A Temptation of Angels

by Michelle Zink

  Helen could no longer deny that there was a warm place in her heart for Griffin. Now it opened further, settling into all the emptiest places until it felt as if it had been part of her forever.

  She stepped toward him, placing a hand on his arm and looking into his eyes. “Yes, I do. I have to prove it to you and Darius—and I must prove it to myself as well.”

  He looked away, as if by doing so he could avoid the truth in her eyes.

  “Now, please, Griffin.” She squeezed his arm until he met her gaze. “Give me your sickle.”

  It took almost a full minute for him to move, but when he did, it was to reach for the sickle swinging from his belt. His eyes did not leave hers as he handed it to her.

  “It will be heavier than the training sickle,” he said. “And unwieldy at first because of the sharp edge on one end and the jagged edge on the other.”

  She nodded, swallowing hard as she looked at the object in her palm. A smooth piece of curved metal, it didn’t resemble a sickle at all. “How do I get it to open?”

  “You will it open,” he said, “as you willed yourself to travel in the light.”

  She had no sooner absorbed his instructions that the sickle sprung open with a clang. It clattered to the floor as Helen dropped it in surprise.

  “We’re off to a winning start.” Darius said from behind her, his voice full of sarcasm.

  She bent to pick up the sickle, careful not to graze either of the sharp ends. She turned to Darius.

  “You might at least try to be supportive,” she said.

  Darius’s expression grew serious. “The wraiths that hunt us will not be supportive,” he sneered. “Victor Alsorta will not be supportive. Even your beloved Raum will not be supportive. Not when it comes to this battle.”

  In her peripheral vision, she saw Griffin tense at the mention of Raum. Willing herself to think of nothing but Darius and the test at hand, she forced her eyes to focus on him.

  “You’re right,” she said. “Better that you should be as obnoxious as possible. That way, being killed at the hands of Victor Alsorta will be only a minor inconvenience by comparison.”

  Darius laughed aloud. “You’re funny when you’re terrified.”

  “I’m not as terrified as you might think. And certainly not of you or being hurt.” She was surprised to find that it was true. That there were worse things than being ridiculed or even injured. “I’ve already lost everything. My only fear now is not being allowed to seek the vengeance that is mine.”

  She didn’t expect his silence. His lack of witty retort. His eyes shone with something she could not define.

  “Let’s get on with it,” he finally said, already moving toward her with his own sickle drawn. “And don’t think I’m going to go easy on you just because you’re untrained.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She had to force herself not to take a step back as he approached. It was instinct to shy away from someone with a weapon. Especially when you knew that you were outmatched.

  She breathed deeply as he came closer, seeing her father in one of their last fencing practices. Hearing his voice.

  “Take a moment at the start of any match, Helen, to weigh your opponent’s strengths and weaknesses. Take into consideration their height and weight, the speed with which they move, injuries that might be used to your advantage. Any seconds lost will be more than worthwhile in strategy gained.”

  “Yes, Father.” She saw herself, as if watching the scene unfold in a dream, standing in trousers and holding a foil.

  “What do you see?” he had asked, circling her.

  “You are taller than me. And heavier.”

  He had nodded. “Continue.”

  “But also slower, I think.” She hesitated, not wanting to offend him. “And the foil in your hand seems too loosely gripped, as if you have an injury and cannot keep hold of it very well.”

  He nodded. “Good, good. I wounded myself on the pruning shears this morning. It makes holding the foil more difficult than usual. You can use that to your advantage.”

  She had nodded. “Yes, Father.”

  And then she was back in the ballroom at the Channing house, watching Darius circle her as her mind made furious notes. It registered in seconds the ready stance he maintained at all times. Ready, yes. But also stiff. Inflexible. Her agility would be a challenge for him to overcome. His lack of it, one of her only advantages. There was not much else to hold onto except perhaps her smaller size—something that could be both a disadvantage and an advantage depending on the circumstances.

  “Ready?” Darius asked, looking into her eyes as they circled one another for the second or third time.

  She nodded.

  He lunged for her, lightning fast, tapping her sickle. She was so fearful of the jagged edges that she pulled her arm back, dropping her own weapon. It skidded to the floor with a clang.

  “Pick it up.” Darius stepped back, allowing her time. “I’m afraid my brother was too soft in his one training session with you. Rule number one,” he intoned. “Fear will get you killed.”

  She bent forward, picking the sickle up and placing it firmly in her hand before turning back to Darius. “Fear will get me killed,” she repeated.

  Darius stepped toward her, tapping her sickle once again. This time she was ready. She twisted her weapon away from his, pulling her arm back out of his reach.

  He smiled wordlessly, lunging forward on one leg. This time, he tapped her sickle harder. The force of it vibrated all the way down her arm, though she managed to keep hold of it. Instinctually, she loosened her grip, recognizing the too-tight hold as another potential pitfall. When Darius hit her yet again, her arm moved a little with the contact, allowing for some give that prevented the impact from rattling her bones.

  He nodded his approval, moving two steps closer. Helen forced herself not to retreat. Doing so always led to defeat, no matter the battle. This she had learned from her father.

