Archangel's Sun (Guild Hunter #13)(27)

“My people seem to find my voice just fine, too, but others are weak and lily-livered.” It was a gauntlet he’d just thrown down, pushed to the edge by her . . . He didn’t know what it was about the Hummingbird that aggravated him, and that just turned the aggravation up another notch.

The edge of her mouth lifted slightly, her extraordinary eyes filling with an effervescence he could’ve sworn was laughter. “I agree with you,” she said in that mellifluous voice rich with tonal layers. “You’re an archangel fighting a deadly scourge. Those who expect you to waste time pandering to their needs should be ashamed to call themselves warriors.”

He glared at her, not sure if she was making fun of him or not. Regardless, there was nothing he could do about it. She was the Hummingbird. Angelkind would disown him should he lay a finger on her. Not that he would. But it was the principle of the thing. “I am an archangel,” he boomed. “I am the law in this territory.”

She bowed deep and precise. “Of course.”

He felt like he’d just been petted on the head, much as an indulgent mother might do to a small child who was puffing himself up. Growling in his chest, he decided to do as advised by a long-ago trainer, and take a step back.

The adversary he faced wasn’t a simple one; to win this war he’d have to be cunning and stealthy. Neither of which was exactly his strong suit, but if he changed cunning to strategy . . . yes, that made more sense. “Please take this opportunity to rest your wings. We fly when the sun is high in the sky.”

It was the longest break he could give her. He’d use the time to brief Tzadiq, Orios, Tanae, and the others of his senior court—including Ozias; his spymaster was on her way back to Narja, close enough now that he could reach her with his mind. The short of it was that Titus’s people had to push on with the eradication process. They couldn’t stop for a single day. Not with the rapid-fire spread of infection.

Even with his many soldiers spread out across the territory, they couldn’t protect every village and every town and every city. People were dying. People were being taken by the reborn and changed into a rotting abomination of life. Fathers were having to kill mothers before a mauled loved one became a creature of nightmare. Children were becoming orphans all over his territory . . . if the little ones survived at all.

This war was more heartbreaking than any he’d ever before fought.





14


    Sire, I fly to join your court in the spring, a season out from my hundredth birthday. You do me a great honor in accepting me into your army.

I know that part of it is because of your respect for my mother, but I will prove myself to you in the years to come, until you do not think of me as your first general’s son, but only as Titus.

—Letter from Titus to Archangel Alexander





15


Sharine rested first and foremost; her just over three hours of sleep rejuvenated her a considerable amount. Afterward, she put together the items she’d need for this journey. It wouldn’t be much. This was about speed and about what she needed to keep up with Titus.

The latter was why she stopped a harried member of staff and asked them to show her to the kitchens.

Eyes wide, the individual with smooth skin the hue of rich cream, a shaved head, and the barest impression of breasts against the court’s brown and gold livery, said, “My lady. I can bring you anything—”

“It’ll be faster if I can talk to the cook myself,” she said. “But I thank you for your care.”

A couple of hard swallows, but the staff member nonetheless didn’t protest any longer and led her to a huge kitchen filled with heat and light, and the energetic bustle of those who worked to prepare enough food to fuel this massive army.

Spotting her before his minions, the clear king of this space—a man of medium height blocky with muscle—rushed over. “My lady.” He bowed over her hand, his black hair tightly braided in neat rows against his scalp and his skin a light shade of brown. “You do me a great honor.”

“You are a fellow artist and I would speak to you of your divine dishes,” she said, because it was true. “Today, however, I come to ask you for something simpler.” She told him what she needed. “If it’ll take too much of your time, I can adapt.”

His face lit up, his rich brown eyes shining buttons in a face that was naturally plump and would probably stay that way all his life, regardless of the ongoing effects of vampirism. Some mortals seemed to have a presence so strong, it held sway no matter what. Raphael’s second, Dmitri, fell in that camp.

“No, it isn’t difficult at all,” the cook said. “We keep a store of prepared bars for our warriors who can’t stop for a full meal.” Rushing into what looked like a cool storage room, he returned with his hands full of bars that contained high levels of energy. “How many do you need?”

“This is more than enough.” Accepting the handfuls, she took a moment to look around the kitchen. “You must be tired, for this has been a continuous effort.” Even the most powerful angels needed constant replenishment when they were expending so much energy on a daily basis—including in healing wounds.

“What does it matter to be a little tired if what I do helps us fight the ugliness of the scourge?” His fangs flashed as he spoke, his shoulders square with justifiable pride.