by Nalini Singh
36
Archangel Titus, I write to you on the faith of your long friendship with my father. Before he went into Sleep, he reminded me that yours was a bond that remained unbroken across millennia. Now, I bow my head and ask if that friendship might extend to the mentoring of my son?
Xander is not yet at his majority, but he shows signs of becoming a warrior like his grandfather. It would be a great honor if you would consider taking him under your wing.
—Letter from Rohan, son of Archangel Alexander, to Archangel Titus
37
Rohan! I saw you running around naked while you were a babe, giggling manically all the while! I’ve broken bread with you. Why are you writing me such a formal letter?
Send your boy. I’ll care for Alexander’s grandchild as if he were my own flesh and blood.
—Letter from Archangel Titus to Rohan, son of Archangel Alexander
38
Titus wiped the sweat from his brow and looked down at the pile of beheaded bodies below. He and his people had followed a straggler who’d led them to a massive nest of reborn, but what worried him was that the nest had existed in the first place. “These reborn came from somewhere.” There was a settlement out there that no longer had any living citizens . . . children included.
It broke his heart to execute the smallest reborn, though he knew they weren’t alive in any true sense of the word. They were shambling abominations of life, without reason or thought. They’d never grow any older, would never understand speech or love or tenderness or anything but their voracious hunger for flesh.
To allow them to exist was equal to murdering the children who’d yet escaped the scourge. For even in the darkest hour, angels, vampires, and humans, they all hesitated when it came to harming a child, and in that hesitation could fall an entire town or city or territory.
“I’ve dispatched scouts.” His second’s voice was grim, the pale green of his eyes on the carnage. “Did you notice how fresh these ones were?” When Tzadiq, his shoulders broad and his body as big as Titus’s, landed beside the pile, Titus followed suit. “Look at their bodies, the lack of rot.”
Tzadiq was right; beneath the greenish tinge that began at the moment of transition, these reborn boasted pink and brown and black hues of flesh ordinary among living people. Some of their wounds bled as much red as green-black.
He and his squadrons could keep killing wave after wave of reborn but if the creatures were multiplying this rapidly, he’d lose half the people in his territory before they were done. Yet what other way was there?
“How are we on overall troop numbers?”
“We haven’t taken any losses today, but our people are exhausted.” Tzadiq’s tone was brutally honest. “We’re going to start making more and more mistakes in the coming days.”
Titus had known that, but it was still hard to hear it laid out so clearly. As he considered all possible options on how to rest his troops, his eye fell on the crossbow bolt embedded in the eye of a reborn creature, the reborn’s head long separated from its body. On the shaft of the bolt was a symbol—a small gold G in a circle.
“How bad is the Guild’s situation?” The African complement of the Hunters Guild, those mortals born—or trained—to hunt rogue vampires, had sided with Titus and fought with his army. As a result, they’d also taken heavy losses.
“Not as bad as we first expected.” Dirt streaked Tzadiq’s pale skin and clean-shaven head, but it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been—at least he’d mostly escaped being covered with reborn fluids. “They’re at seventy percent capacity, and of those, twenty percent are badly wounded and still recovering.”
That meant that—aside from a small number running things at the top—fifty percent of the Guild was currently fighting the reborn on the ground while Titus’s angels fought from the air. It struck him that the hunters, all of whom were trained in tracking techniques and used to working alone, were a resource he could use far more wisely.
“Clean up here,” he told his second, for the majority of reborn had scuttled into their holes under the bright light of day. “I need to speak to Njal.”
“He’s at Guild HQ today,” Tzadiq said.
“One day, you’ll have to tell me how you know everything that happens in Narja.”
“Tentacles, sire.” Dry words, his expression without apparent humor. “I have tentacles in every nook and cranny and blood den.”
Titus slapped his second on the shoulder—Tzadiq was one of the few people who could not only take his full strength, but who could give it back in equal measure. There was a reason they’d been sparring partners for centuries. “Your archangel thanks you for your diligence.”
That was when Tzadiq’s face cracked a smile and so did Titus’s. Because before sire and second, they were friends and had been for over a millennium and a half. Titus had known Tzadiq before his second met Tanae, before the two had a son. Titus didn’t understand the relationship Tzadiq and Tanae had with each other, and with their warrior offspring, but as his second and his troop trainer, they were faultless in their dedication.
Leaving Tzadiq to his task, Titus made his way to Guild HQ, which was near the edge of Narja, and thus closer to him at this moment than his own citadel. Situated in an old stone fortress, it had a flat roof that allowed for an easy landing. The head of the Guild, the tight black curls of his hair buzzed close to his skull and his beard equally neat and precise, was there waiting to meet him, some scout having no doubt sighted his approach and guessed his destination.
“Archangel Titus.” He bowed, a tall and slender man dressed in worn brown fighting leathers with a sword strapped to one thigh and a heavy knife on the other—but despite the bow, there was no sense of obsequiousness to him.
The bow Njal used was one Titus might receive from one of his generals.
