Angel Bonds

by Lexi C. Foss

  You can, he heard her say, that voice forever in his mind, never to be heard again.

  “I don’t know how to do this,” Issac admitted, feeling vulnerable and weak.

  “I’ll help you.” Balthazar tightened his hug. “I’m here and I’ll help you.”

  Issac shuddered, his body completely useless to him. His mind unfocused. His heart demolished.

  They stayed like that for what could have been minutes or hours, Balthazar’s presence the only thing keeping Issac from falling apart completely. His strength all that kept him breathing.

  “Who else?” Issac asked after a long, long while, knowing the answer would hurt. Otherwise, Balthazar would have already told him. He’d been protecting his fragile state, and for that, Issac was grateful. But he needed to know. “Tell me who else he took from us.”

  “Eliza, but the incendiary bullet went through her and didn’t ignite her blood. So Luc thinks she’ll still wake Hydraian.” Balthazar paused, swallowing. “Anya is dead. Jeremy, Grace, Sebastian, and Flora, as well.”

  All Guardians. They’d served their purpose, but their deaths would surely be felt.

  “And,” Balthazar continued, his voice lowering. “And Aidan.”

  Issac’s breath caught. “Aidan?”

  “He saved Lizzie’s life.”

  He didn’t…

  Aidan?

  He blinked, his heart in his throat.

  My Sire, my father… Aidan?!

  Fire poured through Issac’s soul, the initial shock morphing into unadulterated fury. Jonathan took Aidan from me, too?

  “Tristan? Mateo? Where the hell were they?” Issac demanded.

  “They went into Athens with Alik and Nadia for a bite.”

  To feed.

  His progeny had abandoned everyone to feed.

  “Issac, they had no way of knowing. You can’t—”

  “I can,” he seethed. “They should have been here.”

  “Alik couldn’t stand the merriment, Tristan and Mateo offered to take him into town, and Nadia went, too, for security purposes. You can’t hold that against them.”

  Logically, Issac knew he was right. Emotionally… “Aidan died because—”

  “Of Jonathan,” Balthazar finished. “Because he sent an army to take us out while we were weak and distracted. Don’t you dare blame anyone else. This is Jonathan’s fault, no one else’s.”

  Issac closed his eyes, pain mingling with a deep-seated need to kill, to blame, to maim.

  Aidan.

  His maker.

  His father.

  Dead.

  One of the oldest Ichorians in existence, slaughtered.

  Why doesn’t this hurt more?

  “Because you’re already in agony,” Balthazar whispered, his arms still loosely around Issac.

  How long had they been sitting like this? Embracing?

  Does it matter? No.

  Issac thought of the man he considered his father, contemplating a memory from long ago, from the night they buried Issac’s mother.

  “She could have chosen life,” Issac had said. “Why didn’t she join us?”

  “Because immortality isn’t for everyone, son. She didn’t desire the pain of loss—what you’re experiencing now. Giving her the choice was the best gift of her existence, and she lived a full, loving, amazing life. And one day, I’ll join her in the afterlife.”

  “You believe in that?”

  “I do. Our souls were always meant to find one another. I’ll never love another like I loved her, and when the time is right, I’ll find her again.”

  Aidan had been right. He never loved anyone more than he loved Issac’s mother. Anya, Nadia, and Clara were all just diversions he enjoyed while biding his time.

  All that ancient knowledge and wisdom shared with Lucian, everything Aidan had taught Issac, and the love he bestowed upon Amelia were all ways Aidan had secured his memory in each of them.

  Just as he promised he would.

  Issac finally took in the destruction around them, the bodies littering the beach, the pale moon shining morbidly down upon them. Ghostly. Deathly. Eerie. No signs of life other than Balthazar and Issac.

  Astasiya remained unmoving beside him, her eyes closed, her body unhealed.

  She’s not coming back.

  Was Aidan with her in the afterlife?

  Did it truly exist?

  Issac wanted to believe, to picture her in a happier place, surrounded by light and love. Would he ever find her again?

