Falling for Anthony tg-1

by Meljean Brook

  Emily hardened herself against the hopeful note in the housekeeper's voice. "No, thank you, Mrs. Kemble. If Sally has left supper in the larder, Colin and I can make do by ourselves for the remainder of the evening."

  The housekeeper nodded stiffly but hesitated before turning.

  "Was there anything else, Mrs. Kemble?"

  "Well, ma'am, I had intended to visit my daughter in Kent—"

  "Oh!" Emily's hand flew to her mouth in dismay. She had forgotten that the housekeeper had requested leave for the birth of her grandchild. The servant must have felt obligated to stay during Colin's sickness; she had been scheduled to leave two days before. "Mrs. Kemble, I am sorry—you must of course depart immediately! Have you received word about the baby?"

  The housekeeper shook her head. "I'm afraid it was stillborn, ma'am. I was meaning to let you know that I wouldn't be taking the time away after all, so you could depend on me to remain here while Master Colin is ill."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Kemble," Emily said. "But wouldn't you prefer to be with your daughter?"

  The housekeeper shrugged. "Babes die, ma'am. And my daughter is a strong lass."

  Perhaps it was her own recent loss that made Mrs. Kemble's statement seem so coldhearted, Emily thought minutes later as she slowly climbed the stairs to Colin's room. It was true that childbirth was frequently accompanied by death; one should be prepared for an unhappy outcome.

  But Emily hoped that, no matter how much death surrounded her, she would never be as prepared as Mrs. Kemble.

  She winced as the key scraped in the bedchamber's lock, but upon opening the door she saw the noise had not disturbed Colin's unnatural sleep. He lay on the bed in his nightgown, his arms still tucked neatly at his sides in the position she had arranged them following the physician's examination. She had pulled layers of blankets over him, but despite his clammy temperature and the chill in the room, he'd kicked them off. His thin ankles and calves stood out in sharp relief against the pillowy mattress, his white skin almost the same color as the sheets.

  Aside from her lamp, the soft blaze in the fireplace provided the only light in the room; in the early days of Colin's sickness, when he'd been awake during a portion of the daylight hours, he'd been too sensitive to sunlight to allow it to shine through the windows. Though he was no longer conscious enough to object, Emily continued to draw the drapes every morning. Now, the orange glow of sunset peeked between them, settling in stripes on the rugs.

  Cursing herself for allowing it to become so late, Emily ran to the bed, falling to her knees and reaching beneath the bedframe.

  Her fingers sought and brushed cold metal, and with a clatter, she dragged out the heavy chains and manacles she'd hidden from the physician and the servants.

  She lifted Colin's left arm. It hung cold and limp as she snapped the iron cuff around his wrist and twisted the key. Her heart no longer ached as it had the first few days she had performed this procedure. Initially, it had been at Colin's insistence—after she found him one night eating raw meat in the kitchen, he'd begged her to chain him. She had done it the first time to humor him, and to erase the haunted look from his eyes; now, she did it out of fear and self-preservation.

  Her fingers were gentle as she slipped his right wrist into the iron. His bones looked fragile beneath his skin, the ligaments clearly delineated. The frailty was deceptive, she knew—he was preternaturally strong—but she could not bring herself to treat him carelessly, no matter what he'd become.

  She wrapped the chains around the bedposts. The metal links jangled rhythmically as she pulled on their length; Colin's arms slid bonelessly toward the headboard. When there was only a little slack in the chain, she wound them around the posts once more and locked them together.

  Clutching the key in her hand, she glanced at his face and was relieved to see his eyes still closed. His blond hair, only a few shades darker than hers, curled disheveled over his forehead. Knowing that he'd have hated its disarray, she quickly smoothed it into some semblance of order, watching him carefully for movement.

  The illness had not been kind to him—the face Emily had often considered a masculine version of her own had withered and shrunk, erasing his angular beauty. Dark hollows around his eyes and in his sunken cheeks had left him skeletal; she was glad Colin couldn't see himself as he was now. If he'd been aware of the physical decline that accompanied the mental one, he'd have been devastated.