  This time, Darius surprised her by lunging forward in four quick bursts, twisting and turning, tapping her sickle with his along the edges, from the bottom, and finally in the “V” made by the meeting of the sharp and jagged edges. For a moment, their weapons locked, but when Darius let up the pressure, Helen stumbled back a couple of steps.

  She should have known better. It was the same tactic she had used on Griffin.

  She got her balance and waited for him to come at her again.

  “Rule number two,” Darius said. “Being on the defensive will get you killed. You must take the offensive if you hope to win any battle.”

  She knew this. She knew it from her father, though she had never mastered it. Being in possession of a weapon—or even the facsimile of a weapon as with the foil—made her nervous. She was not a creature of battle. She was a creature of observation.

  But that would have to change.

  She stepped toward him swiftly, ordering her mind to work instinctually so that her body would move the way she knew it could. The way it had been trained to do. She simply needed her fear out of the way.

  She lunged for Darius, tapping his sickle with her own wherever she could, forcing notice of the jagged parts of the weapon from her mind. They didn’t matter. What mattered was the whole.

  And getting it out of Darius’s hand.

  It was not that easy. She parried with him for a couple of minutes, bending backward during one close call in which Darius’s sickle came so close to her abdomen that it ripped a clean tear in her blouse. Finally, he came at her in a series of quick steps and lightning-fast movements that left her no time to think. No time to be on the offensive. It was all she could do to react. To block his blows with her weapon when possible, the sharp edges of his sickle biting against her own until he got close enough to swipe the razor edge of his weapon against her forearm. She felt the sting of it all the way up her shoulder but didn’t dare look down.

  Darius took two steps back, his body suddenly still, his sickle retracting with a soft
clink. His expression was neither remorseful nor concerned.

  Griffin advanced on his brother, grabbing his shirt front and shoving him against the plush upholstered walls of the ballroom.

  “I told you she had nothing to prove. But you did, didn’t you, brother? You had to prove that you were stronger than an untrained female. One who hasn’t even reached the age of Enlightenment.” Helen heard Griffin’s breath coming fast and hard. Saw the uncontrolled rage on his face.

  Darius grinned. “Actually, I simply wanted to see if she had what it takes to be one of us. Proving I was stronger was just a bonus.”

  Griffin lifted his brother from the wall before shoving him back again, hard enough to make Darius’s teeth rattle. “Maybe you and I will spar,” he said through clenched teeth. “See if you can manage fighting someone of your own size and experience.”

  Darius chuckled. “Relax, brother. It was necessary to see if she would bleed for us, as we may bleed for her. And look.” His eyes moved to Helen even as his body remained imprisoned by Griffin’s hands. “She will.”

  Griffin’s eyes didn’t leave his brother’s face. “If you’re not very, very careful, you will be the one to bleed.”

  Darius didn’t answer. The silence between them was so ominous that it shook Helen into action. She stepped toward the brothers.

  “Griffin, stop it. Darius is right. He had to know. You both did.” She shook her head, looking down at the blood leaking down her arm. “Now you do. And so do I.”

  Griffin’s eyes followed hers to the rivulets of blood dripping onto the floor. He let his brother go, stepping toward Helen as Darius brushed at the wrinkles in his shirt. When he looked up to meet Helen’s eyes, he smiled.

  “Not bad,” he said. “You’re still holding your sickle.”

  Helen looked at her hand, hanging at her side, and was surprised to find that he was right. The sickle was still in her palm despite the injury she’d sustained.

  Looking up to meet Darius’s gaze, she had the sudden urge to say thank you. For the first time since she had been spirited into the walls of her chamber, she believed that maybe, just maybe, she had the strength to do what must be done.

  But the words didn’t come, and she allowed Griffin to take her gently by the elbow. He led her from the room, one step closer to whatever the night would bring.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Hold still. This may hurt a bit.”

  Griffin knelt before her on the floor of her chamber. He had settled her on the dressing table chair and left the room, returning with a bowl of warm water and what looked to be bandages tucked under his arm.

  He reached for her hand, turning it over to expose the soft flesh on the underside of her forearm. Her skin tingled at the touch of his warm fingers. She tried telling herself it was only her injury and the shock of it, but when his eyes met hers, she knew there was no lying to herself.

  Not anymore.

  Even with her bleeding arm in his hand, there was no denying the feeling rising from her stomach all the way through her body and into her cheeks until she felt sure her face was aflame with it. She had never been with a man in such close proximity and with as much intimacy as with Griffin these past days. And yet she knew the sensation for the desire it was, as if it had been a part of her since the beginning of time and had only been lying in wait for Griffin’s touch.

  He bent his head to her arm, slowly unraveling the strips of cloth he had tied there to staunch the bleeding while he went in search of supplies. His fingers were gentle against her skin. They soothed the ragged edges of her pain, even when the cloth stuck and had to be pulled loose. When her arm was at last free of the cloth, he positioned her arm over the bowl.

  “Can you lean forward a bit?” he asked.

  She did, and he reached down with his free hand, pulling a dripping cloth from the bowl.

