Angel Bonds

by Lexi C. Foss

  “The best plans take time,” Lucian continued. “We will destroy him, Alik.”

  Issac agreed. As much as he longed to expedite the process, he understood the value in strategy. It was what Aidan would have recommended. And the best way to honor his Sire’s memory was to listen to reason.

  We need to lure him out of the city, Aidan would say. To avoid conflict with the Conclave.

  Lucian had, of course, already suggested it, in addition to several ideas on how to coax Jonathan out of hiding. Most of the suggestions included Thomas. Jonathan’s ego wouldn’t be able to handle a missed opportunity to fuck with his son, something they all agreed upon.

  Issac sipped his coffee. For all his faults, Balthazar certainly stocked his kitchen well. This aromatic blend tasted divine. Or perhaps it was the early hour improving the quality.

  “Divine,” Balthazar murmured, his dimples flashing. “Speaking of, I’ll make pancakes.”

  Lucian snorted. “Inferior breakfast food.”

  “If you two start bickering, I’m out,” Alik said, standing. “You all might not—”

  A hum of energy caused the hairs along Issac’s arms to dance.

  What is that?

  Lucian stood, Alik moving to his side protectively, gazes dancing about the room.

  Everyone felt it, but the source remained unknown.

  Had Jonathan sent another troop to—

  Stark materialized in the center of the room, flanked by Ezekiel and a female with striking features.

  Issac set his mug down as Alik withdrew a blade.

  Ezekiel gave the latter a pleading look. “We’re not here to cause issues.”

  “Yeah, I believe that,” Alik drawled. “How about you, B?”

  “Can’t read ’em.” Balthazar frowned at the trio. “I can’t even sense them.”

  “But you heard us announce our arrival,” Ezekiel said. “Something Stark and Leela didn’t need to do.”

  The renowned assassin was notoriously cocky, yet always strategic. If he wanted to kill someone in the room, he wouldn’t announce his presence first.

  Balthazar and Lucian must have come to the same conclusions because they relaxed, but Alik remained alert.

  Jayson and Jacque appeared, both holding weapons aimed at the ground, their gazes on the trio.

  “Speak quickly,” Issac suggested. “We’re all a little on edge after last week.” And there were no doubt several Guardians on their way. Alik being a telepath made him a great broadcaster for alerts, which Jayson had clearly received, hence his presence in the room with Jacque.

  “We need—”

  “Where is she?” Stark demanded, cutting off Ezekiel.

  The assassin sighed. “Excuse his bedside manners. Despite my decades of work, he’s still learning.”

  “Where is she?” Stark repeated, his focus on Issac and no one else.

  He arched a brow. “Who?”

  “Stas.” The name from his mouth had Issac’s fists clenching at his sides.

  “I’m only going to say this once, Agent Stark. Fuck. Off.”

  Ezekiel rubbed his hand over his face. “See, this is why I suggested talking to them six months ago.”

  “Man has a point,” the female replied, her voice as sultry as her appearance.

  Balthazar cocked his head to the side, his brow furrowing. “Have we met?”

  “I don’t have time for this.” Stark took a step forward, encroaching on Issac’s space. “Where did you bury her?”

  Issac’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Why the fuck would I tell you that?” And how did he know about Astasiya’s death? None of the Sentinels were alive enough to report back to Jonathan regarding casualties, and Issac sure as shit didn’t inform him.

  “Because she’s giving me a goddamn headache. I already have one woman screaming in my head all the time. Now I have two. The first, I can’t fix yet. The second one is on you.”

  “Yeah, I owe you fuck all.”

  Ezekiel chuckled. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  “Where is Stas?” Stark repeated, his eerie green eyes flickering with inhuman power.

  This man worked for Jonathan. Issac would sooner kill him than give him information about Astasiya. So he merely stared at him in response.

  The female shook her head and laid a hand on Stark’s shoulder. “Just tell him, Gabe.”

  Gabe?

  Issac shared a look with Lucian.

  As in, Gabriel?