Some might say the mortal was being presumptuous in acting as if he had so high a status, but hunters chose strong people for their leaders, and Titus appreciated them for it. He could speak to Njal as a warrior and know his bluntness would be reciprocated.
“Is there a problem?” the other man asked after rising from his bow, the golden brown of his eyes piercing against the blue-black hue of his skin.
“No.” Titus laid out what he wished for the hunters to do. “Your hunters are an asset I wouldn’t lose. Tell me if this is a risk too great.”
“You don’t want them to attack the reborn, just to track and pinpoint nests so that angels can strike from the air to eliminate entire nests in one blow?”
Titus nodded. “Should they come across lone reborn, they can feel free to eliminate the reborn—as long as such contact doesn’t present a danger to their own lives. At present, I’m less in need of ground fighters, and more in need of information.” Not many archangels would speak to a Guild Hunter with such openness, but Njal had fought beside Titus on the battlefield, resolute and tireless.
Titus knew that despite his attempts to stay distant from mortal friendships, Njal was a man he’d miss when the hunter passed from this world. “I need to use my resources more strategically.” Else, the reborn would keep feeding on the people of his land, decimating it.
“We’ve been reacting for too long—driven by our lack of numbers and the way the reborn continue to spawn.” Cut down one and two seemed to take their place. “But again, there’s no point in doing this if I end up losing a large number of highly trained fighters.”
“It’d be no more dangerous than going after a bloodlust-driven vampire,” Njal replied in his calm, thoughtful way. “I won’t send out the newer, less experienced hunters, but I have a strong complement of experienced hunters, even after the losses of the war.”
Pain carved deep lines into Njal’s skin, his serenity breaking into shards under the weight of it. “I’ll send them out in various directions, with the majority going south, but a dedica
ted group heading north.”
“Excellent. We can’t leave stragglers in the north to continue to breed—but instruct the ones going north not to engage even with lone reborn. It’s possible Charisemnon created a new strain limited to that region and we don’t know all the possible dangers. They’re to report any unusual sightings directly to me.”
A small lie, because he couldn’t tell even Njal about angelic reborn; some secrets were too deadly for any mortal. If a hunter ran across an infected angel, then Titus would work out a solution. Of all the mortals in the world, Guild Hunters were the most used to keeping secrets.
Njal grimaced. “Another new strain. If only Archangel Charisemnon had used his power to create cures instead of diseases.” He put one hand on the hilt of his sword. “I’ll make certain my hunters know their value is in the information they send back, not in taking physical action.”
“Good man.” Titus clapped the other man on the shoulder, careful of his strength. Njal was far stronger than his slender frame might lead an opponent to believe, his muscles ropey under the flawless night of his skin, but he was still human to Titus’s archangel.
“If your northern hunters run across other mortals, ask them to be polite and share that I’ve tasked them to assist in hunting reborn,” Titus added. “It’ll help spread calm on that side of the border. Charisemnon left his people in fear of me.”
A piercing look out of eyes that reminded Titus of a lion’s. “All archangels create fear in mortals. I’ve fought at your side, Archangel, but should your wings begin to glow, I’d sure as hell know terror.”
“Yes, but some fear is healthy—and some fear is crippling.” Titus didn’t wish for a cowed, quivering populace. He wished for one that respected his rule while continuing to grow and thrive.
“Understood,” Njal said. “I’ll make sure they know that, on this task, they’re also ambassadors of your reign.”
Taking off after a nod, Titus was aware of the Guild leader already turning on his heel to head inside, and knew Njal would dispatch the first teams within the hour. The man led the Guild partially because he was so ordered and practical. It was also why Tzadiq and Njal had been known to have a drink or three on occasion.
If Titus would miss Njal when he was gone, Tzadiq would deeply mourn him.
“Why do you maintain this friendship when you know it’ll cause you nothing but pain in the end?” Titus had asked before he, too, began to know Njal as more than the leader of the Guild.
Square-jawed face not prone to heavy emotions, Tzadiq had quietly said, “The same reason my son’s mate plants flowers even though their death is inevitable. Njal’s heart, his mind, they’re no less valuable for existing only for a moment in time.”
Titus had thought that way as a youth, but the pain upon pain of losing mortal friends had jaded that part of him. This war, however, had shattered the jaded distance, and though he remained wary, it’d become impossible not to see mortals as individuals once more.
Sire. The mental touch was strong, for Tanae had one of the biggest mental voices in his court.
Tanae, I’m in the air heading toward the citadel. Though he had the intention to keep going past it. Do you need me to land?
No—but I have good news. Her mental voice held a jubilant tone that had him worried for her; she was a brilliant trainer, but jubilation wasn’t in her wheelhouse. Seven relief squadrons have just flown over the border, courtesy of Archangel Alexander. They’ve quashed the vampire uprising on their side and thus have the capacity to assist us.
Titus was caught between a burst of joy and a frown; much as the assistance was needed and would help him rest his troops, protocol was for Alexander to speak to him directly about it first. And why had his people just let those squadrons pass instead of halting them at the bord—Oh, dear unseen Ancestors.
