Angel Bonds

by Lexi C. Foss

  “The prophecy dictated otherwise,” a female voice chimed in just as Leela appeared in the center of the room. No misting energy preceded her arrival this time. She was just suddenly there. A Seraphim. In Hydria. Again.

  “What prophecy?” Lucian asked, not missing a beat.

  “You’ve not gotten to that part yet?” she asked in lyrical tones, the question clearly for Ezekiel.

  “No.” He actually sounded frustrated. A feat for the assassin, to be sure. “They keep making me repeat everything.”

  “What prophecy?” This time the query came from Balthazar, who had stood as soon as Leela arrived. He’d remained otherwise silent until now. Interesting that she provoked him to speak.

  “An unknown power is surfacing. She will possess the strength and will to destroy us all unless certain measures are put in place to curb her inclinations.” Ezekiel shrugged as if the words meant nothing. “For those wondering, Stas is the unknown power, and the measures mentioned are the primary reason for keeping you all in the dark, as Jayson says.”

  “Astasiya required as human of an upbringing as we could give her, and she had to make her own choices.” Leela’s light gaze found Issac, her expression pained. “Unfortunately, it’s worked too well, as we can’t calm her down. I’ve been sent here by Gabe to fetch you.”

  “Hold on,” Lucian cut in. “This prophecy—where is it from? And what does it mean?”

  Ezekiel smiled. “That requires story time.”

  “Which you’re welcome to begin after I’m gone.” The Seraphim refocused on Issac. “We need your help. She needs your help.” Leela held out a hand. “Please.”

  Tristan stepped between them before Issac could reply. “You’ll take us both.”

  Leela’s resulting laugh lacked humor. “You don’t frighten me, young immortal. Nor do you know a damn thing about what I can do. And while I admire your loyalty, I will not bow to you or anyone else. I’m here to take Issac to Astasiya, something I imagine he wants as well.” She looked over Tristan’s shoulder to arch a blonde brow at Issac.

  It wasn’t even a question.

  If Astasiya needed him, he would go to her.

  Fuck logic. Fuck strategy. Fuck details.

  “Take me to her,” he said, not caring at all about the consequences.

  “Issac, we need more information first.” Caution underlined Lucian’s tone. “We don’t even know where she’s taking you.”

  It didn’t matter. “I’m going,” Issac replied.

  “Think about what you’re doing, what you’re risking.” Tristan turned. “It might be a trap, Sire. Just because Stas is alive doesn’t mean Jonathan isn’t using her for something nefarious. Stark is his number one Sentinel, his right-hand man.”

  “Who has defied him at every turn,” Ezekiel added. “Stark only took the job with the CRF to learn more about Jonathan’s ties to Osiris and to keep an eye on the experiments.”

  “Without proof, those are just words,” Tristan argued, his expression imploring. “Wait until we have more information, Issac. Who knows where she’s taking you, Sire.” He gestured to Mateo. “He can’t even track Stas.”

  After everything they’d learned, everything they’d seen, no. Issac shook his head. “It’s not a trap.” Aidan had suspected Astasiya’s lineage, just as Issac wondered at her birthright. Her blood tasted unlike anything he’d ever experienced, not to mention the lasting properties of keeping him satisfied. And she lived through something that would have killed all other immortals in his existence.

  She’s a Seraphim.

  And she needs me.

  “Take me to her,” he said again, ignoring everyone else and focusing on Leela.

  “Don’t worry, young immortal.” She patted Tristan on the shoulder, causing his progeny to flinch. “I’ll bring your Sire back in one piece. Or maybe Astasiya will.”

  She disappeared before Tristan could react.

  Issac’s lips parted in confusion, only to feel that odd sensation of flying again, just as he had on his way to Wakefield Estate.

  Electricity hummed over his skin.

  An oceanic scent grew stronger, surrounding him, infiltrating his lungs.

  Heat encased him from the lowering sun, his sense of time and space completely thrown off, as if he’d been whirled to the other side of the world. And maybe he had. Day was breaking in Hydria. Here, night peeked at him over the horizon.