  His eyelashes fluttered. Her heart leaping into her throat, Emily yanked her hand away and took three hasty steps back. She watched him in frozen trepidation. He did not move again; after a moment, she pressed her lips together against the absurd urge to laugh, to lose herself in hysteria.

  There had been times in the last few weeks when she'd feared madness was not far from her—she'd managed to counter the feeling, doggedly hanging on to normalcy through sheer will.

  She turned on her heel, striding determinedly to Colm's writing desk and opening the curtains adjacent to it. The sun had disappeared over the horizon, and the deepening twilight cast the garden below into shadow. She looked out for just a few moments, letting the vastness outside fill her, give her a brief sense of freedom—from the house's locked rooms and her own secrets—before turning and sitting at the desk. Setting down the lamp, she pulled paper and pens from a drawer.

  Letters were normal—about normal events, to normal people. Performing such an everyday task would anchor her, remind her of her sanity.

  After dashing off a few short letters to personal friends, she faced the daunting task of writing to her nephew, Robert.

  How much of the truth should she relate to him? How much should a twelve-year-old boy know? After losing his father, mother, and grandfather in so short of a time, now must he face the prospect of losing his uncle?

  Not that Colin had been a significant part of Robert's life before that summer, she thought sadly. Nor had she. She remembered the words she'd once spoken to Anthony Ramsdell: Children cannot interest me. She closed her eyes briefly against the pain the memory of that night brought and brushed her forefinger over the thin, raised scar on the fleshy pad of her thumb.

  She had been wrong—she could not have known how wrong she had been until she had spent the summer becoming acquainted with her young nephew. And had she known, would she have acted differently that night? Would she have called Anthony unsuitable, used him in her childish scheme for revenge?

  For the briefest moment, she allowed herself to recall his offer, to imagine the course her life might have taken if she'd accepted it. If I had not been so focused on my own needs and dreams, would he be alive? Would I be with him now? But a marriage between them could not have prevented the fire, nor could it change what had happened to Colin.

  Thinking of Anthony helped remind her that neither life nor death could be taken for granted; determined not to lose another moment caught in bitter reflection, she wrote:

  Robert,

  I hope this letter finds you comfortably settled and applying yourself to your studies. As you have recently come into your title, your new friends might give you a nickname; please do not allow them Nobby or Norby. Though it sounds quite stuffy now, insist on Norbndge. You will thank me for it in the future.

  Your Uncle Colin's condition is very ill, but do not fret—I am certain he will soon be himself again and his cravat as tightly knotted as ever before. He should be recovered at the end of the half, and we will enjoy the holiday together.

  Perhaps in the summer months we should visit the Lake District and try to muss his clothes during our travels. You might also enjoy Brighton, or a few weeks in London (although not too far into the summer, I hope). Or perhaps you would like to remain in Derbyshire? Our previous summer passed so pleasantly here, I should not mind another. But I shall accede to your wishes on this matter, my young lord.

  Your loving aunt, Emily

  A smile hovered over her mouth as she folded the letter and sealed it. Robert might consider her an eccentric guardi
an, but he would have little doubt of her affection. Would that she'd had the same from her father…

  A gleam in the darkness caught her attention and she turned. Colin lay on the bed watching her hungrily, his eyes reflecting the lamplight. His lips were pulled back in a ghastly smile, revealing long, pointed canines. He turned his head and sank his teeth through his sleeve and into his bicep.

  I should let him kill me, she thought.

  Emily buried her face in her hands and wept.

  Chapter Four

  A Guardian may choose to Ascend at any time; however, after one hundred years have passed, they may also choose to Fall the alternative added as a reward for service.

  — The Doyen Scrolls

  Anthony landed neatly atop the city's tallest spire. Around him, Caelum spread out in a circle of coruscating buildings and temples. Its shining marble columns and towers speared into the cerulean sky, piercing a blue that had never been darkened by clouds.