He rubbed his face. Who is commanding the squadrons?
Zuri and Nala are in joint command. Xander is part of one of the squadrons.
His sisters—and Alexander’s treasured grandson, both such clear indicators of friendship that it was no wonder they’d been waved across the border. Of course, Alexander was also probably having a good laugh at sending the twins to haunt him. He scowled. How distant are they?
They can arrive within three days if you wish, but Zuri has asked if you want them to clear reborn as they move; they’re well provisioned to do so.
He found himself smiling at the thought of his sister’s fierce countenance and equally fierce love, despite the sure aggravation to come. Yes. The north has an infestation—smaller than ours, but deadly all the same. But tell her to send three squadrons forward so we can use them to rest our own troops on this side.
Understood.
As Tanae dropped off, Titus allowed himself a deep breath and exhale. Seven extra elite squadrons—because his sisters would command nothing less—could well turn the tide in their favor.
Almost to his citadel by now, the sunshine liquid gold around him, he reached for another mind. Are you still at that bastard’s stronghold?
Yes, said a voice as strong as Tanae’s, though of a different timbre and resonance.
Titus overflew his citadel, kept on going.
In a dark mood by the time he landed in the inner courtyard of Charisemnon’s stronghold, he first greeted the outside guard, then stripped off his dirty armor and dunked his head under an external water pipe hidden in one corner. Any place that expected warriors to fly in and out on a regular basis had such areas.
He also used the water to wash off sweat from the top half of his body, as well as any reborn fluid that had gotten in under his armor. His pants were a lost cause, but he washed off his boots, too. Leaving his armor piled neatly to one side, to collect later, he contacted Kiama to find out Sharine’s exact location.
It took him less than two minutes to make his way to her. The rays of the noon sun fell on her hair as she sat at a large desk, her wings flowing gracefully on either side of the chair back. She looked ethereal, a creature out of some other world.
Then she lifted her head and raised an eyebrow. “Are you attempting to smite me with your glare?”
Striding into the room, sure she’d sucked in a breath a moment before she spoke, he put his hands on his hips so she could more fully admire him. When she didn’t fall over at the sight of his masculine beauty, he scowled and looked around at all the bound volumes. “What, did my enemy write of his great exploits and heroic deeds?”
He hated that she looked so at ease here, in a place where he would rarely venture—he had a huge library in his citadel, but it was for his scholars and those others of his staff interested in scholarly pursuits. Titus knew he was intelligent, but he’d never been at home in the world of books and learning.
“You did know him well.” Sharine’s tone was dry. “Because yes, this is his history.”
Astonished, he took a second look around the room, noting the rows upon rows upon rows of volumes. In the end, his innate fairness had him giving a grudging nod of acknowledgment. “Charisemnon was a boil on the hind leg of a rabid feral pig, but he had determination, a certain kind of grit if he managed to keep this up for his entire lifetime.” He couldn’t help adding, “Pathetic that he then decided to spend his strength of will on manufacturing diseases.”
“I think I found something.” Whispers of sound, her wings settling, as she rose.
He turned and watched her walk toward him, a small woman made of light, but with a spine that was a steel rod. This woman wouldn’t bend except by her own will and she very definitely would not break. She stopped so close to him that their wings almost touched, and held out a journal opened at a specific section.
Wrenching his gaze away from the softness of her skin, and his attention from the heat of her body so dangerously near to his own, he looked down at the neat handwriting in the book. It looked familiar in a vagu
e kind of way. “What’s the language?” He could speak a great many of them, but he had more knowledge of the spoken version than he did of their written forms.
“Oh, I apologize, Titus—I’ve been so deep into it for hours that I forgot it’s a highly specific tongue, spoken by those who grew up in an enclave on the Nile.”
Titus thought back, then spoke a line. “Is that it?”
An appreciative look on her face as she nodded. “Where did you learn it?”
He rolled his eyes at her. Her responding glare was very satisfying. Now she knew what he felt like. “That festering sore of an archangel was my enemy,” he said. “Of course I learned all the languages in which he might give orders in the field.”
He’d asked a warrior-scholar to track down an angel friendly to Titus who knew that obscure tongue, then he’d studied with that angel until he knew the language inside out. He’d also hired his teacher to decode any documents his spies picked up in the same language—Titus could read the language, but he was far slower at it than an expert.
“Sarcasm does not become you, my Lord Titus.”
He knew she’d used that address just to irritate him, so he said, “I am but your servant, my Lady Hummingbird.”
The two of them glared at one another, but below the aggravation was a fire that had the pulse in her throat skittering, and his cock beginning to harden. He and Sharine, they’d battle in bed together, too . . . and it’d be even more satisfying than this small battle.
He lifted his hand to run his fingers along the fine line of her jaw.
39
A cough from the doorway had him turning to face Kiama. Hands held crisply behind her back, she was looking anywhere but at the two of them as she said, “Sire, if you don’t need me, I’ll leave to take up my duties at the garrison—one of my people just went down with a wing injury.”
