Angel Bonds

by Lexi C. Foss

  Oh, fuck.

  I died.

  Well and truly died.

  Because her old friend was murdered months ago. Tragically. Burned alive and decapitated. But he stood before her now, looking refreshed and new in a pair of jeans and a flowery button-down.

  Island attire.

  She nearly snorted. Owen Angelton did not dress in island attire. The man adored his finer suits, designer jeans, tailored shirts. Not flowers and baggy pants.

  So maybe she was in hell.

  That would make more sense considering her lineage, right? Except, she never did anything to warrant her stay here.

  “Stas,” Stark said again, this time with more force, his arms folded. “Do you know who I am?”

  She stared at him. Of course she knew him. “Stark.”

  “That’s a nickname crafted by Ezekiel. What’s my real name?”

  Gabriel.

  Wasn’t that the name of the mysterious benefactor who funded Owen’s bar?

  But Stark worked for the CRF. Yet, he was her brother?

  “I don’t understand,” she admitted, her words hurting her throat. Too much screaming. Shouldn’t she feel less pain in the afterlife?

  “Drink,” Owen encouraged, handing her the glass. Well, it looked like water.

  Isn’t there some sort of rule about drinking in Heaven? Something about ambrosia? Stories about people giving in to temptation and dying?

  She shook her head, ignoring all the gibberish in her thoughts. What did it matter? She’d already experienced hell in that coffin.

  Issac’s face graced her thoughts, his anguished expression as he stared down at her from above. Had he exhumed her?

  Wait…

  Something nagged at her, something important.

  She sipped the water while she considered it, chasing the memory. It eluded her, hiding in the recesses of her mind, refusing her access.

  “Who am I?” Stark repeated, drawing her attention back to him. Unlike Owen, he sported black pants and a tailored shirt. That was Owen’s preferred attire. Why had they swapped places?

  “Am I in hell?” she wondered out loud, curious as to whether either of them could tell her.

  Owen chuckled. “Depends on your definition, Sassy.” The old nickname warmed her heart. She hadn’t heard it in far too long.

  “Not helping,” Stark muttered.

  Owen arched an ebony brow. “What? I’ve been trapped here waiting for this moment for how long now? Can’t call anyone. Can’t visit. Everyone thinks I’m dead. Yeah, I’d say it’s a lot like hell.”

  Stark actually appeared uncomfortable, dragging his fingers through his short blond hair and palming the back of his neck. “It was the only way.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Owen shoved his hands into his pockets and refocused on Stas. “You know, I expected some sort of reaction, Sassy. Either a hug or a slap across the face. Maybe even a punch. Not this boring shit. What the fuck has Wakefield done to you in my absence? You used to be so much feistier.”

  She finished her water and set it on the glass shelf beside her. This entire house, condo, whatever, was decked out in elegant furnishings. And appeared to be surrounded by the beach. Even the air here tasted expensive.

  “Seriously, where am I?”

  “My home,” Stark replied. “My real one.”

  “Somewhere in the South Pacific,” Owen added. “Don’t ask me where because it doesn’t exist on a map. Seraphim are fun like that.”

  This time Stark snorted. “Fun is not a descriptor I would use.”

  “You’re right. Dull as fuck is more accurate.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “Because you’re too literal to work in metaphors, baby.”

  “Also doesn’t make sense,” Stark muttered. “And you wonder why I hardly visit.”

  Owen scoffed at that. “You visit plenty, trust me.”

  “You’re derailing—”

  “Gabriel!” The feminine voice came from elsewhere in the house. Loud. Demanding. Angry. “Where are you?” A gorgeous blonde woman stepped into the room, her hair flowing to her lower back.

  Stas’s lips parted. I’ve seen her. The Seraphim at the reception on the beach, shrouded in purple feathers. “You saved Balthazar.”

  A pair of light eyes blinked at her. “What? Oh, yes. I did. We’ll discuss it properly after I finish admonishing your brother.” She narrowed her gaze at Stark. “Right now, Gabriel.”

