time, their two peoples would find a way to traverse the divide, but for now, the only way to get from one side to the other was to fly or go by the sea. Neither of which the reborn could do—thankfully, the horror of Lijuan’s black-eyed and dead angelic fighters had ended with her, her energy the only thing that had kept them functioning in a nightmare simulacrum of life.

The reborn infection couldn’t take hold in angelic blood.

Streaks of green-black on stone, in the shape of dragging wings.

Gut cold at the memory of what he’d seen in Charisemnon’s stronghold, Titus hoped he’d been wrong, that the pattern had been something other—perhaps two vampiric reborn crawling away together. Because if the sky, too, became a place of war against Lijuan’s voracious “children” . . .

“I assume you’re asking about Suyin because of Aodhan?”

“He’s your son’s great friend.” The warrior-artist was also currently seconded to Suyin.

“He’s also loyal to the archangel to whom he has been seconded,” was the quelling reply. “Though it’s only a temporary position, he treats it with all honor.”

“I’d expect nothing less of one of Raphael’s Seven.” The pup who’d once been a stripling in Titus’s army as Titus had been in Alexander’s had done well to surround himself with such loyalty—and that extended to his consort.

A pang in his heart, powerful and deep.

Every so often, Titus looked at Elena and Raphael, as well as Elijah and Hannah, and wondered what it might be like to have a consort who’d walk with him through the ages of immortality. He’d never, however, come close to forging that deep a bond with any woman.

Some might say he was a true son of his mother’s blood, that he’d never settle, and maybe that was so . . . but Phenie was also of Avelina’s blood, and she’d been with her lover for two millennia and counting. Even Charo, gun-shy after Aegaeon, had settled into warm domesticity with not one but three men.

The first general would be immensely proud of her youngest daughter.

Sharine’s rich tones broke into his pensive—and unsettling—thoughts. “But,” she said, “Aodhan has spoken to me of his own feelings and overwhelming all else is a sense of grief.

“Lijuan has broken the heart of an ancient civilization. So many of China’s treasures are gone, destroyed during the horror of the black fog that murdered. But the biggest lost treasure is the population. All those minds and hearts and their gifts and skills erased from existence.”

Titus tried to imagine it, failed. “Even after the destruction of Beijing”—a destruction caused in the wake of the Cadre’s effort to rein in Lijuan’s lust for power—“I’m used to thinking of China as a place of deep history and culture, with a thriving populace.”

“Last we talked,” Sharine said, “Aodhan spoke of how eerie it is to fly over cities that should be bustling with enterprise and hope and yet sit silent, waiting for its people to come home. People who are long dead.”

“Once, Lijuan was another angel.” An angel with whom he’d never had a friendship, but an angel he’d respected. “A thousand years ago, I couldn’t imagine her doing what she did. Is young Aodhan well?”

“He says he is, but the child feels deeply. I know it’s difficult for him to see so much evidence of death over and over.” A tone to her voice that he’d heard in his mother’s more than once . . . and yet the maternal edge did nothing to dilute his response to her.

Sharine never spoke to him with that tone in her voice; she didn’t see him as a child—and he’d have dared her to try if she’d given that indication. Titus was no one’s child but the first general’s.

“Aodhan is also far from his own people,” Titus said, having heard enough of the angel to know that he wasn’t a man who trusted many. “Is there anyone nearby with whom he can let down his guard?” It’d be impossible with Suyin right now—she needed Aodhan too much for him to ever be in any way vulnerable with her.

“Every warrior must put down his sword at times,” Titus added. “Not even an archangel can go on day after day after day without respite.” It was a lesson he’d learned at his mother’s knee—the value of good comrades, friends, and family. His sisters drove him to lunacy, but it was to them that he went when he wished to just be their petted, harried, and beloved Tito for an hour or two.

“I’ve told him he must fly across to Caliane’s territory to take a break,” Sharine responded. “Even if he won’t be with close friends, he’ll be with warriors he knows from his ordinary life, and it’ll be, as you say, a respite from the heavy duty that lies on his shoulders.”

“I think Suyin feels the same weight.” Her face had been thin and drawn during the last meeting of the Cadre. “But she can’t leave her territory, even to gain a breath.”

“I hope she’s building a support structure around herself.” Sharine’s voice remained fierce and maternal. “Aodhan is too loyal to follow my advice and go to Caliane’s lands for respite, but he can’t stay forever—he’s critical to Raphael’s own tower.”

“Has anyone asked him if he’d be amenable to a permanent transfer? Being second to an archangel is a position many covet.”

A pause before Sharine said, “You must understand—for Aodhan, the Seven and Raphael are family, the bonds between them far beyond flesh and bone and blood. It is a thing elemental. Though he’ll serve Archangel Suyin with all his heart, he’ll always fly home in the end.”

