by Sarah Gilman
She pressed her face to the window. The moon sat directly overhead and countless red lanterns lit the landscape. She was on the third floor of a stately, sprawling building. It reminded her of a grand, turn-of-the-twentieth-century hotel, except that none of the many balconies had railings. Apparently Eden didn’t believe in child safety.
The colony stretched out before her: many smaller buildings, all with wraparound porches like old southern homes, and pavilions. Tall trees filled the gaps. The demons liked their shade in spades. No surprise, given their nocturnal eyesight.
A tower dominated the distance, with a glowing clock face two-thirds of the way up. Lights from what appeared to be windows wrapped around the top like a halo.
How many humans had seen this place and lived? If only she had her camera. Something huge flew past the window in the darkness.
“Crisse!” She staggered backward. Even as her heart kicked against the wall of her chest, her brain caught up and processed the swooping shadow. She let out the breath she’d been holding.
The archangel she’d spoken to earlier landed, his flight feathers sweeping the balcony as he righted himself in a quick, graceful motion. He folded his wings and unlocked the balcony door.
“Are you all right?” He stayed outside, facing her in the doorway.
“Um, no,” she said.
He cocked his head and looked her over. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” She shook her hands so that the chain of the cuffs jingled. “I’m pissed.”
“I told you to leave.” He took another step closer, reached out, and pressed two fingers to the pulse point of her neck.
She froze. Holy shit, an archangel was touching her. He stood so close she could run her fingers through his feathers. She lifted her cuffed hands.
“Don’t even think about touching my wings,” he said, his tone sharp. “I will break your wrist.”
She refroze. Huh? From concern to threats in five seconds flat?
He shook his head and stepped back. “Your pulse is very fast.”
“Well, you did just threaten me.”
“Do you have heart problems?”
“No.”
“Any other medical conditions?”
“No. Why? Do I need to pass a physical before the demons can interrogate me?”
“The demons aren’t going to hurt you.”
“Pardon me while I don’t hold my breath.”
“I will be in the room when they talk to you, to make sure.”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t, Ms. Morin,” he said. “But I don’t want your blood on my hands, either. Why the hell didn’t you just leave?”
“I need to find my sister!” she shouted. “Didn’t you say you understood?” What good would yelling at the archangel do? He told her he didn’t care. She swallowed and dropped her volume. “Did you ever find whoever you lost?”
“Yes. They’re part of your father’s feather collection.”
Her stomach knotted and she dropped her gaze. “Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘Oh.’” He stepped to the side and flipped a switch on the wall by the door. Exterior lights illuminated the balcony.
For the first time, she saw him clearly. Tussled, walnut-brown hair. The face of a man her age, though given the archangel lifespan, that meant little. The pale brown and black mottled feathers of his wings hugged his arms, hips, and legs. Barefoot, he wore simple jeans and a gray T-shirt that somehow fit over his wings.
Handsome. No girl could resist silver eyes against warm Mediterranean skin, or a gaze so fiercely intelligent. Of course, being an archangel made him more than a little bit off limits, even if he wasn’t looking at her with disdain.
She cleared her throat. “What’s your name?”
“Kestrel.”
“As in the falcon?”
Keeping a shrewd stare on her, he stepped away and half turned, revealing astounding color on the backside of his wings. Feathers the metallic hue of copper spread out from his shoulders. Blue feathers with black specks made up the middle of his wings, blending into black flight feathers with white splotches at the ends.
He looked exactly like an American Kestrel. His glower wasn’t all that different from the falcon’s, either, come to think of it.
He frowned. “The names of my friends in your father’s possession were Skye and Thrush, by the way. Skye had a thing for jelly beans and braided her hair like Princess Leia from Star Wars. Thrush wrote fiction. When he walked, he limped because of an accident he had while learning to fly as a child. Skye and Thrush were a mated pair, a bond archangels share with only one other during our long lives. They had just begun theirs when the poachers cut them down.”
She took a step back, every one of his words stinging. “I haven’t been in my father’s exhibit room since I was a little girl.” She doubted he believed her, or even wanted any sympathy, so she settled for one of her least favorite childhood memories. “My dad walked me through it one day. Afterward, I had nightmares for a week straight and off and on for years.” She shuddered. “He thought he was showing me something special. Beautiful feathers from archangels. But all I saw were dead things that used to be beautiful.”
“Is that so?” His voice softened but his glare remained harsh.
“Yes. That memory is actually the inspiration behind the project my sister and I are working on. We co-own a photography magazine and studio, and we want to put together a gallery of archangels. Living archangels. Not that we have a good plan for getting such photos. It was her idea to go out with the poachers to get closer to the colony and flight territory. I never should have let her do it.” She tried to fold her arms, but the cuffs prevented it.
His lips thinned. “How much do you plan on selling the photos for, if you manage to get them?”
“Nothing. Our normal projects pay our bills. The archangel project is simply meant to show the living, breathing faces of archangels to people. So many visit my father’s museum. They only see the feathers, not the faces. I love my father, but I can’t change him. I want to counter some of the damage he’s doing.”