  He glanced at Balthazar as well, but the mind reader’s focus was on the woman, his eyes narrowed with incredulity. Because of the name she used?

  “I don’t owe him or anyone an explanation,” Stark growled, showing an uncharacteristic display of emotion. “Except for maybe Stas.”

  Stark is Gabe…

  “Maybe?” Ezekiel repeated with a snort. “Try definitely. And a few apologies as well, I believe.”

  Thomas entered the house, a gun in one hand, with Amelia directly behind him. Her gaze went to Gabriel. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I’m trying to find out where your brother buried Stas,” he replied, glancing at her. “But he’s being stubborn.”

  “What do you plan to do with the information?” Lucian asked.

  “Dig up her grave and set her free. Otherwise, she’ll just continue to cry in my head.” Gabriel pinned Issac with a look. “Considering you’re nearly bonded to her, I’m surprised you can’t sense her.”

  His brow furrowed. “What?”

  “He doesn’t understand bonds,” Ezekiel replied shortly. “As I’ve mentioned several times over, they’re all ignorant when it comes to Seraphim. If you would just take five minutes to explain, perhaps they would be more willing to assist.”

  “Stas is a Seraphim.” Lucian again. “And you’re suggesting she’s alive.”

  “I don’t deal in suggestions, only facts,” Stark clarified. “Now, where is she?”

  Issac’s heart skipped a beat.

  This had to be a trick.

  Some cruel game created by Jonathan.

  But how does he know about Aya? The same way he knew about the wedding?

  “Can’t you feel her?” Gabriel pressed, his voice dropping. “She’s suffocating over and over because you buried her alive. Every three minutes, she dies. And comes back. She’s trying to dig her way out.”

  A vision hit Issac square in the chest, knocking the breath from his lungs.

  Astasiya’s eyes begging him to save her.

  The inability to breathe.

  Counting the seconds…

  “How do you know all this?” Issac asked, his throat rough with emotion. “How do you even know we buried her?”

  “Because she’s my sister,” he replied.

  Silence fell over the room as everyone froze.

  Issac forgot how to blink.

  Astasiya has a brother?

  “You’re Gabriel,” Lucian marveled, standing.

  “I am,” he replied without looking away from Issac. “And I need you to take me to my sister. Now.”

  “She’s alive, Issac,” Ezekiel added quietly. “I vow it.”

  A promise from an assassin. Issac would be insane to believe it.

  But Gabriel’s description of the nightmares, he could hardly ignore.

  “Incendiary bullets can’t kill a Seraphim. They just knock you out for a few days while the blood regenerates.” The female beside Stark glanced at Balthazar while she spoke, then dropped her gaze. “It hurts, a lot, but we recover.”

  “I swear we’ve met,” Balthazar said, his attention solely on the blonde woman. “What was your name, again?”

  “Leela,” Gabriel answered for her. “We’re wasting time. Every moment we stand here debating the veracity of my claims is another moment of agony for Stas. What she’s shown you in visions and dreams is nothing compared to the experience of suffocating endlessly. She’s in hell, Issac. Help me help her.”

  This is a game of some sort.r />
  What if it’s not?

  Fuck, what if he really had buried Astasiya alive?

  There was no option here. Yes, it could all be a clever ruse by Jonathan to capture Issac. But he didn’t care. If Astasiya’s alive… “Wakefield Estate, just outside of Chester,” he whispered. “In the family cemetery.”

  Gabriel held out his hand. “Let’s go.”

  Issac accepted the gesture on instinct alone, all rational thought fleeing on a hope he shouldn’t dare tolerate.

  But she might be alive.

  His Aya.

  Tristan opened the door just as everything around Issac spun, the world slipping into reddish hues. Soft fluttering filled his ears, just the barest hint of rustling. Or “misting,” as Astasiya once called it. Similar to Jacque’s teleportation, but without the tunnel atmosphere. This felt lighter, like flying, and held a softer touch.

  Gabriel Stark really is a Seraphim.