  Anthony no longer raised his face to capture the sun's warmth, is he often had in England; without the cold and rain for contrast, its rays did nothing more than bring light. And now that he could see clearly on the darkest of nights, he did not even need that.

  But he could fly, and for that he loved the unchanging sky.

  The tip of the spire was not wide enough for perching; balanced on one foot, he waited, currents of air drifting across his wings.

  The city's edge shimmered in the distance; it pulled his gaze, as it always did. A dark line marked the abrupt cessation of ivory stone—beyond it, a waveless ocean stretched to the horizon. He had explored its endless breadth and depths, but both the sky and the deep had been empty, and his splashless dives had disturbed nothing.

  But Caelum thrummed and pulsed with life. Behind silent marble walls, thousands of Guardians watched, waited, and protected. They passed through the Gates and came back with Earth's odors clinging to them.

  Anthony had learned to avoid those who were newly returned.

  Like all new Guardians, he had to wait nearly one hundred years before he would be allowed to traverse those Gates: one hundred years of studying his new abilities and training to fight their enemies; one hundred years for everyone he'd known to die; one hundred years to forget the immediacy of being human. Until then, reminders of his past were as painful as they were alluring, and he preferred not to torture himself with them. It served no purpose.

  Suddenly restless, he glanced away from the edge of the city, his eyes searching the ground below. Though hundreds of yards in the air, he could see the individual veins of color within the courtyard tiles, but he was not interested in the stone. Movement near one of the archways opening into the courtyard caught his attention—two Guardians held each other in an intimate embrace.

  Two males, he realized. They kissed, and though Anthony was struck by the gentleness with which they touched each other, he had to look away. It was not unusual in Caelum to come across lovers in the public areas, but even after eight months, he had not grown accustomed to witnessing sexual acts performed between couples of the same gender. Over time, his shock and disgust had faded into mild discomfort, but he reasoned that he was, and maybe always would be, a product of his upbringing.

  After all, he had not become accustomed to the idea of a male and female publicly displaying themselves, either. If a member of the ton had ever been so bold, he would have been expelled from society. Even if it took place behind closed doors, public knowledge of a liaison between unmarried lovers could have ruined the couple.

  Emily had known that risk, but she had still pressed her lips against his.

  Before that night, he'd dreamed of her touch countless times. Afterward, he could only look back with shame that his one opportunity with her ended in a mechanical coupling that had brought pleasure to neither of them. He still didn't know why she'd chosen him, but no matter her reason, their joining had likely failed her idealistic expectations. The image of her, eyes red-rimmed and her chemise stained with his semen, declaring that her faith in love had vanished, had been pinned like an insect into his memory.

  No. He shook himself, forcing thoughts of Emily, of London, from his mind. Dwelling on what had been could only lead to unhappiness, could only bring frustration and regret. Here in Caelum, there were no titles or possessions, and value was not determined by birth or profession. He had a multitude of lifetimes ahead of him, and he would not spend them aching for a past that had rejected him at every turn.

  With a deliberate shrug, he unrolled his wings and focused on the weight of them—they were heavy, but no more a burden than one of his legs or his arms. He tested the breeze against his skin and breathed the sterile air deep into his lungs.

  Then he folded the white feathers tight against his body and plummeted.

  He kept his eyes open as he rushed toward the ground. The wind created by his descent whipped his hair behind him and tore his shirttails from the waist of his breeches. The wildly fluttering hem cracked against his buttocks, startling a laugh from him before the torrent of air made him swallow it.

  At the last possible moment, he snapped his wings wide. They caught air, and his trajectory changed sharply, vertical to horizontal. The effort wrenched his muscles, and he strained to hold himself aloft as he skimmed a foot above the courtyard tiles. His knees scraped; he cried out in surprise and tumbled over, skidding to a halt against sturdy, robe-covered legs. The brown wool smelled faintly of smoke.