  A buzzing in his pocket distracted his dazed thoughts, the vibrations unpleasant. “Do Tristan and Mateo know?” he asked as he took out the phone to glance at the unknown number.

  “They’re with Amelia.”

  Issac nodded. That was exactly where they should be.

  He glanced at the local time, translating it to the current time in New York. Not a typical business hour for work to be calling. Especially, on a holiday. He was also on a three-month sabbatical from his job as CEO of Wakefield Pharmaceuticals, meaning they shouldn’t be bothering him at all.

  The phone stopped and immediately restarted.

  His heart skipped a beat, understanding dawning.

  This could only be one person.

  He stood and brushed the sand from his trousers when the vibrating ceased again. The bastard would call again. He wouldn’t be able to help himself.

  Balthazar joined him, standing, arms folded across his chest, one eyebrow arched. He also clearly knew who was trying to reach Issac.

  Only Jonathan would be this brave and stupid.

  The device buzzed.

  “Jonathan.” The name burned Issac’s tongue, sending white-hot rage to every nerve.

  “Good evening, Issac,” the bastard replied, sounding as formal as ever. “Or perhaps early morning is better for your time zone? It’s well after midnight there, yes?”

  So flippant.

  So carefree.

  As if Issac’s world hadn’t just crumpled down around him. As if Astasiya wasn’t lying dead at his feet.

  And the insolent ass decided to call him, to open the line with some idle chitchat.

  “I hope you’re hiding, Jonathan. Because you just incited a war that your little army cannot protect you from.”

  Jonathan chuckled, the sound grating on every nerve. “I take it my wedding gift arrived, then?”

  Issac’s blood ran hot and cold. The asshole thought this was all a game, considered it to be one big fucking joke. “Aidan is dead,” he growled. At your hand. Because you sent Sentinels here to destroy. And I will make you pay if it’s the last thing I ever do.

  “That’s a shame,” Jonathan replied, sounding not at all disappointed. “He lived such a long time, too.”

  “No regard for how he saved your sorry excuse of an existence?” Issac asked, disgusted. “You would have died without him.”

  Jonathan snorted. “I’m a survivor, Issac. I always have been, always will be. That’s the difference between us—you rely on others; I rely on myself.”

  “That’s not the only difference.” Issac had family, he cherished others, and he lived. Jonathan just wanted power, something Issac never required because he already possessed it in spades.

  And Jonathan had harmed that which he held dear—his love.

  Astasiya.

  Aidan.

  “Gloat while you can,” Issac told him softly. “Because it’ll be short-lived.” Killing Aya was the worst move Jonathan could have made. Now there were no distractions, no wondering about the future, allowing Issac to focus on the single task of demolishing Jonathan. “You chose the wrong enemy, old friend.”

  His nemesis laughed. “Hardly. I’m looking forward to our game of chess, Issac. It’ll be entertaining having a worthy opponent on the board.”

  “You know what will be entertaining? Me finding you, Jonathan. Because your death will be slow, thorough, and so excruciating that you will beg me to stop, but I won’t. You will feel pain unlike anything
you’ve ever experienced, and I will enjoy every fucking minute. So I advise you to hide, Jonathan. Hide well.”

  “Hmm, so much emotion,” he replied. “That’ll be your downfall.”

  Wrong. “It’s my strength and it will be what destroys you.”

  “We’ll see about that, then, shall we?” he mused. “Oh, before I go, could you do me a favor and pass my regards on to my son? I hear he’s quite well and enjoying life, with your sister, if I’m not mistaken. Clever ruse, that. Inform him I’m proud that he finally managed to pull one over on me, if you please.”

  Issac met Balthazar’s gaze.

  Osiris knew Tom was alive, yet he knew nothing about Amelia. Meaning he could have given Jonathan some of the pertinent details, but not all of them. Such as the wedding date and Amelia being alive.

  We have a traitor in our midst, Issac thought.

  The mind reader responded with a curt nod, his expression darkening.

  “I’ll be sure to let Thomas know,” Issac replied to Jonathan, referring to his request.

