Creche (Book II of Paranormal Fallen Angels/Vampires Series)

by Karin Cox

  “Not floppy.” I felt her hand move to my back as she walked around me. “Straight. Poised. Like a cat before it leaps. But relaxed. Focused.”

  My mind’s eye followed the motion Skylar had made with her arm earlier, a sliding movement from one side to another, thinking of Sabine’s low crouch just before she pounced.

  “Feet apart more,” Skylar instructed, taking my hand and leading it across my body. “Harness your strength. Draw it up from the earth and pull it down from the sky.”

  I opened my eyes again to follow her example. She stood in front of me, stretching, and her eyes closed for an instant as she inhaled. “All sources of strength come from the same place, from within.”

  One of her arms shot out in a punch that whizzed past my ear. “Anger and passion are very powerful, but when not controlled ... they are a danger to you more than to others.”

  I closed my eyes too, trying to tap into the anger that usually flooded my being, but it was absent. “It is hard to be angry in Silvenhall,” I told her. “Bring me Beltran and you will see the extent of my anger.”

  “I have seen it. Although mighty, it lacked purpose.”

  I bristled, eyes snapping open. Was she goading me deliberately? I kicked out at the padded dummy of straw and fur she had set up earlier in the clearing. It swung back only a little under my force. I had expended too much effort and, swaying, felt my other leg slide beneath me.

  “Too much.” She waggled a finger at me. “The breeze wears away stone more surely than a gale. Take a small part of your passion and give it direction. Like this.” Rocking back onto one leg, she swung the other around in a graceful arc. It was light, rhythmic—the motion of a dancer, not a fighter—but when her foot met the straw-stuffed head, it bobbed on its makeshift shoulders and straw spilled from the seam.

  “Less power, more passion, more purpose,” she chanted.

  Rocking back as she had, I struck out again, spinning on my body’s axis so that my heel caught the target beneath the chin. It split the sack, collapsed it into straw.

  “Better.” Skylar nodded. “Much better. Should we try archery?”

  Never having had cause to fire a bow, it struck me as odd that it was Skylar’s weapon of choice.

  “I am smaller than you and slighter,” she told me. “My bow disadvantages an assailant at a distance, before I must be at their throats to drink from them. A silver-tipped arrow takes down a Vampire without the need for close contact, especially if there are many. Many Cruxim favor the bow for that reason.”

  It made sense. I wondered that I had not thought of it before. Even if I had, I knew I relished too much the crunch of vein, the rush of blood to my mouth, and the euphoria that rose in me with each death.

  “Many of the movements of Itsomai come from those we make when holding a weapon.” She showed me as she spoke, drawing her hand back to the nape of her neck and then drawing back a fist and letting it fly—as if nocking an arrow and shooting it into a Vampire’s heart.

  “While we slice with our arms and hands, our feet are grounded lightly.” She bobbed side-to-side and pivoted on her heels. “That way we might spring up into the air if we need to. It is too slow to rely on our wings to lift us into flight. Breathing deep but light helps us stay buoyant, ready to rise up.”

  The precision of her movements was beautiful. Bending, she took up the quiver and slung it over her back. Then she scooped up the bow and flexed the string, checking its tautness.

  “Female Cruxim make their own bows,” she instructed. “A bow must be a part of you, as much as a sword, a trident, or an axe.” She looked at me sidelong. “Or a lover. It should know the touch of your hands, understand your mind.”

  I kept my eyes on the arch of birchwood, contoured to match the curves of her body. “How long does it take?”

  “That depends on the bowyer—and on the Swan.” Skylar nocked an arrow and drew back the bowstring. The missile flew through the clearing and out through the gap in the trees to pierce the night sky; only the fletched feathers marked its fall in the darkness.

  “The Swan governs archery too?” I queried.

  She grinned. “A real one this time.” Another arrow was removed from the quiver and inspected for flaws. “See how the arrows are fletched?” She turned the end toward me. “On making our first bow, we must catch an adult swan and gentle it until it lets us pluck twelve feathers for our arrows. Then the arrow will fly as true as the bird and will always seek the heart of our enemies. It is said, also, that the swan may one day save the life of our intended.”

