by Sarah Gilman
“You’re right, you don’t understand.” Wren leaned back and pegged her with his deep green stare. “I want very much to kiss you, Gin.”
The words, and the low masculine purr with which he said them, stole her breath for a moment.
“Then why—”
“Because if I kiss you once, I won’t be able to stop.” He paused and sighed. “I can’t get close to you. I want to. Very much. But I’d be damning you to an unspeakable hell if I acted on my desires, Gin.”
“What are you talking about?”
He hesitated, then spoke very quietly. “Do you know what Lark did to my mother?”
“I…I know she died a violent death.”
“Violent,” he ground out the word. “An understatement, but we’ll leave it there.”
She bit her lip.
Wren turned to the sprawling bookshelves and picked up a silver frame. He stared at it, but met her gaze when he spoke a moment later. “Lark promised me years ago that any woman in my life would meet an end worse than my mother’s.”
His words made her ears ring like she’d been struck in the head. Speechless, she reclosed the distance between them and gazed down at the framed picture in his hands.
The photo was a posed black and white, and must have been taken by someone with a gifted eye for light and shadow. But the artistic quality was not what brought the lump to her throat.
The close up showed Raphael, Wren—he couldn’t have been a full month old—and his mother huddled together against the granite masonry of the house. The tall, feminine brunette leaned against Raphael’s side, his wing draped across her back, her smile that of a woman who had everything. She held Wren between them, his head on her collar bone, his downy wings unfolded and loosely draped over her arms. Raphael’s hand rested on Wren’s back.
“This is gorgeous,” she whispered. “What was your mother’s name?”
“Kora Amsel.” He set the photo aside and took her shoulders in his hands. “I won’t put you in Lark’s crosshairs. What he did to my family…”
She shut her eyes. “Wren… I understand what you’re telling me. I won’t be stupid and make light of it. But Lark is not in this room.” She opened her eyes and stared into Wren’s wary gaze. “Looks to me like there is no one in this room but us.”
“Like I said, if I kiss you, I won’t be able to do it just once—”
She lifted herself to her toes and pressed her lips to his. He didn’t turn away from her this time, though a moment passed before he leaned into her.
The chemistry, the conversation, none of it prepared her for the intensity Wren gave her as he stroked her lips with his and deepened the kiss. The fresh-air scent of him surrounded her as he reached his wings forward, enclosing her in a curtain of feathers. He ran his hands slowly down her back and she leaned deeper into the embrace. But all too soon, he lifted his hands to her face and held her still as he leaned away.
“Oh, Gin…if only…” He shut his eyes, folded his wings, and turned away.
“Wren—”
“You didn’t get your shower,” he said, his voice quiet. “Please go ahead, make yourself at home. I’m going to go see if Vin has arrived.”
He crossed the room to the door and paused. “Set the alarm and don’t leave the house or let anyone in until I get back. No one, not even a Guardian, okay? I’ll make this quick, and I’ll bring back food.”
After he took flight from the deck, she slumped into a chair. The warmth of his hands lingered and sunk below the surface of her skin. She ran a finger over her bottom lip, waiting for her heart rate to come down. Giving up, she got to her feet and headed for the stairs.
§
Ginger lingered under the warm spray of the shower, staring at the scar over her heart. She turned off the water with shaky hands, toweled dry, and emptied the bag of clothes onto the bed.
She pulled on jeans that fit her perfectly, pink cherry blossoms embroidered down the sides, then pressed her face into a brown alpaca sweater before pulling it over her head. She’d grown up with handmade alpaca clothing and blankets, a staple in the self-sufficient demon colonies. The feel of the wool against her skin calmed her the way chicken soup did for most humans.
She headed downstairs.
“Wren?”
No answer, and a quick glance around the open space told her he hadn’t returned. Must be, he found Vin. She went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water.
The cell phone rang. Could it be Lark again? Muscles tense, Ginger glanced at the screen: Devin. She relaxed and connected the call.
