Archangel's Sun (Guild Hunter #13)(34)

Two younger males started to step forward, protective fear bunching their muscles, but the elder shook his head. “I will come, my lord Archangel.” Breathless words, his skin losing blood. “Until I am gone, this duty and any punishment we must take is mine.”

Titus saw it was all going wrong; he looked to Sharine once more. Her mind touched his—he hadn’t known she could do that, but as he was coming to learn, there was a lot he didn’t know about Sharine. She was an old, old being and simply because she preferred to live in a world of art had no bearing on her levels of power.

The world—and Titus—should’ve paid attention to the biggest clue out there: Illium. Sharine’s son was already being talked off as a future archangel though he was barely past five hundred years of age. Why had they all assumed such power had come from his father’s blood alone? Even Raphael, the son of two archangels, hadn’t been that violently powerful at such a young age.

Why had no one ever considered what gifts Sharine had bequeathed her son?

Ask for tea, she said into his mind.

I don’t drink tea, he said, after taking a moment to cope with the song of her voice; it was even more luxuriant on the mental level. They will think me deranged if I ask for tea.

A narrowing of her eyes. Then ask for ale, your archangelic lordship. The last words couldn’t have been more sarcastic had she tried.

But since she seemed to know what she was doing, he looked at the scared and angry young men who’d tried to step up, and said, “Bring us ale!” Then he turned his attention to the old man. “You and I need to discuss the future of this village now that I am your archangel.”

Terror smashed into the villagers, locking muscle onto bone and transforming their blood to ice.

Wanting to groan, he glanced helplessly at Sharine. This never happened with his own people—they trusted him. He’d have to stop forgetting that Charisemnon had taught his people fear instead of trust.

Sharine emitted a mental sigh. People keep telling me you are charming. CHARM.

Glaring at her sounded like a wonderful idea except that he’d been told his visage could appear fearsome when he was in a bad mood, and such would probably cause the terrified villagers to expire on the spot. He decided to break out a smile. “I should warn you that I killed that festering boil, that dog’s excrement, that insult to the Cadre who was your previous archangel.”

THAT’S your idea of charm?

Ignoring the incredulous comment, he continued on, “I don’t know what he told you of me; hear the truth from my own lips—I despised him and all he represented. The only people who have to fear reprisal from me are his toadies and enforcers.”

Those ones, Titus would not forgive, no matter what. Unlike these villagers, the others’ had been powerful enough to have a choice—even if that choice was to die with honor, or defect to another archangel’s territory. He’d been right there at the border and he’d protected previous defectors. No, he’d never trusted those defectors, but he hadn’t harmed them.

“All others,” he added, ensuring his voice carried, “especially mortals he treated as prey, are safe from my wrath.”

Wrath? You had to use the word wrath?

It took effort to keep his smile pinned on his face. We need to have a conversation about your respect for archangels.

I had a son with one, was the quelling response. That waste of immortal cells puts on his pants the same way as any other man.

Thankfully, the headman gave Titus a shaky smile at that instant and Titus had an excuse to turn his mind to other matters. “You are willing to speak?” he asked, to be certain the man wouldn’t quiver throughout—he didn’t have the time to coax words, needed information quickly.

“Yes.” A firm—and loud—agreement. “If you don’t mind me to say, my lord Archangel, I’m glad you have a strong voice. I can barely hear everyone else—they just whisper and murmur and what good comes of that?”

“Exactly!” Titus went to clap him on the back, only at the last minute realizing he’d probably break him; he still did it, just held back most of his power.

Meanwhile, two villagers had set up a table a way down from the children, now placed a pair of seats there. Neither was suitable for an angel’s wings, so Titus simply flipped one the wrong way around and straddled it.

The headman settled across from him and waited until one of the youths had poured their ale before saying, “My son.”

“You are justifiably proud,” Titus said, though he knew nothing of the youth. See, he said to his own personal haunt. I can be polite and charming.

Her mental snort was even louder this time.

Deciding to ignore her—let her see what she was missing—he turned his attention fully on the headman. “Tell me what I need to know.” Then, for some reason he didn’t understand, he opened a mental link with Sharine so she could listen in on the conversation.

Being able to so invite others to hear what he did wasn’t a skill possessed by many, and he’d only gained the capacity in the second half of his reign, but it was useful when utilized. Stopped having to repeat information.

Sharine didn’t protest the link.

“I need to come up to speed with my new territory.” Titus had no actual desire to rule Northern Africa; unlike some, he didn’t hunger for huge swaths of territory. He’d been quite content with his half of the continent—it was enough space to accommodate his power as an archangel and it allowed him to take care of his people as he wished.