He leaned a little closer, eyes narrowed, as if he were studying her. “I wish I could tell if you’re sincere.”
“I am.” She held his gaze, determined not to flinch.
“Kestrel, you’re back,” a voice said from behind her.
“Na!” Saffron nearly jumped into Kestrel’s arms, not that he would have bothered to catch her. Heart pounding, she turned and faced the demon who’d spoken. Virgil stood in the middle of the room beyond the open balcony door with two more black-clad demons behind him. All three watched her with crimson eyes. Damn it, did they ever make any noise?
“Did I scare you, Ms. Morin?” Virgil smiled, showing a hint of his venomous fangs.
“No,” she lied, trying to sound haughty. “I’ve had a long day.”
A fourth demon leaned against the wall a few feet to her right. It’d been dark earlier, so she wasn’t certain, but he looked like the demon who’d guarded Kestrel by the gate. Though dressed in black with cropped hair like the other three, he stood out with eyes that were as orange and bright as fire. He stared holes through her. She stepped slowly away from him as if he were a crouching cougar.
Indeed, he made a cougar look like a house cat.
“Virgil,” Kestrel said, his tone dry. His lips curved in a humorless grin. “I’m sure you won’t mind if I stay.”
Virgil scowled for a moment, then turned his attention to Saffron. “Have a seat.”
She settled into a chair, keeping track of Fire Eyes in her peripheral vision. Instinct warned her he was far more deadly than the other demons, even Virgil. She breathed deeply, but couldn’t will her heart rate to slow.
She rested her hands on a round table, trying to appear calm. The chain connecting her handcuffs clattered against the polished surface.
Kestrel moved sideways through the door and muttered something to one of the other demons. The Guardian pull
ed a key from his pocket.
“I don’t think—” Virgil began.
Kestrel pointed at his own head, his expression severe. Saffron hadn’t the slightest idea what that meant, but Virgil paled.
“I see,” the Guardian muttered. “That was never my intention.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment, the tension of both their bodies easing a little.
“I swear,” Virgil said.
The archangel nodded and turned away.
What was going on? Saffron tapped her fingers on the tabletop.
Kestrel leaned over her. He unlocked her cuffs and his fingers brushed hers, his touch tingling. She resisted the urge to take his hand for some comforting reassurance. He would probably pull away from her.
“What’s wrong with your head?”
He grinned, the first warm expression she’d seen since Virgil identified her family. “That depends on who you ask.”
The demons chuckled—even Virgil cracked a smile—except for Fire Eyes, who continued to stare as if reading her thoughts and not liking whatever info he gleaned.
“You sure know how to make a girl self-conscious,” she said.
The demon cocked his head.
Kestrel cleared his throat and went to stand near Fire Eyes, which took the edge off the threat radiating from the Guardian. Saffron let out a relieved breath.
Virgil started in on his questions about the poachers, his manner still intense, but he toned down the viciousness. The two demons with him listened, keen interest in their gazes. Saffron told them every detail she could think of, though guilt gnawed at her. She was condemning three men to death. No trial, no jury, just demon fangs.
But, they’d chosen their way of life. Saffron had to find her sister.
She described the poachers and the vehicles, gave the dates and times of the planned trip, and provided a web address where a picture of Thyme could be found. “I don’t know anything about their route, but I did overhear mention of a ‘lookout spot.’ They argued over whether to ‘risk it.’”
One of demons cursed under his breath.
“What?”
Virgil answered, “The so-called ‘lookout spot’ is a rock ledge far over Eden’s border with an excellent view down the valley toward the colony. Perfect for targeting archangels. No poachers have attempted to get there, though, since we killed the last group and left them strung up in the trees.”
“Lovely.”
“As opposed to our archangels getting shot out of the sky, Ms. Morin?”
The depth of the anger in his tone gave Saffron pause. What she knew of the history between the archangels and the demons likely only scratched the surface. Both species were hated or feared by many humans, especially religious humans, so they’d joined forces to survive. With dedication this strong, there had to be more to the story. Not that she’d ever find out. She glanced to the side and met Kestrel’s gaze. “I’d rather no one on either side get slaughtered.”
“Contrary to your belief that we kill everything that moves in the woods, we only kill when our border is breached, and even then, only armed poachers. More than a few lost hikers and thrill seekers have returned home unharmed.”
“Except for one,” Kestrel muttered, so quiet Saffron almost missed it.
Virgil shut his eyes for a moment. “The thing is, if we simply sent the poachers on their way, they’d get braver. We have to kill to discourage them.” He tapped his chin. “The spot you indicated is under twenty-four-hour observation. It will be double-checked. For now, let’s move on.”
They asked questions that seemed strange—Are any of the poachers or your sister smokers? Gum chewers?—until Virgil clarified that they hunted primarily by scent once they got a search area narrowed down.
“Thyme wears a fairly rare French perfume. One of her sweaters is in the backseat of my car.”
Finally, the demons ran out of questions. They left, talking amongst themselves about beating the incoming weather system. Rain would wash away scent trails. Saffron glanced out the window toward the sky, where hazy clouds muted the moon’s glow. She rubbed her clammy hands together.