  “Dude, she full-named you,” Owen said, tsking. “I wouldn’t ignore her.”

  Stark glanced at him. “Thank you for the helpful advice, jackass.”

  Owen grinned. “There you go, Starky boy. About time you showed some frustration.”

  “Giving you a long-overdue nickname is not a sign of emotion,” Stark replied. “And, Leela, I’m busy.”

  “Doing what? Bickering with Owen in front of a clearly bewildered Stas?” Leela folded her arms. “This all could have been avoided had you stayed at the estate rather than taken flight without a word. Issac is beside himself thinking she hates him, and—”

  “Issac?” Stas interjected, her heart giving a pang. “What did you say about Issac?”

  Leela sighed. “He thinks you hate him because he buried you alive. Or maybe he hates himself. Regardless, it could all—”

  “He buried me alive?” Stas repeated, the words striking home. Memories assaulted her, hours upon hours, days upon days, of not being able to breathe. The necklace not working. Her nails breaking as she tried desperately to free herself. “He buried me alive.”

  His distraught expression flashed behind her eyes again. A brief glimpse of pain in the moonlight above her grave. As she came back to life to finally find air.

  And I screamed.

  She glanced around again, her heart beating faster in her chest.

  The conversation she barely overheard, something about her memories.

  Stark being Gabriel—her brother.

  This Seraphim, Leela, saving Balthazar.

  Owen… “You’re alive?” she whispered, meeting his chocolate gaze. “You’ve been here the whole time?”

  “There she is,” he murmured, a hint of sadness in his voice. “I’m sorry, Sassy. When you invited me to the graduation dinner, I couldn’t say no. Stark did the only thing he could. He faked my death to satisfy Jonathan, then hid me here. Taking me to Hydria would have raised too many questions, and you weren’t ready yet.”

  “You’re alive?” she said again, her voice coming out on a squeak. A flurry of sensation overcame her, hot, cold, her hands fisting at her sides, her heart beating a mile a minute in her chest.

  Owen isn’t dead.

  She spent all those months trying to figure out what happened to him, blaming herself for his murder, mourning him.

  “I grieved you,” she breathed, her throat thick with too many statements that all required a voice at once. She choked on them, her limbs shaking from the onslaught. So much to say. So many accusations. Hurt words. All coated in unmistakable happiness. He’s not dead.

  “Just as Lizzie grieved Tom,” Owen replied. “Yes, I know.”

  Her lips parted. This was what Lizzie went through when she thought Tom was dead. Except that was probably worse because of the romantic feelings. No wonder she was so furious. Betrayal hummed at the surface of Stas’s thoughts, her heart cracking and mending repeatedly.

  Owen lied to me.

  He’s alive.

  He tricked me.

  But he’s here and he’s okay.

  Her friend—former friend?—smiled sadly. “I’ve missed you, Sassy. More than you’ll ever know.”

  “I thought you were dead,” she spit out. “I thought the CRF killed you because of me!” Okay, so fury was winning.

  His brow furrowed. “Why the fuck would you think that?”

  “Because of the CRF files. They said you needed to be removed because of your ties to me, something about getting too close to the asset.” She couldn’t
remember the exact wording. It’d been months since Mateo hacked into the CRF database. But one thing was certain. “You were marked for execution because of our friendship. So yeah, I blamed myself.” And fuck, he was never even dead.

  She took a step, then moved backward again, uncertain of where to even go. But she needed a minute. Something. To cool off. To not punch her formerly dead friend in the fucking face.

  “And you,” she growled, turning on Stark. “You’re my fucking brother? Don’t you think you could have mentioned that at, I don’t know, some point during the last two decades of my life?” Oh, but no. He had her memories erased. Memories that were now intact, including the day he asked an angel—Vera—to wipe her mind clean. Then left her on the Davenports’ doorstep.

  The laugh that escaped her throat sounded broken to her ears. Wrong. As if she’d forgotten to breathe. Which, hell, maybe she had. She’d been locked in a goddamn coffin for fuck knew how long.

  By her boyfriend.