  “This will hurt less than rubbing, I think.” Holding the cloth over the gash in her arm, he squeezed, letting the water spill over the cut.

  She jumped a little.

  He looked into her eyes. “Does it hurt?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. I think I simply thought it would.”

  He nodded, repeating the action until her arm was clean. The wound still dripped blood, but at a much slower pace than it had before. He rested her arm across his knee as he unraveled the clean bandages.

  “I don’t want to soil your trousers,” she protested.

  “Nonsense.” He shook his head. “They can be cleaned. And we’re almost done.”

  Lifting her arm with the utmost care, he began coiling the bandage around it. She tried not to flinch when the first layer of cloth came to rest against the cut. She could see how careful he was being, how much he didn’t want to hurt her, and she sat quietly as he wrapped her arm until there was no trace of blood.

  Setting the unused bandages aside, he looked up at her.

  “There. I think that should do it,” he said. “How does it feel?”

  She looked down at the arm. “Good, I think. Well, as good as can be expected.”

  Lifting the basin of water, he rose from the floor. His face was tight, his expression so closed she had no idea what he was thinking. He placed the bowl of water on the washstand against the wall, rinsing his own hands in the basin that was always full in her chamber.

  The sight of his strong back and broad shoulders hunched over the washstand caused an unexpected tide of tenderness to rise within her. There was blood on his shirtsleeve. He looked suddenly weary and in need of care himself.

  She stood, crossing the room with no real idea of her intentions. When she came within two feet of his back, he grew very still, as if he heard her approach and was afraid to scare her away. For a moment, she was frozen with indecision. There was a line between them now. She could almost see it pulsing in the air. Once it was crossed, nothing would ever be the same again.

  She stepped forward, placing a hand carefully on his back.

  “Thank you.” She hesitated before continuing. “I’m… I’m sorry for all the trouble.”

  He turned slowly until he was facing her, his body only inches from her own.

  “You’re no trouble, Helen.” His voice was deep and low.

  Her eyes dropped to the front of his chest. She had not noticed the blood there before, but now she saw that it was not just on his sleeve, but on his shirt front as well. A small triangle of smooth flesh was visible near his collarbone. She could see a smudge of her blood on his skin.

  She didn’t even think about reaching forward.

  “I’ve bled on you,” she said as her fingers grazed the fabric of his shirt. “It will stain.”

  He lowered his eyes to her fingers, and she thought she heard him suck in his breath as she began undoing the buttons.

  Reaching down, he covered her hands with his, stilling them. “It’s not necessary.”

  She shook off his hands, continuing the task of unbuttoning his shirt. “Don’t be silly. You’ve played nursemaid to me. Let me help you now, Griffin. It’s the least I can do.”

  She did not say what she now knew; that she didn’t want to stop. That she relished the feel of his chest under her hand and could not have stopped if she tried.

  He nodded, saying no more as she finished the last button.

  “Turn,” she said softly.

  He turned toward the basin, offering her his back, and she slid the linen from his shoulders. His muscled back was revealed a little at a time, the tattoo she had seen in his chamber becoming visible bit by bit until she held the shirt in her hands.

  The image was breathtaking. It was the same symbol she had seen on Galizur’s strange screen, though this one was elaborately rendered in deep blues, greens, and purples. Her fingers moved unbidden toward it. Griffin’s body stiffened as she traced the circles that overlapped across the sinew of his back.

  “It’s… It’s breathtaking,” she whispered. “It’s the Flower of Life, isn’t it?”

  He no
dded without speaking.

  “How long have you had it?” she asked, her fingers continuing their journey across his skin, pausing atop places where the circles seemed to form smaller, abstract flowers. The image on Galizur’s screen had been cold, scientific. But somehow on Griffin’s back the symbol was transformed into something strong and beautiful. His skin was warm as she tracked the design down the length of his spine, her fingertips working their way outward to the place where the circles disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers.

  He cleared his throat. “Since the death of my parents. Darius and I did it to remind us.”

  Her fingers stopped moving at the base of his spine, still resting against his skin. “Remind you of what?”

  Turning, he caught her fingers in his hand as if her touch was painful. “That we are still and always will be connected to our parents. To one another. To the other Keepers and to the people of this world we all inhabit.”

  “It’s a lovely reminder. And true.” She reached beyond him for the wet cloth and began rubbing gently at the blood on his skin.

  “Do you mind?” he asked suddenly.

  “Mind what?”

  “Being one of the Keepers.”

  She thought about the question. She had lost everything because of her role, unbeknownst as it had been, in the Alliance. And yet her parents had trained her for the position, had obviously wanted her to assume it. To shun it would be to dishonor them, to say nothing of her attachment to Griffin and Anna and even, in some strange way, to Darius.

  “No,” she finally said. “Not if it means I’m connected to my parents. And to you.”

  He caught her gaze and all at once, she was lost in the green-gold sea of his eyes. He shook his head suddenly as if angry.

  “What is it?”

  “I should never have let Darius challenge you. I know how much it means to you to be armed. I thought he would engage in a little harmless sparring and you would have your weapon. I had no idea he would take it as far as he did.”