by Laura Kaye
He passed the night in the woods, the solitude familiar but unwelcome. He thought about Lawrence’s plans and about Lexine, but came to no conclusions about either. Though he only slept once a week like any demon, he couldn’t remember the last time he spent the entire night on his feet, pacing, snapping dead branches off trees, practicing with his throwing knives, anything for an outlet.
When dawn arrived, a shadow shifted among the other dark corners of the woods. Lark stepped out from behind a pine tree. “Raphael would like to see you.”
Jett shoved Lexine from his mind as best he could and focused on the grim-faced Guardian. Though not in the mood for conversation, he’d yet to talk to the archangel after the failure in town. Lawrence remained a threat, the trail nonexistent.
Unacceptable.
Lark turned and Jett fell into step next to him. They reached the house and proceeded inside. This time, Lark made no attempt to take his weapons.
“No pat down?”
“Enjoy the first one that much, did you?”
“Fuck off.”
Raphael stood by the windows on the far side of the second-floor room, a steaming mug in his hands. He turned and smiled. “Morning.”
“Morning, Lark. Jett.” Wren’s voice carried from the kitchen. The archangel with black-speckled wings appeared a moment later and settled on one of the tall, backless chairs.
Raphael took a step closer to Jett. “I have something I need to ask you, Guardian.”
The word, aimed at him for the second time in recent memory, hit him like a bullet to the chest. “I’m not—”
Movement and the glint of a polished blade caught Jett’s attention. He growled and threw his body between the archangels and the wielder of the weapon.
Lark stepped back, grinned, and sheathed the blade.
“What the hell was that?” Jett, crouched and ready to fight, locked eyes with him.
“You’re not a Guardian? Could have fooled me.”
Jett straightened. “Do not test me. Next time I might rip your throat out.”
Lark’s shrewd gaze held steady. “You couldn’t so much as scratch me.”
“The fuck I couldn’t—”
Lark drew his blade again and landed a punishing kick to Jett’s chest. As Jett fell, he twisted, craned his neck, and grazed Lark’s ankle with his fangs. He hit the floor, got his feet under himself, and prepared to spring at the other demon.
Lark stood at Raphael’s side, a dagger poised at the archangel’s throat. He held the blade in his fingers, the harm-less hilt against Raphael’s skin.
“Your father was a Guardian and you inherited that legacy,” Lark said. “The humans trained you to the best of their ability. The Guardians could train you to use your superior senses and reflexes to their full potential.”
Raphael lifted his hand and shoved Lark’s dagger away. “Jett is a guest in my home.”
“Just making a point.” Lark sheathed the blade.
Jett, kneeling on the floor, held a hand to his chest where Lark had kicked him. Breath sawed in and out of his lungs. Blood mixed with the too-sweet venom in his mouth—not his blood. He glanced down at Lark’s ankle and grinned. “Might want to bandage that.”
Lark lifted his knee and pulled up his torn pant leg. He inspected the twin scrapes left by Jett’s fangs. “You bastard.” He straightened. “I hope you come to your senses. There’s nothing I’d like more than to train your ass. I haven’t had a student move that fast in a century.”
“I know your weakness, and I exploited it. You have a great deal of pain in your left hip from an old injury that didn’t heal correctly. Thornton limped on occasion because of it. You hide it without flaw, except that kick just now was a little low for your height.”
“Regardless, you wouldn’t have saved Raphael if this had been a real fight. If you trained, you could do a hell of a lot more for this family than take out Lawrence. He’s just one of many enemies.”
Jett’s ears rang. Become a Guardian? Could he take that step? “I won’t enter another form of slavery.”
“Is that what you think I am?” Lark’s eyes widened. “A slave? I made a vow to protect Raphael and his family with my life, but I’m free to leave anytime, a far cry from slavery. I serve a purpose that I feel is worth putting my life down for. I endured training that pushed me to my knees and within an inch of the grave to earn the right to be here.”