Sharine sighed. “Suyin, that poor child. It must be difficult for her to know who to trust, especially after being kept captive by Lijuan for so long. She can’t trust anyone from the old court, for she has no way to know if the people with whom she speaks were involved in her captivity.”

“Suyin isn’t a child.” She was older than Titus.

Laughter that fell like a sparkling rain against his senses. “You’re all children to me.”

He swore he saw a glint in her eye, was near-certain she was baiting him. Unbelievable of the Hummingbird . . . but not of Sharine.

Deciding to be the mature party in this conversation, he responded to her earlier comment. “As far as the Cadre has been able to confirm, everyone loyal to Lijuan died with her—Suyin doesn’t have to fear sabotage from within.” He curled his lip. “I truly can’t see Lijuan leaving behind anyone, not when she wished to amass a force the size of a small nation.”

Sharine rode a thermal for a while, her wings beginning to dip against the deep reds and oranges of the early-evening sky but not yet to the point where it was dangerous. Titus just watched her; she was lovely in flight, a graceful and jeweled creature akin to the bird whose name she carried.

Fire sparked on the gold in her hair.

He scowled at the timely reminder that this same angel could strip his skin off his bones with her tongue alone . . . but the reminder did nothing to soften the tightness in his body, the heat in his blood.

“I’d like to believe the same,” she said upon returning to him, “but do you not think Lijuan might’ve left behind a small group, one tasked with retrieving her remains should she fall? They would’ve been told to put her in a safe place where she might regenerate.”

“If she did, it was a foolish hope.” Titus made no effort to hide his disgust; he’d lost all respect for Lijuan when she began to treat her people as expendable. “She is dead in a way that means she’ll never again rise. But do not fear—I stay alert, as does Raphael.”

He thought Neha, too, was paying sharp attention now that she’d risen from anshara, and Caliane would no doubt be the same. Titus missed Elijah’s wise counsel and acute perception, but the Archangel of South America was yet healing, his consort by his side.

As for Alexander, he was physically fine, but Titus knew the Ancient too well not to understand that he was wounded within. It had to do with Zanaya, another archangel who might never again rise, her wounds had been so grievous. Not that Alexander would talk on the topic; Titus had tried to bring it up and been firmly rebuffed.

When it came to Lijuan, Alexander had come too late into the old Cadre to have the necessary knowledge of her court, but Titus knew Alexander would back him if Titus made a call on the point. The two of them might be friends, but they weren’t always on the same page when it came to Cadre business—but on this subject, they were in full agreement. “We won’t allow a viper to infiltrate Suyin’s court.”

“You’re protective of her.”

“She has ascended at a terrible time. Unlike the rest of us, she doesn’t have a time of relative peace in which to grow into her strength.” Titus’d had a good four centuries before Charisemnon began to show his ass over the border. “The only mercy in all of this is that with the entire world in chaos, she doesn’t have to worry about territorial challenges.”

Darkness had begun to touch the horizon in the distance, and now it spread over them, wingbeat by wingbeat, breath by breath. Until at last Sharine said, “I can’t go any further without resting.”

Titus was glad of the survival skills he’d gained from having four sisters; another man might not have held his tongue when he first noticed the dip in her wings. “I’ll carry you.” Keeping his eyes scrupulously off her chest, he held out his arms.

He half expected an argument, but she flew to hover just above him. “If you drop me,” she muttered, “I will ferment reborn blood, then pour the resulting foul concoction over every inch of your sleeping quarters.”

“Then I’ll just sleep outside,” he snapped, incensed by her lack of trust. “I’m an archangel, Sharine. I don’t drop things.”

“What’s it like to be so arrogant?” she asked musingly. “Do you spend at least an hour a day imagining all the ways in which you are wonderful?”

“Do you wish to come or not? Or you can land and I’ll pick you up on the way back.” They both knew he wasn’t going to make good on his threat—he wasn’t about to leave her to the mercies of the reborn that crawled across the landscape. But a man had a limit.

Folding back her wings, she dropped—right into his arms.

Only once she’d looped one arm around his neck, her wings pressed tightly against her body to reduce drag, did he realize that this was going to make things extremely difficult. Because now, not only did he have the soft warmth of her pressed up against him, he could see down her neckline, to the rounded mounds of her breasts. If that wasn’t enough, every part of her that was bare rubbed against his own bare skin.

The Hummingbird. The Hummingbird. The Hummingbird, he chanted silently. This is not a woman. This is the Hummingbird. A great artist. A treasure of angelkind.

“What do your myriad lovers think of being fleeting conveniences?”