  She half-closed one eye as she let fly another arrow. It moved so quickly that it had twanged into a bull’s-eye at the far end of a clearing before I saw her nock it.

  It was an impressive shot. Once more I thought I should like to see Skylar in action with the bow amid a coven.

  “One day soon, perhaps you shall,” came her thoughts. “But do not wish it. Let us enjoy this time of peace before war comes to us.”

  She passed me the bow. “Try it.”

  My bicep bulged with the effort of drawing back the string. It was heavier than it looked and well made; even knowing so little about bows, I knew that. I tried to imitate her stance and the confidence with which she had released the arrow, but mine fell short, barely clipping a shrub halfway down the clearing.

  Skylar shrugged. “Perhaps you should try the sword.” She laughed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Skylar, you cannot truthfully expect me to wear this.” I looked at the cotton shirt, sun-bleached whiter than the inside of a shell. A fringe of feathers ruffled the neck, hem, and sleeve.

  “All dress like this for the Cygnus Amoratus, all who have not yet nested.”

  Rolling my eyes, I grumbled, “Tell me I don’t have to wear feathers in my hair.”

  She laughed, patting the feathered rosette that pinned her hair behind one ear. “No. Only here.” Her hand warmed the hollow of my throat.

  “Let me help you.” She pushed my arms up, slipping the shirt down over my head and then batting the ruffle of feathers at my throat into order.

  The action brought her closer than I expected, her face just inches from my own. I felt her breath, warm against my face. Her hands halted, as if wanting to move up to trace my lips as her eyes did.

  Taking her forearms in my hands, I stepped back away from her, dropping my eyes down to her gown, which skimmed her hips and fell away in a confection of feathers at the skirt. It was tight at the bodice, enhancing her womanly waist and the high fullness of her breasts. I felt my face flush as I noticed they might have spilled from the neckline if not contained by a lace made of down. A single white feather, silver-dipped at the shaft and the tip, swung from a chain at her throat, rising and falling with each breath. She had added a bracelet of woven feathers, crystal, and shells and her hair was loose and swinging but for the rosette of feathers. She had never looked more beautiful.

  I wanted to lean forward and kiss her lips, reddened with berry juice and half-parted as she watched me appraise her.

  I let go of her wrists.

  I stepped back.

  Guilt crashed down on me. Sabine had risked her life to save me from Gandler. She had borne his tortures. More than that, she had depended on me to save her from her nightmares and her loneliness. I had failed her once. I could not fail her again, not like this. Had my heart always been so fickle, I supposed so. Each half gifted to a different woman. Was it possible to love just one? Was it possible to truly love more than one?

  “You’ll need to wear them here, too.” Skylar bent to scoop up the matching trousers, feather-free except for the hems of each leg. She threw them at me.

  I grimaced as I rubbed the cotton and feathers between thumb and forefinger. “And everyone will be dressed like this?”

  “Yes, except those who have already nested.”

  I quirked one eyebrow at her, suspicious. I had seen the nest. I knew what affect it had on me. “What is this ritual?”
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br />   Skylar smoothed her gown. “Cygnus Amoratus is the dance of the Swans, a celebration for those who are betrothed.” Her gray eyes were dewy as spring as she lifted them to mine. “It is a day of love.”

  Moths danced like small, pale moons in the air before us as Skylar and I followed a path down the mountainside to a field thick with wildflowers. A cascade sang in the distance, the slippery, moving sheen of its waters tumbling from a knot of white crystals in the cliff face.

  “It comes from Cascadia,” Skylar said, gesturing to the waterfall. “From the snow caverns beneath. But tonight, we are going there.” She pointed to a billowing white shape at the edge of the field.

  “Another tent.” I smiled. “You have not forgotten what happened last time I was in a tent?”

  She led me through the flowers. “This time, you will stay.”

  Snow lilies and angels trumpets rose, open-throated, toward the moon, their long stems twining through elfskiss and a shrub of tiny purple berries I could not identify. The scattered white petals of another flower, blown from their crowns, coasted on the breeze. Here and there nodding blooms of scarlet added color.

