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.
Sharine didn’t ask how a vampire, a being whose system couldn’t process anything but small quantities of food, had ended up cook to an archangel, just smiled at him. “Yes, you and your people provide the fuel for this great engine.”
He was beaming when she left.
Once back in her room, she put the bars in her little pack, then stood there for a second and for the first time, thought of what she’d done with the burrow, how she’d exposed it with her power. Her hand tingled. Looking down, she saw a shadow of the champagne energy that had erupted from her.
It stirred deep within her, so potent that it stole her breath, but still only half-awake. An energy left unused so very long that it had grown darker and denser with each passing century.
Of what was she capable? It had been an eon since she’d allowed herself free rein. First, she’d throttled her power in a vain effort to hold on to her parents, then it had fallen by the wayside of her art but for the few occasions she’d been forced to use it, as on that long-ago battlefield. Then she’d . . . forgotten it.
A youngling like Obren wouldn’t understand how a person could forget a central element of their nature, but while angelic memory was in many ways infinite, that didn’t mean you could always access what had been stored away so very long ago. An angel as old as Sharine, especially one whose mind had carried fractures for so long, could’ve forgotten many lives, many pieces of her existence.
The realization haunted her even as she stepped out to meet Titus for their journey to the abandoned settlement.
Responsibility lay a heavy cloak over his shoulders.
He didn’t speak as they took off, and neither did she, her mind busy with myriad flashes of memory as she attempted to pinpoint the moment when she’d forgotten the power that lived in her veins.
The knowledge had been lost long before she bore Illium, her babe who’d grown into a dangerously powerful man. And she’d never known it with Aegaeon, either. But the time between her childhood and before that critical point in her life was an eternity that spilled out to the horizon.
Head aching from the futility of it, she finally stopped tugging at the memory threads. That could wait. Right now, she had to watch Titus’s back, ensure he didn’t get taken unawares by anything. He was flying to her left and slightly ahead, his wings powerful, while she rode the draft created in his wake.
Oh.
He was doing it on purpose. The man might be a blockhead who thought she’d collapse at a loud voice, but he was also an honorable and clever warrior. That was one of the few facts she knew about him. All her information on Titus came from comments made by those who served at Lumia, and a few passing words from Illium.
He was beloved of his people.
He was beloved of women.
He was a man of honor and truth.
He was a warrior who showed no mercy against evil.
He wasn’t a scholar and his court wasn’t a scholarly one—but Sharine no longer took that particular tidbit as fact. Not after hearing him speak of warrior-scholars, and, on her return from the kitchens, glimpsing a number of people working in a great library.