  “Excellent. Well, I believe that’s my cue to drop. Do enjoy your evening, Issac. I see a bonfire in your future.”

  The line went dead, sending a tremor down Issac’s arm. He threw the phone into the crashing waves in a fit of rage, his growl vibrating his insides. “He will pay for this.”

  “He will,” Balthazar agreed. “But first, we need to honor the dead.”

  Issac’s heart fell, his gaze finding Astasiya a few feet away. Gorgeous, even in death. “Yes,” he whispered, his soul fracturing all over again. He couldn’t face Jonathan like this, his mind unable to properly form a plan beyond the grief.

  And Aidan.

  Jonathan had taken so much. So very, very much. He didn’t even know about Astasiya, didn’t know just how horribly wrong his plan had gone. Because now Issac had nothing and no one to hold him back. Amelia would understand. Balthazar and Lucian, too.

  There was nothing stopping Issac from ripping Jonathan apart. Burning him from the inside out. Destroying everything he’d ever built and forcing the bastard to watch it all crumble to the ground.

  Vengeance was a powerful tool, and Issac’s was fueled by love.

  Jonathan didn’t stand a chance.

  He would die.

  And soon.

  19

  Amelia

  “The Earl of Sanford passed today. He will be the first of many, and while I mourned his loss, it will be nothing compared to those closer to me. Aidan says there is no preparation, that we live to endure. Such morbidity in the immortal life. It sometimes makes me wonder if I made the right choice.”

  —Issac Wakefield

  Vita mutatur, non tollitur

  Wakefield Estate.

  Still vast, secluded, and gorgeous as ever.

  North West England would always be home, these grounds Amelia’s ideal safe haven. There were many memories here. Balls, societal events, stolen kisses with Eli. She smiled at the familiar gardens, all dusted in a light January snow, the fountain flowing because of the heated water beneath.

  I’ve missed all this, she thought, squeezing Tom’s hand as he strolled along beside her with that permanent air of vigilance about him.

  “This is where you grew up?” he asked. It was more of a rhetorical statement than a question, as he already knew the answer, but she confirmed with a nod anyway.

  “I’ve not been back for quite some time. Issac mostly maintains the estate, even had it all renovated again about a decade ago. It requires constant upkeep considering the age.”

  “Why don’t you visit more often? Aside from your recent stay with the CRF, I mean.”

  She snorted. Stay was such a humane term. Jonathan had kept her prisoner, let his lead researcher torture her for years on end. Imprisonment was a much better word for it. Not that she bothered to correct him. Tom didn’t want to upset her, and she adored him for it.

  “Eli preferred Hydria,” she murmured, replying to his inquiry.

  Tom pulled her closer, wrapping his arm around her waist as they ventured toward the four-story manor before them. Wakefield Hall, a gorgeous home boasting a massive ballroom, three kitchens, several lounging areas, and more bedrooms than she or Issac could ever fill. But the estate had belonged to their family since the fifteenth century, and it meant too much to them to sell.

  “And what about you? What do you prefer?”

  “I miss it here,” she admitted, gazing at the surrounding trees and vast landscapes. “I wouldn’t mind visiting more. Especially now…” Her lips twisted, her heart aching at the reminder of why they were all here.

  To bury my father.

  She tripped over her feet, landing against Tom’s solid chest as he immediately wrapped her in his arms.

  When would it stop?

  When would the pain end?

  All she’d done for the better part of three days was cry.

  And Tom, as strong as ever, lent her his comfort and love, holding her as her shoulders trembled, her heart shattering all over again.

  She’d just been reunited with her father after what felt like a century apart. In reality, it wasn’t even a decade. Torture could make even the shortest of seconds resemble hours or days.

  “Talking helps,” her father had murmured only weeks ago. “And I’ve always been a good listener.”

  “Yes.” She’d smiled sadly. “But discussing what happened—what he did—makes me feel weak as well.”

  “Because of the emotions the memories evoke.”

  She nodded, biting her lip.