  I put out a hand to a snow lily. The breeze nodded its waxy petals toward my hand, as if the plant might nuzzle it. Even that felt possible here.

  “Those are cinderberry.” Skylar touched the pale mauve bloom. “And lividia.” She did not reach for the scarlet blossom.

  Cupping a palm, she trapped one of the floating white blossoms. “We call these love-in-a-mist.”

  “What are they used for?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Only this.” She pursed her lips and blew gently, sending the blossoms dancing in the air.

  “This is magical.” I smiled at her.

  Skylar’s return smile was demure. “It is home.” She spun, her arms wide, breathing in the night air, the feather stirring on her chest.

  “For some.”

  More tiny white parachutes, adding to the love-in-a-mist already on the wind, drifted around me, loosed by her movement.

  “Would you like it to be home, Amedeo?” She picked another knot of love-in-a-mist and blew. I wondered if it were like dandelions and what she wished for. What did one who lived here, in the sanctuary of Silvenhall, wish for?

  My wish would be for a fang in the vein of my enemy. For justice. For death. For hatred. Or for the ability to live the past over, to right the wrongs done to me. To absolve myself of regrets.

  But Skylar was not like me. Her wish... ?

  I shook my head. She lived here, in the present, but I had seen in those silver eyes glimpses of the future. I knew too well what her wish might be, and I put it from my mind. It was a woman’s wish, and one I knew I could not make true.

  “What is home?” I laughed it off. “In centuries I have not known such a thing.”

  “Some say home is where the heart is.” She floated toward me through the flowers and put her hand on my chest.

  Then I am at home in the sea, and in Hell, I thought, masking it. And here, in my chest.

  “The heart is its own country,” I answered glibly. “It is at home wherever I am.”

  Her eyebrow quirked up, and she removed her hand and set off again toward the tent. “May one travel there?”

  “Where?”

  “To the country of your heart.”

  I felt a chill run through me. I wanted to answer her “yes,” to open a door there for her, or at least to grant her the asylum she had offered me in Silvenhall, but I could not.

  “I have been much alone there,” I replied. “It is a cold place, and dark, changeable, and with many dangers.”

  “A traveler might bring a woman’s touch.”

  I kept my face blank, expressionless, as I walked beside her. Spreading my hand out to the field, I added, “It is not so magical as this. A traveler may find it not to her pleasure.”

  She chose to ignore my mood. “I imagine it is not always cold there, Ame. Though there are deep chasms to fall in and mountains to traverse, rivers running through.” She glanced sideways. “Come, King Amedeo, it must rain laughter at times in your country. In the autumn, I hear that feathers fall like petals.” She laughed. “How is the weather? How might I dress?” She tilted her chin up, one finger upon it in mock-thought.

  I played along, bowing low to her and then reaching for her hand to spin her towards me, a whirl of white feathers. “Dress as you are, my lady.” My tone turned serious. “But you must wait until the snow melts.”

  “In the spring then. Can we walk there, Sir ...?” She paused, and the gray eyes met mine. “Surely it must now be not so far from here.”

  I sighed. The time for make-believe had passed. “Is Delphi far from here.” I spoke softly, but I knew the weight of the words.

  Rain returned to her eyes. “Not far enough.”

  She did not pick any more love-in-a-mist while we walked.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Forgive me if I have neglected you, Amedeo.” Shintaro, his white robes lacking the fringe of feathers that adorned my outfit, smiled uncertainly and extended his hand when we reached the tent. Daneo, as second Proxim of Silvenhall was beside him, greeting guests, but as I had expected, his only greeting for me was a sneer.

  “I ask your pardon for a moment, Daneo.” Shintaro nodded at him. “Walk with me, Amedeo.”

  He led me away from the line of Cruxim to a bench at the side of the tent. “Milandor’s ... defection ... has somewhat overshadowed your orientation,” he said, by way of apology.

  “So I saw.” I was grateful for his courtesy, if nothing else.

