Archangel's Resurrection (Guild Hunter #15)(91)

Nodding, Sharine retrieved one of the sample containers she’d brought along in the pocket of the flying jacket Illium had gifted her. “Since you’re an adventurer now, Mother,” the blue-winged angel had said with a grin.

Of sleek brown leather that was lined within, it suited Sharine’s slim form. But he knew she would’ve worn it with equal joy had it not suited her at all. Because Sharine knew how to love, and she loved her son.

So did Titus. Illium was a difficult angel not to love.

“I suppose,” Sharine said after she’d taken the sample, “the only way to be certain is to topple the cairn, look beneath.”

Titus grimaced. “To disturb the rest of an archangel without cause is an act of dishonor, even war.” Especially when that archangel had been so badly wounded. “This, I can’t do on my own—I must have the backing of the entire Cadre. Elsewise, if I find him lying cold in the ground exactly where he should be, it’ll cause a wave of distrust and aggression.”

“Because if Titus, Archangel of Southern Africa, can so rudely disturb one archangel in Sleep, what’s to stop him from doing the same to another?” Sharine murmured.

“You see it, Shari.” Titus wasn’t a man who liked to walk away from a possible problem, but in simply acting, he’d create a far bigger one. Their world had barely recovered from one war. It didn’t need another. “We fly home and I gather the Cadre.”



* * *



*

The ensuing meeting, done via screens, went as expected. There was no consensus. Especially after Titus revealed that his scientists’ tests on the sample had come back as inconclusive. The material had been contaminated before it froze, and could as easily be a bit of decaying flotsam that had washed ashore as it could be evidence of a reborn.

Aegaeon—and surprisingly—Qin would not have a wounded Ancient disturbed without further proof.

Neha joined them. “I must agree,” she said, her face drawn and no sign once again of the saris she’d once always worn for meetings of the Cadre; she did, however, sport a thin snake of bright orange as a necklace.

The creature flicked out its tongue as she said, “If we react to any small disturbance by digging up Antonicus, he’ll never have any rest.”

She’s right, Titus said in a mental aside to Zanaya and Alexander both. Much as it pains me to admit.

Yes. Zanaya’s voice. To disturb him when his cairn lies solemn and still, I wouldn’t consider it either did I not have the sense of a terrible darkness creeping closer.

Will you be content to watch and wait then?

Zanaya gave a small nod, while the conversation went on around them. And hunt, she added. Something is in your territory and it’s making its way up into mine. Neither one of us can lower our guard.

If you need more squadrons or for me to join you in the hunt, Alexander said, you have but to ask.

We may well do that, my friend. But for now, there’s no outbreak. What we hunt is a creature of cunning.

The meeting ended soon afterward. Titus saw Neha’s lips part before it did, was certain the Archangel of India was about to speak, but then she closed her mouth and logged off.

The Cadre was no longer in session.





49


Antonicus dropped the body of his latest piece of food and felt it, the stretching awake of his true power. The power of an archangel. At last.

He’d been pathetically weak when he’d crawled out of the cold grave in which his so-called brethren had entombed him. But he’d been clever still, hadn’t he? He hadn’t made a show of it, had used what pitiful flickers of power remained to tunnel all the way out into the ocean before he swam back to shore to regather his strength.

No trace of disturbance. No sign of an awakening to alert the enemy.

He could still feel the ice-cold water shoving into his mouth and nose, wrapping its frigid hand around his throat, burning his eyes. The cold had been immense. He’d known that . . . but he hadn’t much felt it. He hadn’t drowned either. Hadn’t died.

Because you are already dead, Antonicus. A whisper from deep within his psyche.

Shoving both hands through his hair, he roared out a “No!” to the silent forest around him, while his victim lay twitching below. Removing his sword, he sliced off the food’s head. Antonicus had been careful to hoard his energy, only make a certain kind of reborn.

It had . . . disturbed him at first when he felt the craving to share the noxious darkness within, create others like him. He’d had flashes of shambling, mindless creatures, images of an archangel whose power was death. And that was when he’d understood: this was power. And he wasn’t one of Lijuan’s shambling creatures; no, Antonicus was an archangel. That bitch hadn’t made him a reborn. He’d stolen her power, made himself a master of the reborn.

But Antonicus’s reborn were better. Stronger, more intelligent, faster. The weakling he’d just fed on wasn’t one of his chosen, wasn’t worthy of being reborn. His only purpose had been to push Antonicus over the edge of energy.

He wouldn’t lie. It had concerned him when the elements hadn’t reflected his awakening—though the silence had been to his advantage. The waters hadn’t boiled, the sky hadn’t altered to the shade of the dark blooms of violet that his people had sown all across his lands in homage to their archangel.