by Nalini Singh
It was at the next battered but still living village, flaming torches marking out its boundaries, that he made a decision. “I will land. These people need to understand that I am now their liege and I will send help.” Such had always been in his plans—but he hadn’t realized the sheer depth of the devastation in this area.
Titus had been a fool; he’d believed that his enemy would’ve protected his own people, not crippled them. With so much available prey, a few reborn would’ve quickly turned into many. “I assumed that leaking bag of pus would’ve at least placed a rear guard whose task it was to eliminate any reborn who scuttled north.”
“Assumptions are the enemy of coherence,” Sharine said.
In other words, You’re an idiot.
“I would’ve never attacked my own people!” It came out thunder in the air that caused startled villagers to jerk their heads upward.
Sharine looked at him for long moments before inclining her head. “I accept that. Your honor made you expect too much from someone who had no honor. Remember that, Titus.” A fierce intensity to her. “Remember that there are those in this world who will cross every line and feel no guilt in doing so.”
He’d witnessed that ugliness with Lijuan. The Archangel of Death had used children to her own ends. Such was not to be borne. And yet, he’d made this mistake, left the north too long untended. Yes, Sharine was right to castigate him. He’d been foolish and these people had paid for it.
Landing in the center of the village, dust swirling around him as he folded back his wings, he waited until she was down, too, before he took in the villagers. He would not have anyone say that he hadn’t watched over the Hummingbird while she was in his care—not that she seemed to want or even need his concern.
No one had warned him she was so contrary.
Had all of angelkind lied to him for an eon? Surely that was impossible.
“Well,” she murmured, for in the time since their landing, every single raggedly dressed villager within sight had gone down flat to the earth, their faces pressed to the dirt and their hands palm-to-palm in front in a pose of supplication that disturbed him on the deepest level.
He ruled with a firm hand, but he’d never sought to unman or humiliate anyone, for these people were mothers and fathers, elders and healers with their own pride and honor. But the people in front of him weren’t like his own . . . though they belonged to him now.
Charisemnon, he reminded himself, had somehow convinced his populace that for him to take their young daughters to his bed was an honor and not a perversion. The memory caused a crawling sensation across his skin and his voice was harsh when he said, “Rise! I wish to talk to your faces, not your asses!”
Whimpers whispered into the air, but several trembling citizens got to their feet. At least a few of them had some backbone. Beside him, Sharine might as well have been formed of iron, so stiff was she. No doubt she’d have sharp words for him when they were alone, but this was beyond ridiculous. “Why do you have so many burned buildings in your village?” he asked, wanting to confirm his theory.
It was a man old and shriveled, his beard unexpectedly lush, who answered, his hand shaky on his cane and his bones all but clattering. Yet he spoke, and for that, Titus looked at him with respect. “The rotting ones came,” the old man said in his whispery voice. “They took some of our own and we knew that none could be saved.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “The last one to be mauled, he saw what had happened to his neighbors and friends, and before his mind was gone, he used himself as bait to lead them into one of the houses.” Water spilled from his eyes. “We were able to lock the door and burn down the house, saving the untainted. And so we learned how to kill the rotting ones.”
Titus thought he’d seen and heard of every horror, but this . . . “Did one of your people always act as a lure from then on?”
The speaker’s jerky nod was followed by a muffled sob from the crowd, one quickly quieted. A being brokenhearted at the loss of a loved one.
“The old do it,” the speaker rasped. “I am next.”
Yet he stood here, spine bowed but courage undaunted. Indeed, he was a man to respect, as were all those who’d gone before him. “How many people did you lose?” he asked, already calculating how he could redeploy troops to assist on this side of the former border. “Both to the rotting ones and in the war draft.”
The answer shook him; if he was right in his calculations, the village had lost at least half its people. The survivors had a glazed kind of resignation on their faces, their bodies brittle and emaciated.
And . . . he saw no children.
That was an impossibility. In every village in which he had ever before landed, he’d seen the curious face of a child or two peeking at him from behind a door, or from on top of the stoop. They were inevitably inquisitive, smiles carving their faces and energy bouncing through their bodies. A bold heart would approach him once in a while and then Titus would tell the child to come join his stronghold when they were grown.
No small hearts beat in his vicinity today, the lack of their high voices and bright eyes a sharp pain. “Did the reborn take your children?”
From the fear that carved the old man’s face, he suddenly realized this was something else altogether. And he wondered what else his enemy had taken from his own people. Had he demanded their young? For what purpose?
His stomach churned. Was it possible Charisemnon had somehow been able to do what Lijuan had and turned the most vulnerable members of their society into a horrific melding of vampire and reborn? If so, where were they?
17
I am your archangel,” Titus said from the deepest depth of his chest, so his tone would vibrate in their bones. “You do not need to hide your children from me.” It came out far harsher than he’d intended, but he needed to know if the villagers were hiding infected children.
Ugly as it was to consider, those children were already dead, their only aim to infect more and still more until no one truly alive was left in the world.