  His head, tilted as it always was, shook a little, and his voice was grave. “Tell me.” He swung one arm toward the mountainous parapets that fringed the field. “Out there, beyond Silvenhall, how many Vampires are there?”

  I cocked my head too, not to mock him but in surprise. “You are the Speaker of the Council of Paleon, yet you know not the number of your gravest enemies?”

  He hemmed and hawed to clear his throat. “Regrettably. But as Skylar has no doubt told you, without Milandor, we lack strength.”

  “Yes.” I tried to stop coldness from seeping into my tone. “When did you last leave the Crèche, Shintaro?”

  “I visit the other Crèches frequently. That is my role as Speaker.“ Some authority returned to his voice, but it was not enough to impress me.

  “Outside of the Crèches, it has been a score ... or more.”

  “Twenty years since you saw a Vampire in the street. Twenty years, or more, since you trapped them in the shadows.” It was all I could do not to whistle through my teeth. “Two decades since you have done what we were made to do.”

  Shintaro’s head was bowed, his eyes on his hands shaking in his lap.

  I lowered my voice and continued. “You are right to be afraid. Every day there are more, and already there were many, many thousands. Now, perhaps there are millions. They grow smarter, too. They have already formed large, impenetrable covens. Some are wealthy, having usurped the riches of their victims. They invest wisely, it seems, and conceal themselves among humans—some they even keep alive as blood slaves. You ask me to update you on a score or more years of their debauchery, yet even a year would be too long, for they devise fresh hell daily, new ways to terrorize us and the humans we protect. By strength of number alone, they could defeat us, but their desire to destroy us is their true advantage.”

  Shintaro nodded.

  Lowering my voice, I added, “I know this because my entire life I have been denied the peace and security of Silvenhall. Many times have I been forced to flee from them, even as my desire to destroy them kindled in me like hellfire. My entire life, I have fought them. Silvenhall’s exile has been my savior, Shintaro. For all your Itsomai, your gleaming armor and your marching Proxim, you have made your charges soft and weak. ”

  He cleared his throat again and gave an agitated little flap of his wings. “Regrettably,” he said, eyes downcast.

  �
��Regrets,” I said. “The one thing longevity bestows.”

  His head seemed to tilt to the side even further as he examined me. “You take some pleasure in this, Amedeo. Tell me, what do you want from Silvenhall?”

  “Only the Sphinx’s riddle. Nothing more.” It was a lie. I had come to crave more already. Companionship. Belonging. Sanctuary. But I would not expose my heart to a man who, despite offering me salvation, might yet deny me my freedom.

  His head swiveled to Skylar, who was conversing casually with my sister at Daneo’s side.

  “Nothing more,” Shintaro repeated thoughtfully.

  He swung an arm toward the Cruxim entering the tent, all smiling and laughing, all wearing white and silver. “Look at them. They are mine to protect, although I cannot save them from everything, not from the Crux. They will die one day, all of them, cradling a newborn babe in their arms. But such is the sacrifice all parents would make: to give their lives for their children. Is it not? These are my children, Amedeo.” A twitch tugged at his lip. “I will have none of my own, for my betrothed joined the Sibylim.”

  “Samea?” I asked.

  “No, Eresia. Many centuries ago now. It is a loneliness I would not wish upon anyone; not you, nor Skylar.”

  “Loneliness I am accustomed to.”

  “For your suffering, I am sorry. But it is as I said: they are mine to protect, and I must guide them and lead the way for them. This ritual you have been allowed to share serves that purpose. The blood-troth unites them. The nesting, the belief in the Swan, gives them hope and warmth in a world that grows so cold to us.”

  “By the day, colder, Shintaro,” I agreed. “While you have tarried here drinking each other’s blood, there are rivers of blood out there for the lonely like me to drown in.”

  “Yes,” he sighed again. “The time to hide here in Silvenhall, in Dusindel, Argentil, or Milandor has passed. But this place must remain a sanctuary when we need it.” He stared at me over lowered brows, as if warning me. “And we may need it, Cruor. We may need it soon.”