Raphael touched Lark’s shoulder for a brief moment. “Lark has been by my side for over a hundred years, but there are five of us now. A second dedicated Guardian would go a long way toward keeping my family safe, but there are few I trust enough.” He paused and held Jett’s gaze. “I’m asking you to consider the position.”
Ah, shit. Even a bastard like himself couldn’t say no to that. He paced.
He’d always longed for freedom, but freedom to do what? Open a fucking pizza place?
“You would need to complete the training successfully first, of course,” Lark said. “There’s plenty of time to decide.”
“Why do you trust me?” Jett asked Raphael. “I helped keep you imprisoned for years.”
“You freed me.”
“Which I could have done much sooner, but I didn’t.”
“When the time came, you offered me a way to protect my son. To me, that outweighs everything else.”
Jett blew out a heavy breath. Last year, Thornton had gotten Wren on the phone and broken Raphael’s wing, intent on luring and killing the young archangel by using his father as bait. Raphael had cared only for his son’s safety, and the force of that love had shaken Jett to the core. Having grown up in the lab, Jett couldn’t remember experiencing the love of a parent.
If he joined the Guardians, and it didn’t work out, he could walk away—if Lark spoke the truth. Otherwise, God help the demon. He wouldn’t be a slave at their hands.
What did he have to lose?
He wandered to the windows and stared out at the lake for a long moment. “I’m in.”
Raphael stood and joined him by the glass.
What the hell did one say to someone you were promising to protect with your life? Jett lowered his head in silence. He’d promised himself he’d never bend in supplication of any kind ever again, so he had no greater way to show his respect and intent.
“I can’t express what this means to me, Guardian.” Raphael extended a wing and touched Jett’s arm with his flight feathers. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me until you’re dying of old age.”
Raphael reached his other wing toward Wren, who got to his feet. “Your oath extends to my family. They mean more to me than my own safety. I ask that you remember that. If the worst should happen one day and you can’t save us all, do not put me before them.”
Wren shot his father a withering glare and flicked his wings. “Ignore that, Jett.”
Jett nodded. He’d be damned if it ever came to such a moment, so no need to argue. “I understand your concern, Raphael.”
“Good. Thank you.”
Wren offered his hand. As they shook, he brushed Jett’s arm with his feathers as Raphael had done.
“What does that mean?” Jett had grown accustomed to Raphael avoiding wing contact. Even after Raphael’s imprisonment ended, Jett had observed the physical distance the archangels kept between themselves and others.
“Just our way of showing how much we trust you.” A hint of warning filled Wren’s voice. Jett held his gaze and nodded in understanding. Despite the gesture, Wren’s full trust still needed to be earned.
Jett took Lark’s hand in a firm shake. “I’m honored to work with you.”
“Likewise. Let’s get you orientated.” He motioned for Jett to follow and headed for the door.
Chapter Eleven
Jett followed Lark outside and around the back of the house, where an acre of trees had been cleared. A ten-foot granite wall surrounded an expansive garden: flowers and fruit trees, a fountain and marble statues, manicured law
n and meandering stone paths. He preferred the disorganized beauty of the untamed forest, but whoever did all this work had his respect.
“Kora, Raphael’s mate, did all of this herself.” Lark pointed toward a pristine reflecting pool at the base of a marble monument, rose bushes on either side. “She’s buried here, too.”
They followed the granite wall to the rear of the garden, where a wooden door and a security panel interrupted the smooth stonework.
“Tool shed?”
Lark scowled. “Bachelor pad.”
“You live here?”
Lark released the locks by entering a code in the security panel, opened the door, and went inside. “Home sweet home.”
Jett stepped through the door into a simple room with a bed and dresser on the left and a kitchenette and woodstove on the right. The stone floor, walls, and ceiling were blackened in many places. The scent of charred wood filled Jett’s nose. “Fire?”