  Sand hit his bare feet—he’d never bothered with shoes—and a beach house appeared before him. Quaint, equipped with a wraparound porch, palm trees, and a wide-open door with Owen standing on the threshold.

  Definitely not a trap.

  Leela led the way, her light hair flowing down her back in a cap of curls.

  “If Gabriel is her brother, are you her sister?” he wondered aloud, noting that all three of them were blondes with light eyes.

  She choked on a laugh. “No. Definitely not related to Gabe in any way, shape, or form. I’m from the fertility line. He’s of the warrior line.”

  Right. That makes a whole world of sense.

  “Wakefield,” Owen greeted warily.

  “You and I will be having a serious talk later,” Issac replied. One that may or may not involve introducing his fist to Owen’s face. “Where’s Aya?”

  “In the guest room.” Gabriel appeared, expressionless. “She won’t stop crying.”

  “I imagine she’s rather overwhelmed.” He couldn’t help the sarcasm. The last week had been utter hell. He hadn’t slept. His heart had been broken into a million pieces, most of which refused to mend without his other half. And he’d buried the love of his life alive. By accident. “Where is the guest room?”

  Gabriel turned without a word, stalking through a living room shrouded in glass and skylights. The male clearly enjoyed his beach view.

  The wide hallway beyond it boasted more windows, as well as sliding doors to the outside. A kitchen with stainless steel appliances appeared to the left, opening to a dining area with another exit to the outside.

  This house was bigger than Issac realized.

  Gabriel led him up the stairs, the dim sky filtering in through the glass overhead, casting shadows across the wood banister and furnishings.

  Another corridor, this one lit from above, lined with doors. Gabriel stopped at the second one on his right but didn’t open it.

  “She’s in here,” he said quietly.

  “Is there anything else pertinent that I should know before I talk to her?” Issac asked, his hand on the knob.

  Gabriel sighed, the first signs of emotion creeping into his features. “She’s not a Hydraian.”

  “I’ve gathered that. She’s a Seraphim, like Elizabeth.” Aidan implied the possibility of it during their discussions. Clearly, Astasiya had been genetically altered. By Sethios, perhaps?

  “No, not like Elizabeth at all.” Gabriel leaned against the wall, his arms folded again. “Caro, our mother, is a Seraphim. And Sethios is the son of a Seraphim, making him genetically compatible. From what I can tell, Astasiya is essentially a pureblood. Her wings should bloom any day now.”

  Issac’s heart skipped several beats. “Sethios is the son of a Seraphim?” And Astasiya is considered a pureblood? By birth? Not because of a lab? Of all the scenarios Aidan and Issac had discussed, that was not one of them.

  Just when he thought nothing else could shock him, Gabriel said, “Osiris is the Seraphim of Resurrection.”

  The world stopped.

  Time came to a halt.

  Oxygen disappeared.

  The Seraphim of Resurrection.

  “His bloodline is why Ichorians and Hydraians exist.” Gabriel’s words were a murmur of sound obliterating Issac’s senses. “That’s why he can compel your kind. Astasiya, too. Because she’s a direct descendant of the family hierarchy. The power is in her soul. She, too, could create immortal minions, if she desired it. But she’s also partly descended from a line of healers and guardian messenger angels. Her combina
tion of genetics is, to say the least, powerful. Without proper ties to humanity, she posed a great risk to mortal kind. Hence—”

  “The reason the Davenports raised her,” Issac finished for him on a breath.

  “Yes. Sethios and Caro knew their fates from the beginning. They sacrificed everything to ensure Astasiya became the woman they knew she could be, and she’s finally ready.” Gabriel studied him for a long moment. “She could see my feather, right? With the gift I left?”

  Issac nodded mutely, his mind too busy trying to process everything Gabriel had told him. Ezekiel, too.

  “That’s the final phase, her being able to view the ethereal realm.” Gabriel pushed off the wall, starting down the hall. “Her blood isn’t toxic, by the way. But I wouldn’t bite her again, not until you both understand the bond.”