“Ginny, are you all right?” Devin asked without preamble, his words so fast, they came out as one. “I spoke with Vin. He told me you were shot?”
“I’m fine, Dev. Wren healed me.”
Devin made a throaty noise that sounded like a dry sob. “Good. That’s…good. I needed to hear that from you. It couldn’t wait. But I’ll see you soon. I’ll be there tonight.”
“Tonight?” A lump formed in Ginger’s throat.
“I’m only a few hours away. I’ll feel better when there is a continent between you and Lark, so we’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.”
The reality of leaving formed a knot in her stomach, and she collapsed onto the couch.
“Is Lark really so dangerous that I’m not safe, even here in Sanctuary?”
“Lark is exceptionally dangerous. The Guardians have never known a more skilled fighter.”
“But there are so many Guardians here to protect—”
“The spring before his betrayal, Lark single-handedly saved Raphael and Kora from over a dozen human attackers. Killed all of them in a matter of minutes, and walked away without a scratch. Doubt the son of a bitch was even out of breath.”
“Damn.”
“You are relatively safe in Sanctuary, but even with Wren’s psychic weapon and all of the colony’s Guardians protecting you, you’re not safe enough.”
She rubbed her forehead. “I don’t see how Wren’s psychic talent could be used as a weapon.”
A beat went by before Devin answered. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Wren is a gifted healer like his father, but he was born with an additional ability all his own, a formidable weapon the opposite of his healing skill. With just skin contact, Wren can kill.”
Ginger’s jaw dropped. “But…how do you know that?”
“Psychic talents are dormant when archangels are very young, typically manifesting in their early teens in response to an emotional trigger. Wren’s psychic weapon first manifested during the attack I just mentioned, so all the Guardians know about it.”
Devin stopped there, but Ginger fought to make sense of his words. “What happened? Tell me, please.”
Devin clicked his tongue. “I was in Haven at the time, of course, but this is what I’ve been told. While Lark was dispatching the humans who’d descended on Raphael and Kora, over thirty more assailants attacked the rest of Sanctuary. In the minutes it took for the Guardians to quell the attackers and secure the colony, a dozen demon civilians were killed, and many more injured.
“Wren wasn’t with his parents and Lark that afternoon. He was at the town hall attending school, so it took Lark precious minutes to get to him. When the humans stormed the building, most of the children got away, but Thornton Bailey, the notorious anti-demon, anti-archangel extremist who’d organized the attack, captured Wren and tried to strangle him.
“But the trauma triggered Wren’s latent talent. Lark arrived to find Bailey collapsed on the floor, stiff and cold like he’d been dead for hours, his hands burned to the bone where he’d gripped Wren’s neck.”
Ginger shuddered. “Thank God, Wren wasn’t killed.”
“Yeah. It was a damned close call. Bailey could have crushed the kid’s throat in seconds, but Wren’s talent worked even faster. As I was saying, even that talent isn’t enough to protect you. I want you home. Lark may be pissed as hell that you helped
Wren, but I doubt he’ll follow you to Alaska. Wren is his target.”
Horns blared in the background. “I have to go. See you soon, honey.”
Ginger said goodbye and hung up. Pulling a quilt from the back of the couch, she lay back and covered herself, staring at the high ceiling.
Her skin prickled as the memory of Wren’s hands on her skin combined with the new knowledge of what that touch could do. A tiny voice told her to fear that touch, the same instinct that would make her fear a knife to her throat, even if she trusted the wielder.
Sensations left over from Wren’s kiss and his tender caress warmed her and silenced the voice. Yes, Wren’s skin had the potential of a formidable weapon. But Wren hadn’t hurt her. He’d healed her. He’d kissed her with enough warmth to melt her insides. And he was sending her away to keep her safe from his enemies.
She pulled the quilt up to her chin. It didn’t matter if she feared Wren now or not. She’d be leaving in a matter of hours.
Chapter Nine
Wren wanted to keep the conversation with Vin short. He needed the Guardians’ help. His father needed their help. But bone-deep exhaustion threatened to drop him, and he still hadn’t gathered his thoughts since kissing Ginger.