Lark pressed a palm against the rough stone wall. “After Kora’s murder, the Guardians burned this place. Rightfully so, of course. I chose to leave the scorch marks when I moved back in. One can never have too many reminders of their single biggest failure in two hundred and fifty years of life. But, we’re not here to talk about my shoddy taste in decorating. Here.” Lark selected a box from a closet and pushed it into Jett’s hands. “Clothes I picked up the other day.” His mouth curved in a conspiratorial grin. “They should be your size.”
“I’m fine as I am, thanks.”
“A Guardian holds a position of respect in the colony. Especially an archangel’s Guardian. I can almost see your ass, those jeans are so threadbare.”
The redhead had a point. Living in the woods, he’d kept himself clean, but the rips and tears in his clothing hadn’t mattered. “Where can I change?”
“Through there.” Lark pointed to a door.
In the bathroom, Jett changed into the black combat pants and muscle shirt, and studied himself in the mirror. Damn, he needed a pair of scissors. He preferred his hair a little too long—mainly because Lawrence had kept it skull trimmed—but the uneven mess left after he’d used his knife for a haircutting tool was far from presentable, especially against the black uniform.
He tilted his head and ran his fingers over the tiny Guardian emblem, a cursive, gold G no bigger than a thumbnail, stitched on the left of his neckline. Simple, but proud.
So unlike the gaudy tattoo on his arm. He pulled on the black jacket to cover the appalling artwork. Shit, the look Lexine had given him.
Rolling his shoulders to adjust the new garments, he returned to the main room. Lark stood in the open doorway of a gun closet, flipping a blade end over end with one hand.
“You clean up nice.” A taunting grin.
“Fuck you.” Jett took in the something-for-everyone display of guns, knives, and…was that a samurai sword? “Tell me something. Do you trust me as much as Raphael does?”
Lark sheathed the blade. “I trust that you belong here, not with the humans, and you know it. For the eighteen years of Raphael’s imprisonment, I haunted Thornton’s stronghold, so you’re not a stranger to me. At the time, I had no reason or desire to respect your privacy.”
Jett’s muscles stiffened to the point that pain shot up his neck. “How much did you see?”
“Enough.” The tone in which Lark spoke that one word carried the weight of a hundred of Jett’s worst memories. Lark had been there, had witnessed the degradation. The older demon held his gaze without even a smattering of pity, the muscles around his jaw flexing as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. “At your age, I doubt I would have handled such treatment half as well. You have my respect.”
Lark offered his hand, and Jett shook it. Like it or not, Lark knew things no other living person knew. Jett wouldn’t allow that to undermine him. It was over. Thornton was dead, and this was his new life.
“However,” Lark said, “not everyone in Sanctuary will be as certain about you. Be prepared, and be patient.”
“Speaking of that. Does Sanctuary have any tattoo-removal equipment?”
“Lasers? No, but…” He held up a knife. “I could carve it off and the archangels could heal your arm. That would leave a nasty scar, though.”
“Better scar tissue than this tattoo.”
“I’d consider leaving it alone.”
“What the hell for?”
“Because the scar would be just as much a reminder as the tattoo itself, and if you ask me, those fingernail marks send a clear message of where your loyalty is and is not. Think about it while you train. If you still want to be carved up later, we’ll get it done.”
They spent an hour selecting just the right weapons for Jett’s tastes. New combat blades hugged his thighs. Eight throwing knives, two sets of four, clung to his sides. Daggers nestled into his boots and sheaths on his arms. A strap held a gun at his back.
Lark showed him to a spare room. “You can come here when you need to sleep, for now, and you can leave the weapons here. You won’t need them during the early phase of your training, which starts tomorrow at dawn. But first, you need to be presentable and armed when we appear with the family at the memorial for Jac and the children, which begins at dusk.”
Jett’s mouth went dry. A group funeral, courtesy of Law-rence.