  Who thought she was dead because she’d been shot several times by Sentinels.

  “Why am I not dead?” she demanded, recalling the bullets that pierced her skin, licking a fiery path through her insides. “Why aren’t you dead?” she asked Leela. “I saw you. They shot you at least half a dozen times.”

  “Seraphim can’t die.” Her voice was soft, her expression even softer. “Our lives reside in our souls. These bodies are just vessels, skin we take on in the corporeal form. But obviously our bodies can die, as you’ve noticed, and the harsher the death, the longer it takes to regenerate.”

  “A beheading can take up to a month to recover from, depending on age,” Stark added. “Just as an example.”

  “Blood regeneration takes a few days.” Leela shrugged. “Suffocation is, well, shorter.”

  “No shit,” Stas deadpanned. “How long was I underground?”

  “A few days,” Stark replied, a hint of shame crossing his features. “I didn’t know he buried you until a few hours ago. You telegraphed to me in a dream.”

  “I what?”

  “It’s part of the familial bond. You can convey messages while in certain states.”

  “Or all the time when blood-bonded.” Leela gave Stark a look. “Which they’re not, by the way, because he thinks he can’t bite her.”

  “A topic for another day.”

  “See, now, that’s where you’re wrong. I came back here to tell you that Ezekiel is currently explaining everything to the Elders.”

  “Fuck.” Stark ran his fingers through his hair again and blew out a breath. “I knew he would break.”

  “They’re his friends, Gabe. And they deserve to know the truth.” Her attention shifted to Stas. “Everyone does.”

  “The truth about what?” Stas asked. “What more is there to know?” Except, as she considered everything from the last few minutes, she realized she still knew nothing.

  Seraphim can’t die.

  And I didn’t die.

  Did that mean…? “I’m a Seraphim.” She blinked. This was all too much. None of it made any sense. Gabriel being her brother, Owen standing before her, Stas coming back to life over and over again.

  Because I couldn’t die.

  She swallowed, the world dancing around her to a beat her mind refused to comprehend.

  “I need Issac,” she breathed. “I need… I need him.”

  Her knees wobbled, the wall at her back shaking. This reality she’d stumbled into made no sense. It had to be a dimension of hell. An alternate universe. Something. This couldn’t be her life.

  “Where’s Issac?” she whispered, darkness creeping in around her. “I… I need…” Her legs gave out beneath her, strong arms catching her as she fell, a litany of curse words following. But the touch felt wrong. Foreign. Not the one she craved.

  Where am I?

  What am I doing here?

  Who am I?

  Her mind shut down.

  Darkness ensued.

  Sending her back to the hell she’d just escaped from. Except this time, her mom wasn’t there waiting for her. Just a vat of nothingness. An empty hole created for Stas. Where she curled into the fetal position and cried.

  23

  Issac

  “Living forever showcases everything in a new light. It’s the shadows—the memories of those passed—that I feel the most. Most other things are trivial, disappearing in a blink of time, never to be thought of again.”

  —Issac Wakefield

  Vita mutatur, non tollitur

  “Say that again,” Jayson demanded.

  Ezekiel sighed, his jean-clad legs sprawled on the recliner chair, his trademark leather jacket unzipped at the top. The picture of ease despite the horde of angry immortals surrounding him. “This is going to be a very long day if you make me repeat everything, Jay.”

  “Then fucking explain it better,” Alik suggested, his shoulder propped up against the wall as he twirled a blade between his fingers.

  All the Elders, Thomas, and Issac’s progeny had returned to Balthazar’s house to settle in the suddenly too-small living area with Ezekiel. Issac stood in the corner, silent. Astasiya’s scream played over and over in his head, making it impossible for him to focus.

  She’s alive.

  Those two words warmed his heart while his mind berated him for his actions. Had she been awake while he lay across her grave, talking to her? Surely he would have heard her.

  God, to suffocate over and over… Astasiya must hate him.

  “Anything?” he asked, his question for Mateo beside him.

  His progeny shook his head. “It’s still spinning.”