That kiss had been a mistake, yes, but one he couldn’t bring himself to truly regret. Having her in his arms had been exactly what he’d needed in that moment. He’d been about to crack, but somehow, he’d found the strength to stay standing just by holding her.
Of course, he was a bastard for touching her without disclosing his macabre psychic talent. He couldn’t tell her about it now and send her off to Haven regretting that she had kissed him, even if that made him a coward. He wanted that little moment untainted, wanted the memory of those few blissful minutes with Ginger for an anchor as he moved forward.
Keeping his churning emotions under his skin, he forced his voice to stay even, his chin high, as he talked to Vin.
In the large office used by the Guardians who governed Sanctuary, Wren and Vin sat on high, backless stools amongst a half-dozen computers, various other electronic equipment, packed shelves, and tidy file cabinets. Large bay windows occupied the back wall. Several cozy leather chairs and a table with a coffee maker filled out the sitting area.
Wren hadn’t realized that Vin was the highest-ranking Guardian of Sanctuary, normally a position of privilege, complete with fancy uniform and personal staff. But Vin dressed like any Guardian in the field, and poured his own coffee. Despite his reservations, Wren warmed to the guy. A little.
“If only we knew where the bastard is keeping your father.” A string of curses followed Vin’s words. His arms displayed a thin layer of scarlet flames. His eyes seemed a deeper red than normal. “But we’ll find Raphael. I promise you on my life.”
Wren stood and took a step back as the Guardian knelt on the floor, tucking his chin, his brown curly hair falling onto his forehead. Holding up a hand, Wren shook his head as he realized what the Guardian was doing.
“Don’t—”
“Wren, you need the protection of a dedicated bodyguard. As the ranking Guardian of Sanctuary, I humbly offer my services. I’ll take the oath in your name.”
“I…appreciate the offer, Vin. It’s nothing personal, but I’m not taking that step.”
Vin shook his head.
Wren added, “I’ve taken care of myself for a long time and intend to continue to do so.”
“Yet if it wasn’t for Ginger, you would have been captured yesterday.” Vin glanced up at last, his dark eyebrows high over his copper irises. “The two of you—”
“There is no two of us.”
Vin stood. “Bullshit. The way you look at her…”
Wren bit back a curse. “Exactly. You know what Lark would do to her. Look me in the eye, Guardian, and tell me you’d put a woman you cared for in that kind of danger.”
Vin stayed silent for a long moment. His shoulders sagged, but his eyes retained a glint of challenge as he spoke. “Expect Devin this evening; he’s made good time on the roads. He’s going to want to collect Ginger and leave right away. I’ll call her cell when he arrives.”
“She’ll be ready to go.” Wren turned for the door.
“I wouldn’t allow harm to come to either of you,” Vin growled.
Wren paused, hand on the brass knob. “Same promise Lark made to my father.”
He left the office and hurried down the hall. Like his family’s home, the town hall had been built with archangel usage in mind, with wide hallways and a large second floor deck. He rushed out into the brisk wind, stretched his wings, and took to the sky.
Wren landed behind Jac’s house on the lakeshore, the late afternoon sun behind him in the western sky. He cocked his head as music reached his ears. Not rock or country or anything out of an electronic device, the melodies came from the stringed instruments and drums the demons made and played themselves. The sounds reminded Wren of a cross between Celtic and Bluegrass.
Though demons only slept once a week, they were nocturnal creatures who were quiet and reclusive during the day. Silence dominated the colony while the sun hung high in the sky, with only the Guardians roaming the forest out of necessity. But by evening, the music started and scents of food filled the air. The demons gathered in large groups to eat, socialize, and generally raise hell until dawn.
Wren rubbed an ache in the middle of his chest. For years, he had woken constantly during the night after leaving this vibrant community, the lack of music and laughter deafening in the dark.