  “Well, in my experience, emotions are what strengthen us as well. They might hurt at first, but you can use the knowledge and experience tied to those sensations. Harness them, sharpen the tools, and create stronger building blocks to stand on. You’re one of the strongest women I know, Amelia. And while I wouldn’t wish your circumstances on anyone, I also recognize that they’ve crafted the brilliant woman before me. We are not what others make us, but what we make ourselves.”

  Amelia blinked back tears, his voice so strong and alive in her head. He never pressed her for details on what happened at the CRF, never tried to psychoanalyze her, either. He was just her dad. Her mentor. Her forever instructor.

  Except it wasn’t forever anymore.

  “That’s not true, love. Your mum will always be with you. She’s here, right now, in your thoughts, your heart, even in your actions. Our loved ones never really leave. They are part of us forever, just as I will one day be part of you and your memories, when my time comes.”

  Amelia had frowned. “Your time? You’re immortal.”

  “Yes, but that only means I’ve enjoyed an extended life. Even immortals can die, darling.”

  His words the day of her mother’s funeral whispered through her mind, foreshadowing today and his own burial.

  “He always wanted to be buried beside Mum,” she whispered, something Tom already knew, something she’d said probably ten times now.

  “And he will be,” he replied, his palm rubbing her back.

  She nodded. They were preparing the service now. It would be small. Personal. Heartbreaking.

  Stas would be buried today as well, in the same private cemetery as the rest of Amelia’s family. Issac hadn’t asked for permission, not that he’d needed to. She would have agreed anyway. Stas was family. Plain and simple. Amelia just wished Issac would pause for a moment to grieve rather than throw himself into the funeral arrangements. It was as if he wanted them done so he could move on to something, and Amelia suspected that something to be revenge.

  She understood that plight.

  Jonathan will die.

  Her fists clenched at the thought of him, her need to kill the bastard suffocating her sadness, drowning her in a murderous rage.

  First, he took Eli from her. Then he stole years of her life that she would never get back, torturing her for research and personal enjoyment. And now Aidan. Stas. Her fellow Hydraians. Anya.

  He ha
d more than earned his punishment.

  And she wanted to deliver it. Amelia wanted to gouge his eyes out, take samples of his ribs, carve her bloody name into his chest. And stare at him without remorse while he writhed in pain. Maybe even laugh the way he did all those times in her cell.

  I’d put him in a cement cage.

  Douse him in bleach.

  Leave him in a filthy shirt.

  Shoot him full of various drugs just to watch his heart react on a monitor.

  Cut off his hand to see how long it took to regenerate.

  Beat the living hell out of him due to boredom.

  Turnabout is fair play, after all.

  “John?” Tom asked, leaning back to cock a brow at her. He no longer referred to the Ichorian as his father, always John.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice low, growly. “It’s like I can’t breathe when I think of him. All I want, no, what I need is for him to die. Horribly. Slowly. I need to make him suffer. To find a way to take out his heart and burn it without killing him, because it’d be too easy. Pain, Tom. I want to give him pain.” So much pain. So much horror. So much blood. She thirsted for it, her heart racing with the thought of Jonathan spread out in agony.

  “I’ll help you,” Tom murmured. “I’ll help you find him and kill him.”

  She studied his sharp features, the chiseled shape of his jaw, his striking brown eyes, and long blond lashes. “Will that be hard for you? To hurt your own father?”

  A sadness filled his expression, one he couldn’t hide from her, not that he tried. Honesty was their foundation, a deep-seated vow between them that neither would ever break. “I don’t know. He’s done such horrible things, but he also created me.”

  And for that, Amelia was grateful. A part of her would always love Eli, her first partner in life, but her heart and soul belonged to Tom. He completed her in a way no one else ever would, understood her on a level very few had ever reached, and strengthened her beyond comprehension.

  “He deserves to die,” Tom added. “I want him to die.”

  “But torturing him?” she prompted.

  “Might be outside my realm of abilities,” he admitted softly. “However, I understand why you want him to suffer, and I’ll help you seek retribution.” He brushed his lips over hers, sealing the promise.