  “Bond?” Issac repeated, dismayed by the information.

  Her blood isn’t toxic. Because she’s a Seraphim, not a Hydraian.

  Astasiya was never unattainable.

  And this bastard knew that the entire time.

  Gabriel glanced over his shoulder at the top of the staircase. “Blood bond—a promise of eternity. The bond. You initiated it when you bit her. It’s why she could reach you in your dreams. You’re her chosen mate.”

  24

  Stas

  “Aidan believes Seraphim are somehow linked to our existence, that perhaps they were the original immortals, who have since died off from old age. I’m unconvinced on both accounts. Knowing what I do now about Ichorian and Hydraian influence on the history of civilization, I wonder if Seraphim are a myth contrived by ancient beings. Similar to how Lucian and Balthazar influenced Greek and Roman mythology.”

  —Issac Wakefield

  Vita mutatur, non tollitur

  The barrel of the gun glinted in the daylight.

  An eerie acceptance settled over her. She did this for love. For the future. But oh, it burned, the fire spreading through her veins. It sent her to her knees on an agonized scream. This wasn’t part of the plan. She met her attacker’s gaze, confusion radiating through her limbs. But a sadistic mask clouded his features.

  “Incendiary bullets,” Ezekiel explained casually. “Jonathan’s researchers developed them for the Sentinels at the CRF. I don’t think the science is quite right, though, because it’s not meant to be obvious. And, well, this is pretty damn obvious.”

  Movement in the field grabbed her focus, a young angel with long blonde curls floating in the wind. Her little face morphed into one of shock and concern, her feet carrying her forward.

  Is that me? Stas wondered. Why am I dreaming of myself like this?

  Shock rippled through the bond, Sethios the source, followed by agony as he compelled his daughter to run. To hide.

  The little angel’s expression fell, torment twisting her features. But she obeyed because she had no choice. Her father’s will commanded her to do as he urged, the last vestiges of energy channeled into the sole focus of protecting his little girl.

  The image faded into a pair of exquisite light blue eyes, pleading.

  And lips so similar to her own.

  “Find him, Astasiya,” the voice mouthed without sound. “Find your father. Save us all.”

  Stas gasped, sitting straight up in the small bed, her heart pounding a mile a minute. Her clammy palms stuck to the sheets around her, the shirt and pants she wore foreign against her damp skin. The female, whose name Stas couldn’t remember—the one who saved Balthazar—had given her the clothes after a shower.

  A shower in which Stas had spent the majority of the time sobbing on the ground.

  Where am I now?

  Another dimension of hell?

  A hint of sandalwood teased her senses, lulling her into a false sense of comfort. The familiarity of it hurt her heart, stirring an ache deep inside—her soul craving her other half.

  “Issac,” she breathed, her eyelids falling closed on a sigh. Oh, she missed him. It felt as if they’d been apart for—

  “I’m here,” he replied, his voice low.

  Her eyes flew open, her neck twisting toward the sound of his voice.

  “You were sleeping and I didn’t want to disturb you,” he added softly.

  The moon illuminated most of the room through the oversized windows, but not the shadows in the corner near the door. Issac leaned against the wall, his face hidden beneath a cloud of darkness. But she knew it was him. She recognized his long, lean form.

  “You’re here,” she whispered, the words catching in her throat. Because him being here meant she was still dreaming. Which explained the weird surroundings. Her shifting of a memory that didn’t belong to her to a world she didn’t recognize.

  A sob escaped her as she fell into the haven of pillows behind her and curled into a ball.

  She hated this. Didn’t understand it. Was lost to the overwhelming nature of life.

  “Why?” she asked, begging the fates to explain this to her. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Aya.” Issac’s arms wrapped around her, causing her to cry harder. To have him so near but to know none of it was real made this so much worse.

  “I miss you,” she admitted through her tears. “I miss you so much.”

  “Who, darling?” he asked. “Who do you miss?”

  “You,” she managed on a choked cry, her shoulders trembling violently. It hurt so fucking much. She needed him, which was why she’d conjured him into this dream. “But you’re not real. It’s all a cruel dream.”

