Archangel's Sun (Guild Hunter #13)(61)

First she removed her grimy clothes, then she washed the dirt, dust, and traces of reborn—a shudder—out of her hair. That done, she scrubbed herself down until her skin was flushed with heat and so clean that it all but squeaked. Her eyes were already closing by the time she managed to wrap a towel around her hair, but she made herself stay awake long enough to set an alarm on the old-fashioned clock on the bedstand.

She fell into bed swathed in towels and woke to the shrill bell what felt like a heartbeat later. Groaning, she looked outside and saw that while the sun had begun to set, she had time yet to prepare herself for the horrors that would come with the hours of night.

When she unwrapped the towel from around her hair, it was to discover that the strands were still damp. Brushing it out, she opened the wardrobe in an attempt to find something to wear. But nothing had altered since she’d last looked within. She found herself faced with gown after gown, floaty and pretty.

They weren’t items she’d have eschewed in another time or place, but such clothing wasn’t conducive to dealing with reborn—and if nothing else, Sharine planned to fly guard over the ground fighters and use her ability to stop reborn from attacking from the back. Wars could be fought in gowns, but these airy things would fly up and engulf her head while displaying her body to the masses.

Making a low sound in her throat, she grabbed a gown at random and threw it on the bed. Perhaps she could borrow more suitable clothing before night fell and the fight against the reborn began in earnest once more. Pulling on a robe for now, she decided to eat something before she dressed. She’d noticed a small jug and a covered platter of food in the living area when she’d first returned to her room.

The jug was still there but the platter had been changed, with the earlier food hopefully utilized by others. All of that was peripheral, however; what caught her eye was the pile of neatly folded clothing that sat on the settee in front of the low table that held the food and drink.

She walked over on curious feet to pick up the first item.

It fell open to reveal a sleeveless tunic in dark green with black embroidery around the rounded collar as well as on the hems. Modest slits at the sides meant the tunic would fit easily over her hips. While clean, it was obviously used, but she didn’t care in the least.

Smile wide, she picked up the next item. It was another tunic, this one with three-quarter sleeves—the shade was a mauve that probably wouldn’t suit her complexion, but she didn’t care about that, either. This was about practicality and being an asset rather than a liability.

The pants in the pile were a prosaic black and brown respectively. She hugged them close, not too proud to accept gifts given. Even if it was Titus who must’ve arranged those gifts.

Scowling, she nonetheless took the clothing back into her bedroom and found fresh underwear. At least she’d packed extra there. Deciding to wear the black pants with the dark green top, she left her hair down so that it would dry more easily, but pulled a hair tie around her wrist for later use.

The woman who looked back at her from the mirror was fresh-faced, no artifice or age to her. “Foolishness,” she said with a laugh and walked out onto the balcony that flowed off her bedroom.

Activity buzzed in the courtyard and in the skies, Titus’s people using the final hour of light to prepare for the night. She searched the courtyard . . . and realized she was looking for one particular warrior with wide shoulders, skin of ebony, and a smile that knocked the breath out of her.





30


    Sire, I write to you from the home of my eldest. You and I, we have spoken our good-byes, but I wouldn’t go without this final message: It is my time to Sleep, but my children will forever be your allies. Call them if you ever have need, and they will come.

Until soon, sire.

—Letter from First General Avelina to Archangel Alexander





31


Flushing as she realized she was looking for Titus, Sharine nonetheless didn’t step back inside. She needed to speak to Tanae or a senior vampiric commander, find out how best to assist.

That was when her eye caught on the wings of an angel who’d just landed, his feathers brown but for small splashes of a familiar wild blue. She looked at the sky again; she had time. Taking out her phone, she pressed the number that would link her to Illium.

It rang multiple times before he picked up. “I’ve been hefting debris,” he said, his voice a touch breathless, and his sweat-damp hair pushed off his face. “Galen says I’ve become soft, but I’d like to see him lift the wall I just did.”

Sharine smiled, well used to the byplay between Tanae’s son and her own. She had the faint idea that it was the weapons-master who’d given her son the nickname of Bluebell. “Galen’s in New York?” She knew he was based in Raphael’s Refuge territory.

“Raphael’s recalled all of us but for Aodhan.” He looked to the right. “Barbarian! My mother asks after you—though I don’t know why!”

Pale green eyes set in a square-jawed face entered the frame; Galen’s dark red hair hung shaggy and thick around his features. “Lady Sharine,” he said with a smile, “it’s good to see you.” He frowned before she could answer and then was gone in a sudden flurry of gray-and-white wings.

“An angel lost his grip on a big piece of wreckage,” Illium said, his gaze upward. “Galen has it.”