  Upon returning, Issac demanded Mateo check the GPS in her necklace. She’d activated it four days ago, according to his records, but he’d turned off the tracker and alarm mechanisms after her funeral because there hadn’t been a point to monitor her location.

  Astasiya reached out for help.

  And Issac had ignored her.

  Another reason for her to hate him.

  “What do you mean, Owen’s not dead?” The hint of fury in Lucian’s voice reverberated through the room. “And he was working for you and Stark by doing what, exactly?”

  “Seriously, more repetition?” Ezekiel countered, shaking his head. “He was helping us guard Stas, hence the reason he befriended her at Columbia. And yes, he’s very much alive.”

  The words rolled through Issac’s thoughts, an image of the day he met Astasiya flashing behind his eyes.

  A charred body on a chair.

  Decapitated.

  Unrecognizable.

  Very, very dead.

  But Issac had noted that day how the misshapen head no longer resembled the immortal he once knew. He assumed it was a result of the significant torture. Yet hearing Ezekiel’s words brought up an entirely new possibility.

  Gabriel staged the scene of grotesque remains that made it impossible to identify Owen.

  Was he the one who texted Astasiya that morning? To enable her to find the body? The study date was prearranged, but the message was sent after the proposed time of death.

  Or had it all been a setup?

  No. That couldn’t be it. Gabriel had no way of knowing Lucian would send Issac to investigate the crime site.

  But someone had texted Astasiya—

  “I don’t believe you.” Jayson folded his arms, his legs braced for a fight. “Just recently you expressed sorrow over his loss, saying he served a greater purpose or some shit, and that you missed him. Now you’re saying he’s alive?”

  “Note that I never said he was dead, just that I felt sorrow over what happened to him.” Ezekiel raked his fingers through his long hair, blowing out a breath. “Look, after Jonathan gave Stark the directive to kill Owen, he had no choice but to stage the young immortal’s murder. Because, as I keep saying, Stark never truly worked for Jonathan. He’s always worked for himself, primarily to keep his sister safe.”

  “Is that why he sent her the message from Owe
n’s phone?” Issac asked, interrupting the conversation. “To ensure she showed up that morning? Was he planning to meet her at the apartment?”

  Ezekiel smiled. “See, Wakefield is thinking outside the box. Well done.”

  “He wasn’t there that morning.” Only the two Conclave lapdogs were in the apartment. And then Astasiya.

  “That you saw,” Ezekiel corrected. “Stas ran into you first. He decided not to intervene.”

  “A risk,” Issac pointed out. The Blood Laws required Ichorians to kill fledglings on sight, and Astasiya’s immunity to his gift certainly classified her as distinctly other that day. Fortunately, Issac didn’t much care for the archaic edicts ruling his kind.

  “Yes, it was a situation we monitored carefully, I assure you.”

  Issac didn’t like the sound of that. Gabriel being a Seraphim meant he could mist about without noise or an alert to his presence. How much had he witnessed? What private moments had he spoiled?

  “Let’s say I believe all this for a moment,” Jayson said, his tone indicating incredulity. “If he didn’t assassinate Owen, then who did he kill?”

  “It was a body from the morgue.” Ezekiel waved it off with his hand, suggesting the detail was unimportant. “Stark takes issues with harming innocents.”

  Thomas snorted. “You clearly don’t know him as well as I do.”

  “On the contrary, young Fitzgerald, I know him far better than you do.” Ezekiel cocked his head to the side. “Who do you think backed up your idea to take Amelia off-site last summer? Why do you think he did that?” He glanced at Jayson. “And do you honestly think he couldn’t see you in the kitchen at Red’s during that dinner? The one where he purposely left you the vial of her serum on the counter?” He tsked. “Really, while he’s an ass for not bringing you all in the loop sooner, he’s been helping you in every way he can.” His attention shifted back to Issac. “And you have no idea what he’s gone through to protect Astasiya. What we’ve all gone through.”

  “Because you’ve kept us in the dark,” Jayson growled. “All of this could have been avoided had you stopped playing games and just been straightforward from the beginning.”