Though not yet evening, a female demon walked the edge of Jac’s property, lighting lanterns that hung from low tree branches. Instead of matches, she utilized the flames from her fingertips, the demon fire as red as the Japanese kimono she wore. Her back to him, her black hair fell to her hips and swayed in the breeze.
“Lexine.”
The demon glanced over her shoulder with an arched eyebrow. She froze, her copper eyes wide. The flame extinguished from her hand. Wren didn’t hear her voice, but her lips formed the words, “I’ll be damned.”
Lexine hurried across the lawn. Wren met her by the back door of the house.
“Wren.” She pulled him into a brief but firm hug. “Jac told me you were here. I’m not sure if I should cry or smack you.”
Wren took a step back, even as it was clear from the tremble in her voice she was going with the former. The door opened, and Jac stuck his head out.
“Lex,” Jac said to his sister, caution in his voice. “Come inside, have some wine. You too, Wren, of course.”
Lexine sniffed and motioned Wren inside. He walked sideways through the door and joined the demons in the spacious post-and-beam living area, thankful for the heat of the wood stove.
“Apple wine. Made it ourselves.” Jac poured from a label-free bottle that stood, already open, on the bar between the living area and the kitchen. “So,” he said, as he passed out the glasses. “Wren. We realize you’re not ten anymore. Hell, you look more like your father’s brother than his son these days. But as your parents’ friends, we must insist you stay. Or settle in another colony, if it is too hard to be here. There are over a dozen archangels living in Eden—”
Wren held up a hand to cut off the demon’s lecture. “I’m going to be staying for a while.”
Jac narrowed his eyes and doubt filled his voice. “Really?”
“Really.” Wren took a large swallow of the wine, then a deep breath. “My father is alive.”
Jac coughed and Lexine sagged against the wall. “What?” they asked in unison.
Wren set his empty glass down. He related what he’d been told by the poachers and the phone call from Lark.
“It’s a trap.” Lexine folded her arms. “That rat bastard is trying to trick you, Wren.”
“There’s no mistaking my father’s voice. I’m certain.”
Lexine sank into an overstuffed chair, running the back of her hand over her damp cheeks. “Eighteen years…”
&nbs
p; “Vin—” Jac began.
“I just came from there.”
The demon nodded. “Good. Vin has a good heart to go with his skills. I trust him. You can trust him, too.”
Wren lifted his shoulders. “Has the colony been doing well under his leadership?”
“Thriving.” Jac poured more wine. Wren declined. “No trouble from the outside has reached us in over ten years. Vin lives for this colony’s safety. If anyone can take on Lark, he can.”
Wren paced around the room, the breeze from his wings turning the pages of an open book on the table. “If Vin’s been good for the colony, he has my respect for that.”
Wren stopped at the foot of the stairs, which were finished in maple, worn from over a hundred years of use. Staring up at a door at the top of the staircase, Wren mused over his memories of the hours after Lark’s attack. One event that night had always bothered him.
After the attack, Wren had stayed in the bedroom at the top of this staircase, unconscious more often than not as the fever raged and his injury healed. Guardians had hovered everywhere. Each time Wren had wakened, there’d been no less than three standing over him, plus Jac and Lexine. At one point, he’d opened his eyes to find a Guardian leaning only inches away, triggering a violent flashback of the attack. Wren had lashed out and careened off the bed, the powerful adrenaline rush overriding his painful injury.
“Wren…” The Guardian, his hand lifted to a bleeding scratch on his cheek, had stepped around the bed.
“Stay away!” Wren had shouted, backing against the wall.
“That’s enough,” Jac had said to the Guardian. “Give him some space!”
The Guardian had hastily retreated out to the hall, Jac on his heels. Wren had rushed over to the window. He’d shoved against the screen until it had broken free and fallen to the lawn below. Staring out into the night, his hands braced on the windowsill, Wren had spread his wings, ignoring the pain from his wound. He’d never flown and had no flight feathers, only thick, adolescent down. Still, could he slow his fall to the ground, then run? Run away from the Guardians…