  All of this. Being shot. Seeing her mom. The endless suffocating. Finally being saved. Being told she was a Seraphim. Dreaming about her parents from a body that didn’t belong to her. Then this bizarre room.

  “Aya,” Issac said, pushing her to her back, his palm cupping her face. “This isn’t a dream, love. I’m here. You’re alive.”

  She shook her head. “I’m in hell.” And she didn’t know why or what she’d done to end up here.

  “You’re in Gabriel Stark’s home.” His thumb smeared the tears across her cheek, his breath warm and minty against her face. “This is real, love. I’m here.”

  His words only made her cry harder. This was some brutal joke created by her subconscious to fuck with her. Maybe she’d gone insane underground. “I couldn’t breathe,” she said, her throat aching from the memory. “But I prefer that over this… this… pain.” She clutched her chest, her stomach cramping. “I miss you too much. And it hurts.” Just admitting it out loud sent another stab through her heart, fracturing what was left of her soul.

  Such a wicked, diabolical dream.

  “Kill me again,” she begged. “Put me back. Please. Don’t make me wake up without you again.”

  Issac choked on a sound that severed her in half, his head falling to her neck. “Fuck, Aya.” He shook against her, his fingers sliding into her hair and gripping her harshly, holding her to him. “I thought you were dead. I thought…” His voice broke, his body shuddering against hers. His tears soaked into her skin, rivaling the dampness beneath her eyes.

  How could it feel so real and be all in her mind?

  She cried out his name, her insides fracturing into a million pieces.

  And he held her without fail, his agony etched into his shoulders, sending tremors down his spine, endless apologies falling from his lips.

  I didn’t know.

  I shouldn’t have buried you.

  Fuck, I’m so damn sorry.

  I’m so fucking sorry.

  You were dead, Aya. I…

  I can’t believe I…

  Will you ever forgive me?

  The statements all blended together with time, the stars painting the sky above them. So many windows.

  This place was unlike any she’d ever visited, making it impossible to conceptualize. Why would she choose this for her dream setting?

  I wouldn’t.

  But clearly, she had.

  Everything blurred, her vision sliding into shades of blue.
Dark. Deep. Cold.

  A mouth yawning on a scream.

  Chains clasping her tightly beneath the surface.

  So cold.

  Alone.

  Frightened.

  Dying again.

  “Sethios…” A haunting voice hissing in her ears. “Find Sethios… It’s time.”

  Goose bumps prickled Stas’s skin, skating a chill down her spine as the room resurfaced around her. Issac stared down at her, concern etched into his striking features, his eyelashes damp with tears.

  Wow, even while crying, the man resembled a god. Maybe even more so.

  No, not a god.

  An angel.

  She traced his perfect lips with her nail, adoring his soft skin. “You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” she marveled. “The only one I’ve ever loved. I’ll always love you, even in death. You know that, right?” She lifted to brush her mouth against his.

  Divine perfection.

  My angel.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck to pull him to her, needing more. If her mind wanted to dream, then she’d make it a good one. It would hurt more later, but he tasted too good for her to resist.

  He let her lead, his tongue gentle against hers, and not at all what she craved.

  How many days, weeks, or months had it been since he properly took her? All that dancing around fate, worrying that her blood would kill him, concern for their future standing in the way. And now that she had him on a playing field where they could do anything, be anyone, he kissed her softly? Tenderly? No.

  She growled against his mouth. “Kiss me, Issac.”

  “I am,” he whispered, his lips melting into hers.

  “Harder,” she demanded. “Kiss me like it’s the last time you’ll ever see me.” This was their goodbye, the moment she would choose to remember. Always. “Please, Issac. Kiss—”

  His mouth possessed hers on a growl that seared her insides.

  Hot.

  Dominant.

  Issac.

  His palm wrapped around her throat, holding her in place as he took her to heaven with his tongue. Dear God, she missed this. No restraint. No concerns. No ticking time bomb in the back of her mind.