Налини Сингх - Archangel's Sun

Sharine had been delighted by the gift and the missive—and she had kept up the practice. Even Tanicia had remarked on her accuracy. She was no warrior, but she was accurate enough to teach a certain archangel a lesson about assuming anything when it came to Sharine. “This is fine,” she said, leaving the knife strapped to her thigh, where she’d discovered she liked wearing it.

Walking to the central doors, she stepped out onto the edge of the central courtyard and into the warmth of morning. It had been cool inside the citadel, likely because of the stone with which it had been built, heavy and solid. Outside, the colors were shades of sun-gold and working brown, along with a pop of lush green from the fresh produce on a large cart.

A small specialized vehicle being operated by a young woman was in the process of ferrying the loaded cart toward what Sharine assumed were the kitchens. She’d seen such vehicles in New York, too, lifting pallets out of trucks, but couldn’t recall their name just now.

Most of the courtyard was open space, to be used by Titus’s warriors and other staff, and likely as the central location for the legendary parties Tanicia had mentioned Titus was known to throw in better times. But one corner housed the stables, and there were also a number of trees planted to the left, creating a shady haven where tired people sat down to rest and sleek cats prowled up for pets.

Motion was constant, angelic warriors landing or taking off while vampire—and possibly mortal—warriors drove in and out in rugged vehicles such as used by some of her own people. Each and every one of the fighters going out into the field bristled with weapons, from swords to unidentifiable modern devices.

The last time she’d been in a place this active, it had been Raphael’s Tower.

Conscious of Titus’s muscled bulk beside her, she went to ask him of the progress of the reborn eradication, when a female angel with dark red hair and two-toned wings—dark gray atop and white underneath—landed to Titus’s right. “Sire,” she said with a bow. “Lady Hummingbird.”

“This is my troop-trainer, Tanae,” Titus said, but his attention was obviously on the warrior. “What has occurred?”

“I received a report of a nest we might’ve missed inside the perimeter and went to check—the creatures were hiding in an abandoned grain cellar.”

Titus hissed out a breath. “How many?”

“Ten. I took a squadron with me and we were able to clear the cellar. But, sire, the creatures appeared to have sent one of their kind out as bait. I believe they wanted us to spot it, their intent to launch a deadly ambush.”

11

I didn’t know the reborn were so intelligent,” Sharine said, stunned at the idea the flesh-eating beings were able to think and plan to such a high degree.

“Only in Africa,” Titus ground out. “Lijuan and Charisemnon were in the process of creating a new, more vicious strain. A feral intelligence is part of it—and it appears some groups of reborn may possess more than others.”

His next words were directed at his troop trainer. “Do I need to go out there and sear the landscape?” Titus asked the woman whose features struck Sharine as oddly familiar.

Had Sharine painted her? She couldn’t recall. But the flame of hair, the shape of the eyes, the dual-colored wings, she’d seen those before. It was on the tip of her tongue.

“No, the sludge was contained in the cellar, so we used fire to destroy it.”

“Then take this time to rest.” Titus slapped the woman on the shoulder. “I’ve just had a report from Ozias that she’s seeing more daylight movement from the reborn. We might soon be fighting every hour of the day.”

A bow of her head before Tanae took off . . . and it was then, in the flash of wings gray and white, that Sharine found her answer. “Galen,” she murmured, her eyes filling with the image of an angelic warrior with choppily cut red hair and eyes of peridot green, his wings gray with white striations visible only in flight.

“Tanae and my second Tzadiq’s son,” Titus told her. “Galen was a commander in my forces before that pup Raphael stole him away.” No humor in those words, but his grim expression had nothing to do with Galen’s defection.

“This is what we’re facing,” he said almost to himself. “An endless surge of infection, mutation, and death. Charisemnon and Lijuan released something monstrous into our world.”

In that moment, he was Titus, Archangel of Africa and member of the Cadre, responsibility a weight on his wide shoulders. “If the creatures are becoming more intelligent—”

A hard shake of his head. “You think we could communicate with them?” Deep lines bracketing his mouth, he said, “We tried. I have no desire to exterminate people if they simply have the bad luck to be infected with a disease.” His muscles bunched taut under his skin as he folded his arms. “But the reborn’s intelligence isn’t even that of a hunting leopard. The leopard lies in wait for prey, pouncing and taking down its meal.”

As if aware its larger feline brethren were under discussion, a cat with a dark yellow-orange coat and black spots, its ears pointed, padded over to rub its head against Titus’s boot. Hunkering down, his pants stretching over his thighs, he scratched the cat behind the ears.

“But the leopard hunts to eat,” he continued, “and to protect its territory. The reborn? Their sole purpose is to spread death—in no world can the reborn exist with any other species; the creatures maul and murder any living being that crosses their path, including animals.” He looked up, his onyx eyes holding her prisoner. “The reborn are filled with the murderous desire of their original creator.”

Lijuan, Archangel of the Dead . . . and a woman who’d sought to subjugate the entire world.

Rising to his feet in a flowing movement, Titus said, “Let’s eat so I can get back to my duties.” His voice was of an archangel giving an order.

Sharine had been in sympathy with him until then, but now her fingers twitched once more for her blade. Surely she began to understand why New York Tower’s internal walls had holes that could only be explained by knives slamming into them. It must be most satisfying for Elena to throw such blades at Raphael’s head when he acted the fool.

But Raphael would never dare speak to Elena so preemptively—he respected her as a fellow warrior. Titus, meanwhile, considered Sharine a broken bird he had to babysit. “I wouldn’t want to keep you,” she said in a voice that dripped with honey. “Please, take what you need and feel free to fly.”

The look he gave her was a scowl mixed with pure befuddlement. An extraordinary expression to witness on the rough-hewn handsomeness of his face, but it quickly gave way to a calming smile. “You must be tired by the journey.” Soothing words, the natural volume of his voice irritatingly modulated. “Come, a little food will be exactly what you need.”

He was treating her like a fractious horse. She’d give him calm in a minute.

Spine taut, she waved off his offers of help and seated herself at the table, her wings falling gracefully to either side of the specially designed chairback. The table in front of them was set with sumptuous dishes—far too complicated a meal for a citadel that was fighting a deadly battle—and it just lit a fire under her already simmering temper.

Then Titus spoke. “I fear my cook was so excited by the prospect of a formal meal after weeks of simply feeding everyone as fast as possible that it appears he let it go to his head.” Loud, warm laughter, flowing over her like water. “Ah well, we shall eat richly this morn and so will anyone else in the citadel who manages to grab a plateful of this feast.”