Налини Сингх - Archangel's Sun

Striding out the huge doors that flowed from his personal living area—doors he mostly kept open—he stepped onto his balcony, then took off. In the massive courtyard below, his people toiled, exhausted but devoted. Some were coming in, some going out, while another section dealt with the animals.

Still another group was sorting the weapons that had been brought in damaged or broken by the teams out in the field. Beside them worked the mechanics whose task it was to keep the vampiric troops’ heavy-duty vehicles maintained and ready to take hit after hit from the reborn.

The rotting creatures had yesterday succeeded in acting together to tip over one of the vehicles, but the vampire fighters within had survived because the vehicle was built like a tank. It also helped that they’d had flamethrowers on hand to fry any reborn who tried to crawl through the cracked glass of the windscreen.

The other glass, all of it toughened, had held.

The dull murmur of voices, the clang of weapons and the noise of the engines, the snuffing of the horses, it was familiar music that meant home. But he couldn’t rest this morn, couldn’t share a mug of ale with his people or just sit in the courtyard and clean weapons to wind down from a night of battle against the reborn. Groaning again at what awaited, he angled his wings and headed out beyond the bustle of his city and toward the northern border.

The sky blazed around him, red and pink and dazzling shades of orange. He loved this landscape and he loved the colors of the sky. He’d been Archangel of Southern Africa some thousand six hundred years and he would swear that each and every sunrise and sunset was different, was unique.

Yet despite the show of glory, he still saw the glint of a far different color in the distance, the indigo of the Hummingbird’s distinctive wings caressed by light—as if the sun itself was in love with her ethereal beauty.

Wings beating hard because there was no breeze today, no thermal to ride, he quickly closed the distance between them. The sooner he got to her, the sooner he could do away with the formalities, and have the bath he craved. But his forced smile of welcome turned into a black scowl as he brought himself to a polite hover a short distance away.

She wasn’t wearing her customary gown, and her hair was not only covered with dust, but in a braid that dropped over one shoulder. She was, in fact, in black pants and a light brown tunic not so different from his own garb—though he’d long done away with the tunic.

And while the straps that crisscrossed his chest were part of his sword harness, one hilt visible over his left shoulder, the other over his right, it looked like her straps attached to some type of pack.

The Hummingbird was wearing pants and carrying a pack.

He blinked.

Had he not known better, he’d have thought her a young angel out for the day. Perhaps even a warrior, though she was a little too slender to pull that off, no real muscle to her. Like most of the pretty beings in what the people within it chose to call the “gentle court,” and he saw as the tender heart of his warrior stronghold.

“Lady Hummingbird!” he boomed, then winced, because he’d told himself not to use his proper voice. The last thing he needed was for her to get the vapors and fall out of the sky. That would be wonderful. Then Raphael would be angry with him because he’d managed to insult and pain the mother of one of Raphael’s cherished Seven, and no doubt the rest of angelkind would think him an ogre.

But the Hummingbird didn’t drop from the sky like a small, startled bird. Instead, she came to hover across from him, a soft smile curving her lips. It struck him at that instant that she was beautiful, stunningly so. Shrugging off that errant thought because this was the Hummingbird and not a woman, he bowed slightly.

Yes, he was an archangel, but the Hummingbird existed outside the hierarchy of angelkind as far as he was concerned. He’d seen her work, been absorbed by it to the extent that he’d hunted down a piece for his own rooms. The person who created such transcendence, the person who had within them such grace, was to be treated with utmost respect.

“Archangel Titus,” she said with a bow of her own. “I see I have come at a bad time.”

He winced inwardly, wondering at the level of insult she’d taken. “I’ve just come in from battle,” he said. “The reborn have taken strong hold in this landscape. Charisemnon, that pestilent piece of . . . er, rotted meat,” he substituted instead of “excrement,” “worked with Lijuan to create a stronger, more intelligent strain before he died.”

“Yes, I have heard many such reports on my journey here,” she said in a voice so rich with texture it felt like a tactile caress. Titus had a weakness for music and art and she was the embodiment of both. Too bad she was also the Hummingbird and the entire angelic world would be insulted beyond repair should he invite her to share his blankets.

He was insulted beyond repair on her behalf at his own base thoughts. The Hummingbird had long risen above all that, and he was—what was the word one of his sisters had used a few centuries ago?—yes, he was a cad for even thinking of her in such a carnal way.

“I saw much during my flight,” she said. “I would share that information with you. I think you and your people haven’t had a chance to fully survey the rural edges of Charisemnon’s territory.”

Titus gave a small nod. “I’d be grateful for any new information.” He didn’t expect much in terms of martial details, for the Hummingbird had probably focused on the artistic merit of various things, but still, perhaps she’d picked up a relevant piece or two of information by accident. “I welcome you to my court, Lady Hummingbird.”

A tightness to her face, but her voice remained pure velvet as she said, “It will become tiresome if we are both constantly formal with one another. Please call me Sharine, and if you do not disagree, I shall call you Titus.”

Titus almost scowled before he caught himself, his shoulders bunching. It didn’t feel right to call her anything but Lady Hummingbird, but he’d make the attempt since that was her preference. As for himself, she could call him whatever she liked. The Hummingbird had such rights.

“As you prefer, La—Sharine.” He shook out the tension in his shoulders. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll lead you to my citadel. We’ll sit and have a meal together, though I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until after I bathe.” He wanted to slap himself—what did he think he was doing, talking about bathing to a woman so genteel and refined?

“That is as well,” she murmured as they fell into flight side by side. “I’m dusty from my long journey and will need to clean up, too.”

Exhaling because that had worked out better than he’d expected, he said, “We expected you two days ago.” He’d been concerned enough when she hadn’t arrived some days after leaving Lumia that he’d contacted Raphael to ask if Illium had heard from his mother. “Your son assured me that you were safe and on the way else I would’ve dispatched my people to look for you.”

“I should’ve sent word.” A gracious apology in her tone. “I decided to take several detours to check on the status of settlements on either side of my main route. I saw some disturbing things and didn’t wish to rush here when I could bring you useful information instead.”

Grooves forming in his forehead, Titus glanced sideways at the Hummingbird before quickly looking away. He didn’t want her to catch him staring at her, but this woman was not behaving at all like the Hummingbird of whom he’d heard. Everyone in angelkind knew the great and gifted artist spent more time in a world of her own making than she did the real one.