Never again.
His thoughts shifted to large amber eyes and dark hair. Despite the grim occasion, his body hummed at the prospect of seeing her again.
“If you successfully complete the training,” Lark continued, “you and I will be equal partners. We’ll know each other well enough to work together during an emergency when we can’t stop and plan. However, for the time being, you’re required to heed any and all instructions I give you. In a situation where the family is at risk, my attention cannot be divided between them and wondering what the hell you’re doing.”
He bit back a “fuck off.” Taking orders would be the hardest part of this training, he had no doubt. “Understood.”
“Good.” Lark flipped and caught his blade again. “This afternoon, we’ll get some necessary evils out of the way. All the other Guardians need to meet you, and the more the civilians see you, the more at ease with your presence they’ll become. I’ve called Devin. He’ll take you around. I need to stay near the archangels.”
Sunglasses in place, they stepped out of the dwelling into the harsh, late-morning sun. Devin waited in the garden, dressed in Guardian black, minus the jacket. A long, thin scar wound across his left forearm. Wraparound sunglasses covered his eyes, but his lips curved in a smug grin. “I have much to teach you,” Lark said, “but the basis of your training will be physical conditioning. Devin will oversee those festivities.”
Devin’s grin broadened.
“You can’t be serious.” Jett folded his arms. “Running laps and push-ups?”
Lark laughed and glanced over his sunglasses, his crimson irises harsh red in the daylight. “Five minutes into the program originally designed by your father, you’ll wish it were that easy.”
“Before we do anything else,” Jett said, “we need to discuss Lawrence. He’s still out there, and we have no leads.”
“We know he’s planning another attack,” Devin said, all humor vanishing. “I think our best option is to wait for Lawrence to make another move. He has no chance of surprising us again.”
“Not my first choice,” Lark muttered, “but you’re right, we’re out of offensive options.”
“We could confide in the Vermont State Police,” Devin said. “We know his name. They should be able to track him down quite easily, even if he uses aliases, which I bet he does.”
“No,” Lark said, his tone icy. “They won’t let us kill him, and if he hasn’t done anything against human laws, he won’t even go to jail. I want this threat eliminated.”
“This could damage our fragile relationship with the VSP. Just saying. It’s worth considering.”
“The archangels are our first priority,”
Jett said. “Period.”
Lark nodded. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We will involve the state police, but only concerning the threat of another attack on the colony by poachers, and we’ll prepare colony-wide for that attack. Vin is already planning as much.
“We won’t confide in the VSP about Lawrence, but any poachers they unearth may provide us with valuable leads. We’ll wait him out. Bastard has to make a mistake eventually Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Devin said.
“Fine,” Jett said.
Damn it. He fucking hated waiting.
…
Dressed in a heavy mourning robe, Lexine approached Sanctuary’s mausoleum—an edifice of granite and stained glass. She paused at the stone steps and glanced back at the gathering on the lawn. As with every death, the colonists had gathered together in silence, dressed in gray, their candles like stars that had sunk beneath the navy-blue, late-evening sky.
The archangels stood near the front of the crowd but off to the side, the white of their wings stark in the low light. They wore gray, just like all the demons, the traditional mourning color. Catching Ginger’s gaze, Lexine strayed from the mausoleum procession to embrace her friend. Holding the sleeping twins, Raphael and Wren whispered their condolences, followed by Lark and Devin. When the scent of rich tea and honey filled her nose and a fourth voice murmured in her ear, Lexine shivered under the verbal caress and glanced up.
Jett had traded his jeans and shirt for Guardian black, the distinctive golden G embroidered into the collar of both his jacket and the shirt underneath.
Her lungs deflated, and she tried to speak, but no sound came out. A Guardian? What? How?
“Lexi?” Her mother’s voice pulled her attention back to the open doors of the mausoleum, but Lexine’s feet remained frozen in place.
Jett lifted a hand to her arm.