  Cool grass touched Issac’s feet. Familiar. Home.

  “Where?” Stark asked, releasing Issac’s hand.

  He couldn’t reply, his vocal cords too strangled to form sound.

  No one had jumped him when they arrived.

  Only his estate.

  Hope blossomed into devastation as reality crushed his soul.

  I buried her alive.

  And she’d tried to reach out to him, somehow, but he’d ignored her.

  “Oh, Aya…,” he whispered, his feet already moving, carrying him down the path as he sprinted toward the cemetery.

  Jacque appeared with Lucian and Balthazar in front of the tombstones, then vanished.

  Leela and Ezekiel were there, too.

  Tristan.

  Amelia.

  Thomas.

  Issac ignored them all, his gaze searching for a shovel. Anything. Something to dig her up.

  Someone gave him one.

  Several others began to dig.

  Time moved too slowly.

  His heart beat in his ears.

  Aya.

  They needed to move faster. Oh God, she was under so much earth. Suffocating. Dying over and over again because he buried her. What the fuck had he been thinking?

  She was dead.

  But she’s not!

  He should have known. Some part of him should have known.

  I failed her.

  The three words reverberated in his skull, solidifying in his heart, his palms clammy against the handle. She’d never forgive him for this. She shouldn’t forgive him for this.

  I buried the love of my life.

  Alive.

  She was never really dead.

  But how could he have known?

  It didn’t matter. His soul knew. Some part of him, the part that allowed him to dream, knew. And he ignored the instincts. He ignored her.

  His shovel hit her casket, the seconds stretching on like hours. He couldn’t get to her fast enough, to save her…

  The lid creaked as he yanked it open, the evidence of her escape attempt embedded in the wood. A nightmarish image of blood and nails that he would never forget, forever ingrained in his heart.

  “Aya.” It came out as a choked sound, barely audible above the pounding in his ears.

  Her lifeless eyes stared up at him, displaying abject horror. Dead. But clearly not the way he’d buried her.

  And then they blinked.

  Her lips parting on a painful gasp that drove the dagger through his chest.

  I did this to her.

  Tears trickled down her face, her breathing coming fast as if addicted to the sensation. And then her lips parted on a scream so anguished it splintered him to his very soul.

  Gabriel appeared beside him, his hand reaching for Astasiya.

  And then they were gone.

  No sound.

  No sensation.

  Just… gone.

  22

  Stas

  Air.

  “Aidan claims the world will always provide new opportunities and knowledge, despite our continued existence. Even the smallest details count in our quest for information, he says. I wonder if that will always be the case or if one day we will reach our maximum allowance for intelligence. That will be a sad day indeed.”

  —Issac Wakefield

  Vita mutatur, non tollitur

  Oh God, air.

  Stas gulped in copious amounts, her chest expanding and deflating rapidly. She couldn’t think or consider anything beyond the sensation, or the sounds leaving her mouth.

  Her world shifted.

  She didn’t care.

  Cool scents of the ocean swam over her.

  She ignored them.

  All that mattered was the oxygen flowing between her parted lips, down her throat, into her lungs. Beautiful, addictive, necessary. Her hands fisted at her sides, her limbs quaking, her body shivering from the onslaught.

  I’m alive.

  I think.

  It doesn’t matter because I can finally fucking breathe.

  A conversation flowed nearby, two recognizable tones from a dream. And a third she never thought to hear again.

  Don’t think. Just breathe.

  Yes.

  Air.

  The delicious, necessary essence of life.

  Her eyes closed as searing light met her irises. Too bright. Too much. It knocked her off-kilter, crashed her into a wave of reality she didn’t understand.

  “…memories, Vera.”

  “You realize it’s not that easy, right?”

  “It’s necessary. She needs to remember me.”

  Someone snorted. A woman? “Erase her mind, Vera. But only certain parts. Oh, now I need you to undo everything you’ve ever done. It’s all just magic, right?”

  “Are you done mocking me?”