The old man’s bones appeared ready to rattle down to his feet.
“Be quiet,” Sharine muttered to him, far too low for anyone else to hear. “I’ll handle this.”
He was so astonished at her gall that he was struck dumb. She stepped forward. “We are on a long journey,” she said in her voice so lush and rich with texture. “We want nothing from you but water and a place to rest for a moment or two. You know well that you cannot hide anything from an archangel. It’s better that you are honest.”
Fresh tears rolled down the old man’s face as he mumbled words to one of the women close at hand. She was crying, too, but she went to a nearby door and opened it, reaching out a hand. A small hand clasped hers and then out came a little boy with his own hand clasping that of another girl—and so on until a string of five little ones stood in front of Titus.
Unlike most children who came face-to-face with an angel, these babes showed no wonder, only a terrible fear that destroyed him. He didn’t know what to do, looked to Sharine for an answer. Smiling, she went down on her knees, her wings spread out on the dirt behind.
“My son looked just like you when he was younger,” she murmured to one particular boy. “Always with dirt on his knees and scrapes on his cheeks. He was off on one adventure after another.”
Though the child didn’t respond, Sharine kept on talking in her gentle voice warm with love until that small face twitched at last into a smile. As Titus watched, Sharine ended up seated on the ground with a circle of little ones in front of her, all enraptured by her stories.
When she reached into her backpack and removed the energy bars she’d brought for herself, handing them out to the children, they reached for the food with grateful little hands. Soon, the smallest one of them all, a girl of perhaps two with a thin face and huge shining eyes, was sitting in her lap.
Awestruck by her magic, Titus thought about how he might do the same with the adults. But he wasn’t like Sharine. And so he did what came naturally to him. “I would speak to you,” he said to the elder who’d spoken first. “You are, I think, the headman of this village.”
Two younger males started to step forward, protective fear bunching their muscles, but the elder shook his head. “I will come, my lord Archangel.” Breathless words, his skin losing blood. “Until I am gone, this duty and any punishment we must take is mine.”
Titus saw it was all going wrong; he looked to Sharine once more. Her mind touched his—he hadn’t known she could do that, but as he was coming to learn, there was a lot he didn’t know about Sharine. She was an old, old being and simply because she preferred to live in a world of art had no bearing on her levels of power.
The world—and Titus—should’ve paid attention to the biggest clue out there: Illium. Sharine’s son was already being talked off as a future archangel though he was barely past five hundred years of age. Why had they all assumed such power had come from his father’s blood alone? Even Raphael, the son of two archangels, hadn’t been that violently powerful at such a young age.
Why had no one ever considered what gifts Sharine had bequeathed her son?
Ask for tea, she said into his mind.
I don’t drink tea, he said, after taking a moment to cope with the song of her voice; it was even more luxuriant on the mental level. They will think me deranged if I ask for tea.
A narrowing of her eyes. Then ask for ale, your archangelic lordship. The last words couldn’t have been more sarcastic had she tried.
But since she seemed to know what she was doing, he looked at the scared and angry young men who’d tried to step up, and said, “Bring us ale!” Then he turned his attention to the old man. “You and I need to discuss the future of this village now that I am your archangel.”
Terror smashed into the villagers, locking muscle onto bone and transforming their blood to ice.
Wanting to groan, he glanced helplessly at Sharine. This never happened with his own people—they trusted him. He’d have to stop forgetting that Charisemnon had taught his people fear instead of trust.
Sharine emitted a mental sigh. People keep telling me you are charming. CHARM.
Glaring at her sounded like a wonderful idea except that he’d been told his visage could appear fearsome when he was in a bad mood, and such would probably cause the terrified villagers to expire on the spot. He decided to break out a smile. “I should warn you that I killed that festering boil, that dog’s excrement, that insult to the Cadre who was your previous archangel.”
THAT’S your idea of charm?
Ignoring the incredulous comment, he continued on, “I don’t know what he told you of me; hear the truth from my own lips—I despised him and all he represented. The only people who have to fear reprisal from me are his toadies and enforcers.”
Those ones, Titus would not forgive, no matter what. Unlike these villagers, the others’ had been powerful enough to have a choice—even if that choice was to die with honor, or defect to another archangel’s territory. He’d been right there at the border and he’d protected previous defectors. No, he’d never trusted those defectors, but he hadn’t harmed them.
“All others,” he added, ensuring his voice carried, “especially mortals he treated as prey, are safe from my wrath.”
Wrath? You had to use the word wrath?
It took effort to keep his smile pinned on his face. We need to have a conversation about your respect for archangels.
I had a son with one, was the quelling response. That waste of immortal cells puts on his pants the same way as any other man.
Thankfully, the headman gave Titus a shaky smile at that instant and Titus had an excuse to turn his mind to other matters. “You are willing to speak?” he asked, to be certain the man wouldn’t quiver throughout—he didn’t have the time to coax words, needed information quickly.
