His eye fell on the small velvet box that sat on the table beside his bed.
Tzadiq had come through for him on the highly specific item Titus had asked him to procure. Removing it from the box, he slipped it into a pocket in his pants with care, then pulled on his sword harness. Thrusting his swords into place on his back not long afterward, he looked at himself in the mirror and nodded. He looked what he was: a warrior in mind to court and win his lady.
Titus didn’t even think of failure. That way lay a paralyzing anguish.
His first step, however, was to find his second.
“It’s good to see you, sire.” Tzadiq clasped forearms with him, the two of them coming into the back-slapping embrace of warriors.
“I thank you, Tzadiq.” He didn’t need to spell out why—Tzadiq had run the territory while Titus was in the field; it had been a sacrifice to remove him from battle, and he knew Tzadiq had chafed at being in the citadel, but his second also understood the reason why.
There was no point in winning the war if the territory collapsed in the interim.
“Is there anything I should know?” Tzadiq had kept him up to date with daily briefings until Titus began the journey home.
“A number of updates.” After quickly going through the list, Tzadiq ran his eyes over Titus. “I see you’re going courting.”
“She is a rare treasure. But I’m a rare man. I will win her.” It was a hope rather than a certainty; for the first time in his existence, he knew this was a private battle he could lose and lose hard.
“I wish you well, sire. Lady Sharine would be a most glorious consort.”
It was a dream potent and piercing.
“Focus on wooing her first,” he ordered himself as he left the citadel. “Until she can’t be without you.” After all, he already dreamed of her every night, only to wake with an aching sense of loss.
It took him longer than usual to fly to Lumia, as he stopped multiple times on this side of the continent, too—including at the village where he’d shared mead with the headman in what felt akin to another lifetime.
A lifetime in which he hadn’t yet understood who Sharine was to him. Such seemed an impossibility now, she was so embedded in every part of him.
“Archangel!” The headman was alive and well, his eyes sparkling and his legs planted on the soil of a freshly turned plot. Hands pressed atop the handle of a spade, he beamed at Titus. “You kept your promise.” A wetter shine in his eyes and no hint of a cough in his voice. “Our village didn’t starve and now we begin to grow again.”
These small wins, Titus knew, were the fertile soil in which would grow the loyalty of this entire new section of his territory. When he flew on, it was with the knowledge that he’d continue to face pockets of sullen dislike for years to come, but he was an immortal.
Time was on his side.
He stopped to wash himself and his clothes the next morn, and they dried as he flew; he crossed the border into Lumia at sunset, the scouts acknowledging his presence while staying out of his way. He knew they’d warn Sharine of his arrival—he might be the archangel of this territory, but he wasn’t Archangel of Lumia. Lumia was its own small civilization, one that belonged to all angelkind, and functioned under the auspices of the Cadre as a group.
Unfortunately, it also meant no one gave him early warning that another archangel was about to land in Lumia. From the steep rate of Aegaeon’s descent, the blue-green donkey had flown high above the cloud layer as he crossed the border into Titus’s land on his way to Lumia. High enough that no one could accuse him of breaching Titus’s territory.
His destination was Lumia, his target Sharine.
Titus’s hands curled into heavy fists, his wings beginning to glow.
47
Titus. A voice layered in silks and built of music, from a woman who stood on a distant rooftop, her gown a floating creation that reminded him of starlight. I see you.
Her unhidden happiness punctured the bubble of his fury. Shari. Your wings glow against the falling night. But he couldn’t simply admire and charm her as he’d planned, not with the blue-green irritation on the horizon. What is the donkey doing here?
If you mean Aegaeon, he wishes a conversation. She didn’t turn to look up at the plummeting form of the archangel who’d once been her lover. Don’t murder him. I’ll deal with this myself.
Titus’s spine felt as if it would snap; to not act as her shield went against every part of his nature. Shari! It came out a mental boom when he’d been aiming for calm and considerate.
This battle is mine, Titus. His metaphorical blood is mine. Pure tempered steel.
His Shari was a warrior, he reminded himself. Not the kind of warrior to whom he’d long been used, but a warrior nonetheless. And Aegaeon’s hide was hers to take. But another thing was also true: I won’t be able to help myself if I’m there on the roof with him.
I know. His posturing will lead to bloodshed. She spread out her wings in a dazzling display that he knew was a caress. Land elsewhere while I do this—but you can listen in.
About to argue before she added that last, he snapped his mouth shut just as she reversed their mental link so he could hear what was going on in her conversation. Extraordinary. It’d taken him a chunk of his reign as an archangel before he’d worked out that technique.
Sharine was never going to stop surprising him.
She had within her knives far more lethal than Aegaeon realized.
Smiling with a sudden grim anticipation, he shifted course to land on a nearby mountaintop scattered with rocks and the odd hardy grass. He was not in the mood for people. He was also fast enough to intercede should Aegaeon forget himself and dare lay a hand on Titus’s Sharine.
The silken blue-green of Aegaeon’s hair was showcased to perfection against the falling edge of the day, his eyes equally brilliant against the gold of his skin. He’d put on silver upper-body armor that hid the silver swirl on his chest, but that armor was more decoration than protection.
Silver bands clasped his biceps, and on one wrist—
Sharine fought back a scowl. Had she thought of it, she’d have expected the sight of the thick heavy bracelet to be a kick to the stomach, but all she felt was a wave of irritation. Metalwork wasn’t her forte, but she’d spent an entire month working on the piece because she’d been so enamored of her—then—new love.
If she could go back in time . . . No, she wouldn’t slap herself. She’d be kind to the woman who’d never had a chance to heal from the first mental fracture before the second widened it to a dangerous fragility.
She’d been a hurt creature who’d thought the best of people. That didn’t make her weak. Because from that same inner empathy came her art. It existed in her to this day—what didn’t were the thinly papered-over cracks that had made her susceptible to Aegaeon’s surface charm.
“Sharine.” Aegaeon smiled, folding back wings of an intense dark green streaked with a wild blue that reminded her of Illium.
Their son, mischievous and loving, whom Aegaeon had abandoned.
“I assume you’re the reason Titus altered course?” His smile now cut grooves into his cheeks. “It’s good you made it clear to him that this is a private dinner—it’ll be a delight to speak and eat in quiet intimacy.”
When he went to reach for her, she said, “I can throw bolts of power now,” in a pleasant tone of voice. “Shall I separate your hand from your wrist?”