  “Never.” A warm palm landed on Stas’s forehead, causing her to jump, but bands of steel held her in place.

  What’s happening?

  “You owe me, Gabe.”

  “I know.”

  “Good.”

  Stas tried to open her eyes, but the blinding lights made it impossible, her eyes too accustomed to the dark to see. And then she fell headfirst into an alternate dimension. A previous life. A memory.

  “I want to see,” Astasiya said, pouting.

  “One day, my love,” her momma replied.

  “In about twenty years,” a deep voice added. It belonged to the angel she couldn’t see because he was misting.

  “You’re mean,” Astasiya muttered. “Hiding all the time.” She folded her arms and harrumphed in dismay.

  “Sethios’s influence is uncanny.” The angel appeared before her, his wings invisible. ’Cause she shouldn’t see them yet. Daddy said she had to grow into her own feathers first.

  “How long before I see them?” she asked, looking at her daddy, who sat beside her, smiling.

  “So eager to grow up,” he murmured, touching a finger to her nose. “And as your brother said, twenty years, give or take. You’re only five.”

  She pinched her lips to the side. “Brother?”

  “Your angel friend,” he replied, gesturing upward with his eyes. “That’s your brother.”

  “Brother?” she whispered, her eyebrows lifting as she followed his gaze. “But he’s not very nice to me.”

  Her daddy chuckled. “That’s because he’s a Seraphim, little angel. He’s afraid of emotion.”

  The angel snorted. “I fear nothing.”

  “See, even now, he pretends to be big and scary,” Daddy murmured. “But he’s full of fluff.”

  “Fluff?” she asked, her eyes widening.

  “Fluff,” Daddy repeated with a decisive nod.

  “Fluff,” she said. “Angel fluff.” Oh, she liked that! Her lips curled as she looked at her angel friend. “Angel fluffy friend.”

  “I prefer ‘Gabriel,’ ” he replied.

  She shook her head. “Nope. Fluffy friend.” Because “brother” was too weird. This guy wasn’t nice enough to be her brother. “Be ni
cer, and maybe I’ll call you ‘brother.’ ”

  His lips twitched. “You can’t choose your siblings. That’s not how it works.”

  “I can too!” she argued. “You’re not my brother. Not yet. Not until you’re nicer.”

  He crouched down before her, his forearms on his knees. “I’m your brother no matter what you say, little angel. Deal with it.”

  “I will not.”

  He made a choked sound and shook his head. “Definitely Sethios’s influence.”

  “Did you just laugh?” her daddy asked, sounding shocked.

  “No,” fluffy friend replied. “I do not laugh.”

  “You definitely just laughed. You almost smiled, too.” Daddy looked to Momma. “Back me up here.”

  “It’s okay to admit you love her, Gabriel,” she said softly. “It’s not a weakness.”

  “Love implies emotion, of which I do not feel.” Fluffy friend stood. “I just came by to let you know nothing has changed. Skye’s latest prophecy suggests we’re on the appropriate track. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

  He vanished.

  Astasiya pinched her lips. “Definitely not my brother. Not a nice man.”

  Stas blinked out of the memory, her palm over her heart, her back against a wall. Everything around her was too bright, too warm, too foreign.

  Salt hung on the breeze, clouding her nostrils, confusing her thoughts.

  Where am I?

  She stumbled sideways, coming up against another wall.

  “Stas,” a familiar voice said.

  His voice.

  Stark.

  No, Gabriel.

  The red feather.

  Her eyes flew open again, the glass windows before her showcasing a beach that led to miles of water. High ceilings hung overhead. A fan. Skylights. An oversized couch with a table in the center of the room.

  What the fuck?

  She gasped in another breath, her chest aching for a myriad of reasons.

  “Here’s a glass of water,” someone murmured.

  The approaching man was not one she ever expected to see again. His face swam beneath a wave of tears, the brown hues a sharp contrast to the white tones surrounding them.

  “Owen?” she whispered, the wall at her back warm against her clammy skin.

  Then the lights registered. Her new surroundings.