“Yes.” A firm—and loud—agreement. “If you don’t mind me to say, my lord Archangel, I’m glad you have a strong voice. I can barely hear everyone else—they just whisper and murmur and what good comes of that?”
“Exactly!” Titus went to clap him on the back, only at the last minute realizing he’d probably break him; he still did it, just held back most of his power.
Meanwhile, two villagers had set up a table a way down from the children, now placed a pair of seats there. Neither was suitable for an angel’s wings, so Titus simply flipped one the wrong way around and straddled it.
The headman settled across from him and waited until one of the youths had poured their ale before saying, “My son.”
“You are justifiably proud,” Titus said, though he knew nothing of the youth. See, he said to his own personal haunt. I can be polite and charming.
Her mental snort was even louder this time.
Deciding to ignore her—let her see what she was missing—he turned his attention fully on the headman. “Tell me what I need to know.” Then, for some reason he didn’t understand, he opened a mental link with Sharine so she could listen in on the conversation.
Being able to so invite others to hear what he did wasn’t a skill possessed by many, and he’d only gained the capacity in the second half of his reign, but it was useful when utilized. Stopped having to repeat information.
Sharine didn’t protest the link.
“I need to come up to speed with my new territory.” Titus had no actual desire to rule Northern Africa; unlike some, he didn’t hunger for huge swaths of territory. He’d been quite content with his half of the continent—it was enough space to accommodate his power as an archangel and it allowed him to take care of his people as he wished.
But if he had to have the entire continent under his wing for the time being, then he’d do a good job of it. “You seem like the kind of person who would know all there is to know about this village and the surrounding ones.”
“I keep my eyes open—even if I can’t hear so well.” The old man’s chuckle seemed to take the last of the tension out of the villagers. The group finally began to dissipate—sending awed looks at their archangel as they did so.
Titus allowed his wings to spread, allowed the mortals to admire his feathers.
Not obvious at all.
He asked himself why he’d opened the channel—but didn’t close it. I see tiny mortal hands on your wings, he grumbled back. Angels don’t permit just anyone to touch their wings.
They aren’t just anyone—they’re babies, was the sharp reply.
For some bizarre reason, he was tempted to smile; perhaps he’d unknowingly eaten mushrooms that were playing havoc with his mind. “Tell me what you have seen,” he said to the headman.
“Dark things.” Sadness washed through the seams of his weathered face. “We were not a wealthy village before it all began, but we were more than able to take care of ourselves and to send our smart young ones to the city for studies. So I suppose we were wealthy in a way. Plenty of food, enough to tithe to the archangel and still—”
“Tithe?” Titus knew such things happened, but most archangels had more than enough wealth and power not to bother—or even if they did, perhaps because they preferred to support their people in other ways, it was a minor amount. With so many people in each territory, a tiny bushelful of anything added up to thousands of pounds.
Titus was no farmer and so his court just bought supplies from those who were; it kept his people thriving for their harvests bought good value to their home regions, and it meant his court could focus on other matters. Even now, reborn threat or not, he was paying for supplies—with his people under strict instructions to buy only the excess, never what the farmer needed for his own family, or the settlement needed for itself.
The rest, Yash was having shipped in from territories that weren’t deal
ing with a scourge of reborn. He wondered if Sharine knew that Yash had recently bought out the excess olives produced by Lumia’s town. But that wasn’t a matter for today.
“Half our harvest.” The elder swallowed and seemed to build himself up. “We are sorry, my lord Archangel. Most of our harvest was destroyed by the reborn. We can give you what—”
Titus waved off the coming question. “I do not ask for a tithe—though I do ask that all those with fertile land continue to plant when they can. We can’t always rely on offshore sources.” It wasn’t a thing of pride but practicality. “The supply chain isn’t always guaranteed.”
“Yes, yes. Of course that is the way.” The headman smiled at Titus, once more in good humor. “So we were all eating well enough and living our lives. Then the evil came. The rotting ones.”
“The reborn?”
“Yes, that’s what the younger ones call them. But to me, they are the darkness.” He coughed, the sound rough and hard, a rattle in his chest. “We had a little warning of their arrival for we’d placed scouts in the trees and they screamed out that the darkness was coming.”
A wet sheen in his eyes. “But we’d miscalculated the creatures’ speed. They came so very fast.” His shoulders fell. “We lost the scouts. Our fastest young men ran home with bloodied throats and began to change in front of our eyes . . .”
A long moment where he swallowed repeatedly. “You know the rest, my lord Archangel. After the burning began, we cried for our lost ones as the flames licked the night sky. One was my firstborn grandson. I lost my eldest daughter-in-law in the next attack.”
Titus couldn’t imagine the depth of this man’s pain. Those who saw mortals as weak and without courage had never spoken to one who’d experienced loss such as this, a loss rare among angelkind.
“Then the goats began to get sick, their flesh turning green-black,” the elder said after a sip of ale, though his voice remained rough. “We lost half of them. All of us too scared to eat the meat, so it went to waste.” He hacked a cough. “The rest appear healthy but we’re keeping them penned up under constant watch.”
