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.
But if he had to have the entire continent under his wing for the time being, then he’d do a good job of it. “You seem like the kind of person who would know all there is to know about this village and the surrounding ones.”
“I keep my eyes open—even if I can’t hear so well.” The old man’s chuckle seemed to take the last of the tension out of the villagers. The group finally began to dissipate—sending awed looks at their archangel as they did so.
Titus allowed his wings to spread, allowed the mortals to admire his feathers.
Not obvious at all.
He asked himself why he’d opened the channel—but didn’t close it. I see tiny mortal hands on your wings, he grumbled back. Angels don’t permit just anyone to touch their wings.
They aren’t just anyone—they’re babies, was the sharp reply.
For some bizarre reason, he was tempted to smile; perhaps he’d unknowingly eaten mushrooms that were playing havoc with his mind. “Tell me what you have seen,” he said to the headman.
“Dark things.” Sadness washed through the seams of his weathered face. “We were not a wealthy village before it all began, but we were more than able to take care of ourselves and to send our smart young ones to the city for studies. So I suppose we were wealthy in a way. Plenty of food, enough to tithe to the archangel and still—”
“Tithe?” Titus knew such things happened, but most archangels had more than enough wealth and power not to bother—or even if they did, perhaps because they preferred to support their people in other ways, it was a minor amount. With so many people in each territory, a tiny bushelful of anything added up to thousands of pounds.
Titus was no farmer and so his court just bought supplies from those who were; it kept his people thriving for their harvests bought good value to their home regions, and it meant his court could focus on other matters. Even now, reborn threat or not, he was paying for supplies—with his people under strict instructions to buy only the excess, never what the farmer needed for his own family, or the settlement needed for itself.
The rest, Yash was having shipped in from territories that weren’t dealing with a scourge of reborn. He wondered if Sharine knew that Yash had recently bought out the excess olives produced by Lumia’s town. But that wasn’t a matter for today.
“Half our harvest.” The elder swallowed and seemed to build himself up. “We are sorry, my lord Archangel. Most of our harvest was destroyed by the reborn. We can give you what—”
Titus waved off the coming question. “I do not ask for a tithe—though I do ask that all those with fertile land continue to plant when they can. We can’t always rely on offshore sources.” It wasn’t a thing of pride but practicality. “The supply chain isn’t always guaranteed.”
“Yes, yes. Of course that is the way.” The headman smiled at Titus, once more in good humor. “So we were all eating well enough and living our lives. Then the evil came. The rotting ones.”
“The reborn?”
“Yes, that’s what the younger ones call them. But to me, they are the darkness.” He coughed, the sound rough and hard, a rattle in his chest. “We had a little warning of their arrival for we’d placed scouts in the trees and they screamed out that the darkness was coming.”
A wet sheen in his eyes. “But we’d miscalculated the creatures’ speed. They came so very fast.” His shoulders fell. “We lost the scouts. Our fastest young men ran home with bloodied throats and began to change in front of our eyes . . .”