Archangel's Sun (Guild Hunter #13)(58)

Another screen cleared, this time to show Alexander’s face, lines pressed into his cheek and the golden strands of his hair appearing finger-combed. It was the most natural Sharine had seen Alexander since . . . a time long, long ago.

A flicker of memory that had her fingers itching for a pencil—of a young and shirtless Alexander laughing with an equally young Caliane as they contemplated jumping into a waterfall. His hair had been damp already from the spray of water, droplets rolling down his chest, his limbs more slender than they were now. And his eyes had been . . . bright, untouched by life.

Was she so very old that she’d known Alexander as a youth?

Sharine had no answer to that, time having become an endless slipstream in her mind. But she knew the memory was true; a true memory had a taste, a textured reality to it. She’d ask Caliane about it when her friend rose from anshara.

“Titus, you’ll have to excuse my appearance.” Alexander’s voice evidenced the grit of sleep. “I finally had to surrender and lay down.”

As archangels needed even less sleep than ordinary angels, he had to have been on the verge of collapse.

The other screens cleared one after the other before Titus could reply, and none of the Cadre looked any better than the rest. Suyin’s hair was sleekly wet, and damp spots marked the dust of her leathers—as if she’d dunked her head under a tap—while Raphael had streaks of what appeared to be grease on his face, and Qin just looked haggard.

Aegaeon was as bare-chested as Titus had been earlier, and on that chest was a silver swirl familiar to Sharine . . . below fresh claw marks. “One of the sick ones got me,” he muttered while using a cloth to wipe away blood crusted around the edges, the blue-green of his hair matted and as wet as Suyin’s. “Vicious animals.”

“Do you feel any effect?” Titus asked, a new stiffness to his body.

“An itch, but it’s already healing,” Aegaeon said without concern.

The most powerful among angelkind were used to being unkillable except in very specific circumstances. Those circumstances always involved another archangel.

As she looked at him, this archangel with wings of deep green streaked with wild blue, Sharine felt both a deep rumble of anger and a crashing sense of relief. She saw him now, would always see him. Aegaeon would never again fool her, and with that realization went a fear she hadn’t even realized she was carrying.

She was so glad he’d bequeathed nothing much more than a little of his coloring and a touch of his power to their son, so glad that he’d left the raising of Illium to her. Her boy would never be cruel, never purposefully cause others pain. Illium was more akin to Titus than he was to Aegaeon.

Neha was the one who first understood the import of Titus’s words. “Does your question to Aegaeon have anything to do with why you’ve called an emergency meeting when none of us have time to spare?”

“Yes. I’ve discovered evidence of a reborn angel.”

Silence.

It was Raphael who broke it. “You’re certain?” The searing blue of his eyes was locked on Titus; today, he had no Elena beside him, his consort no doubt in the city helping to handle the chaos left behind by war.

Elena and Raphael were equals when it came to their relationship. One an archangel and one an angel barely born, yet it was true. The times that she’d seen them together, never had Sharine seen dominance and submission, an alpha and a beta. Together, they were simply two people who loved each other.

Her gaze went to Titus, this arrogant, beautiful, honorable archangel who valued her opinion enough to invite her to this meeting . . . and who hadn’t thrown off her touch when she sought to offer comfort, had instead curled his fingers around hers and held on.





29


As certain as I can be without the results from my scientists,” Titus said, then described the site, the burned-out body of the angel, and the evidence of the clawlike hand. “Lady Sharine was with me and she took photographs—they’re being loaded onto the screens now.”

“What was she doing there?” Aegaeon demanded, the golden hue of his skin stretched over bone as he raged. “I’ve been told she’s extremely fragile, her mind fractured.”

Even as Sharine’s temper ignited, Titus proceeded to ignore him.

Temper morphing into humor, she had to clap a hand over her mouth to stifle the urge to laugh. If there was one thing Aegaeon couldn’t stand, it was to be ignored.

Restrain yourself, Shari. A repressive order . . . given in an amused tone.

“Look with your own eyes,” he said aloud after the photographs were all available. “None of us need scientific confirmation to know those are angelic wing bones.”

More silence, though she could see Aegaeon’s face growing hot from within. That flush of red at the very tops of his cheekbones, it was a dead giveaway to a rising temper. Be careful, Titus, she warned. Aegaeon is about to blow.

If you believe that I’m afeared of a temper tantrum from a doddering Ancient, you don’t know me at all.

She almost snorted in laughter this time. If only Aegaeon could’ve heard himself being referred to as a doddering Ancient. On the other hand—I’m of a similar vintage. As so poignantly demonstrated by her earlier memory of Alexander and Caliane. She’d forgotten her age; she’d lived too long, had too many memories in her head. All she knew was that she was old, had been old for a long time.