Virgil stopped in the doorway. “We’re not done, Ms. Morin. The search is time sensitive, but when time allows, we’ll discuss your father’s operation in depth.”
Great. Considering the demon was on his way to find Thyme, she forced herself not to tell him off. “I’ll be here.”
He closed the door behind himself.
Fire Eyes and Kestrel stayed behind.
Saffron got to her feet. Would the archangel sit in on the next round of questioning, or was this the last time she’d see him? Hopefully, he’d come back. Even with the aggression toned down—for whatever reason—she didn’t want to be alone with Virgil. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, sure.” Kestrel walked toward the door to the balcony, the silent demon at his back.
“I’m very sorry about Thrush and Skye.”
He paused. “You remember their names.”
“Well, yeah.”
He shook his head. “I really don’t know what to make of you.”
“Most people don’t.” She managed a grin. A yawn followed.
“It’s nearly midnight. Get some sleep. If they find Thyme, they’ll bring her here.”
“When Virgil comes back, will you?”
“Yes.”
Her tense muscles eased.
“Good night, Saffron.”
“Bonsoir,” she whispered.
Like she was going to get any sleep while locked in a room by demons?
…
You have got to be kidding me.
Kestrel lifted his wings and sat up in the pile of blankets that passed for a bed on his terrace. He preferred to sleep under the open sky during nice summer weather, but tonight a voice humming a simple, repetitive tune invaded the peace. Invaded his mind. Saffron’s voice.
“Shit.” Death still nipped at her heels. Warning Virgil hadn’t done the trick.
He got to his feet. No stars gleamed overhead, and a raindrop landed on his nose, a second on his cheek. The storm system had arrived early. For the sake of the search party, hopefully the sprinkles wouldn’t amount to much for a while yet.
He dove off the terrace, wings folded close to his body. After enjoying the headfirst, mind-clearing descent for a few seconds, he extended his wings and shot over the rooftops toward the town hall. The song in his head persisted and her voice was rather pleasant.
Beautiful, even.
Light spilled from the single window over the flight deck of Saffron’s guestroom. He landed and tapped his knuckles against the glass. The humming in his head went silent.
Saffron opened the door and stepped outside, her arms folded, her eyes bloodshot. “Uh, hi.”
“Hi, yourself. Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Who says I wasn’t?”
“I do!” Unintentionally, annoyance leaked into his voice.
She dropped her hands to her hips. “Did you come back here in the middle of the night just to read my mind and snap at me?”
“I don’t read minds.”
“Then you were spying?”
“No.” He flicked his wings. He had no desire to explain his psychic talent, especially not at the moment. He yawned. “Look, unlike the demons, I have to sleep every night. And I’m not going to sleep if you don’t.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
He ignored the question. “What can I do to help?”
“Um…” She dug the fingers of one hand into her hair. “I don’t feel much like sleeping. My sister is missing, or did you miss that part?”
“Is that the only reason you’re still awake?”
Her jaw slid side to side as if she were grinding her teeth. “Well, honestly, I can’t sleep knowing the demons could unlock my door and come in.”
“It really isn’t something to worry about. Even Virgil wouldn’t stoop that low.”
“You sure about that?”
“Absolutely. You’re not a poacher—”
“Which apparently doesn’t guarantee anything. When Virgil claimed that hikers got sent home safely, you said, ‘all but one.’ What happened?”
“An accident,” he said, his voice thick. “Virgil…”
“Virgil, what?”
He flicked his wings. “Virgil does not compromise or hesitate when it comes to a perceived threat to the colony. Regardless, I’m certain he won’t sneak in here like a rat and hurt you. The other Guardians won’t, either.”
He walked around her to the doorway and surveyed the room. How was she going to die? The answer wasn’t obvious, and that made him itch. He wasn’t about to risk someone coming through the door, despite his confidence in the Guardians. He had no choice but to keep her close if he wanted to keep her safe.
“Would some non-demon company help?”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
He held out his hand. “Come here.”
“Uh…”
“You can stay with me tonight. No one has access to my place accept for Decimus, my bodyguard.” What was the risk? She had no weapons. Kestrel didn’t train at hand fighting every day just to get strangled by a one-hundred-and-fiftyish-pound human. ’Course, if she did attempt something, Decimus would be the one to deliver her death.
An acceptable risk. It was worth testing her, considering her surprising comments about her father’s collection.
In the meantime, he felt compelled to give her the benefit of the doubt. Nothing about her encouraged his anger. Looking into her heart-shaped face, he had to remind himself who she was. Tell himself to hate her.
Because he didn’t. Instead, he found it increasingly difficult not to smile when her soft-blue gaze shifted in his direction.
“Fire Eyes?”
“Yeah, that’d be Dec.”
She shivered. “He didn’t seem very friendly. Far from it, in fact.”
“He glowers at everybody. ‘Menacing’ is part of the job description.”
“I’m sure.”
“You’d be my guest. You won’t even see him.” Not a lie. If she turned out to be a threat, Dec would strike so fast she’d never know what happened.