  Hugh's legs, Anthony realized with dismay as he lay on his back, stunned. This stunt will likely earn me a stiff lecture. He smiled in amused anticipation of it, particularly as the lecture would come from someone who looked a very young eighteen. Hugh's face, surrounded by boyish curls, could have been any youth's in a Botticelli painting, and yet his eyes bespoke his real age—they were too patient to have belonged to even the most mature boy.

  Appearances, Anthony reminded himself, arc almost always deceiving. It had been one of the first lessons he'd been taught upon entering Caelum, and one of the hardest for him to absorb. As a physician, he'd been trained to trust what he observed and to act accordingly. As a Guardian, he had to learn to distrust it, along with many other things he'd taken for granted when he was human.

  Instead of lecturing, his mentor only looked down at him thoughtfully and said, "Perhaps we should move on to the lessons for tactical aerial combat."

  The unexpected response to his reckless dive, combined with the thrill of his relatively successful landing, had Anthony shaking with laughter.

  Hugh's expression didn't change; if anything, it became more sober. He watched as Anthony picked himself up and waited until his laughter had passed.

  "Michael has summoned us."

  Anthony paused in his attempt to tuck in his shirt. Michael had transformed him, brought him to Caelum, and then left him in the care of his mentors. Anthony hadn't expected to see Michael again until his hundred years had passed and Anthony received his first assignment.

  "Why?"

  The faint disapproval that thinned Hugh's lips was the strongest emotion Anthony had ever seen him display. "He's sending you on a mission."

  Anthony's brow creased into a frown and unease skittered down his spine. "To Earth?"

  Hugh didn't reply, turning stiffly in the direction of the Hall. Anthony was forced to follow him on foot—Hugh preferred walking to flying, as if the journey to every destination was a pilgrimage—and the trek gave him too much time to remember all the reasons he'd want to return to Earth, and too little time to forget them again.

  Michael's residence, like much of Caelum, bore the unmistakable influence of the ancient Greeks. Columns topped with intricately carved scrollwork stood like sentinels around the building; on the doors, an enormous marble frieze depicted Michael's battle against the dragon.

  Anthony had studied the sculpted scene during his exploration of the city and had been astounded that the artist's skill had so perfectly replicated the visage of the man in stone. Micha
el—naked, wingless, and armed with a single sword—stood alone against the dragon. Behind him, an army of angels lay beaten; riding the dragon, a horde of demons eagerly awaited victory. It captured the moment |ust before Michael had thrust the sword into the dragon's heart—his muscles bunched with effort, his expression desperate but determined.

  Michael had been human then, but it had been his triumph that led to the formation of the Guardian corps. The first Guardian, he was the Doyen and the acknowledged leader. Although every Guardian had an equal voice in Caelum, if Michael did intend to break tradition and send Anthony to Earth before his training had been completed, there would likely be little opposition.

  Unless that opposition came from Anthony.

  Guardians prized free will above all other things. Though choices were sometimes limited, Michael would never force Anthony to do anything he resisted.

  Anthony could—and would, he determined—decline the mission when it was offered. The decision quieted the unease that had plagued him and allowed him to enter Michael's sanctum with confidence.

  The interior was as palatial as Anthony had expected, but except in scale it differed little from his own residence. Archways and columns divided the single large, open room. A seating area in the front held an elegant array of sofas, chairs, and ottomans. Their styles varied widely, a testament to Michael's age and the extent of his travel, and came togther in an arrangement too soft to accurately reflect the owner.

  Anthony did not relish the prospect of talking to Michael while lounging on sofas and cushions, and was relieved when Hugh led him into the armory at the back of the room. Weapons lined the walls: ancient axes and bludgeons; swords and spears; newer firearms. The floor had been left empty—in his apartment, Anthony used the similar space to practice his fencing skills with Hugh. His mentor, despite his monkish appearance, was a formidable opponent; Anthony imagined Michael was invincible.