Archangel's Enigma
Page 60
Unlike Andromeda, he didn’t have to wait for an escort to enter Caliane’s territory. The city shield knew him, opened automatically in a welcome that was a ripple of archangelic power over his skin. The only person who could revoke his access was Caliane.
He picked up Andromeda’s scent the instant he hit the temperate air of Amanat; it was a shiny, delicious thread in the active mix of a thriving city.
“Naasir!”
He waved at the friend who’d called out to him from the second story of a nearby building, but didn’t stop. Isabel’s cool, clean scent crossed with Andromeda’s at one point, then both scents ran parallel toward the walled courtyard Isabel used as a sparring ground.
He grinned when he heard the clash of swords.
Loping up a wall on one side of the sparring ground, he crouched on top and watched Isabel and Andromeda dance with blades. His former partner in Amanat was good . . . but Andromeda was better. He hadn’t expected that. Neither, he saw, had Isabel. Naasir knew her, could read her expressions, tell when Andromeda’s moves surprised her.
Because, Naasir realized, Andromeda fought instinctively.
Dahariel had given her an excellent grounding, but she adapted her moves to the flow of combat, causing Isabel to have to rethink her more classical style. His eyes narrowed. That wasn’t just skill, not given Andromeda’s age—the instinct came from within.
She was an archangel’s granddaughter.
But where her mother wasted the strength that ran in her veins, Andromeda had honed it, made it her own. When she put her blade to Isabel’s throat in a move that signaled a win, her chest heaving but her hand steady, he wanted to growl in pride. Instead, he waited until the women drew apart and raised their swords in front of their faces in the respectful bow of two warriors.
Jumping down to the ground, he saw Andromeda’s head whip around. “Naasir!” She ran straight into his arms, sword thrust into a scabbard that hung alongside one of her thighs. He recognized it as one of Isabel’s.
And then she was cupping his face in her hands and all he could see was the clear brown of her irises, the golden starburst around her pupils bright. “You’re safe!”
Sliding his arms around her under her wings, he picked her up and spun her around. “You were worried about me.” He could look after himself, but it seemed right that a mate should worry.
“Of course I was worried.” Andromeda pretended to hit his shoulders as he held her up off the ground, but it was more a caress than censure. “You took your time getting here.”
Really wanting to kiss her—stupid Grimoire—he put her on the ground and sneakily petted her wings.
She shot him a minatory look but her lips were tugging up at the corners, her eyes sparkling. Playing with him again. Their own secret game. When her fingers brushed his, he closed his hand over hers. “I had to avoid Lijuan’s squadron,” he told her and Isabel. “They’re waiting for Andi to emerge from Amanat.”
Hands on her hips, Isabel asked for further information. “Hmm,” she said afterward. “Let them skulk about for now. We’ll eliminate the four from the equation when you and Andi are ready to leave—we don’t want to give Philomena a chance to send reinforcements or replacements.”
“We can do it,” he said, including both women in his statement.
Isabel shook her head. “Caliane’s squadrons need the experience and the confidence that comes from defeating the enemy.”
Naasir decided he could allow the squadron that; this prey wasn’t very interesting. “I need to speak to Caliane.” The Ancient would expect him. He wasn’t hers, but she thought of him as hers while he was here, and regardless, she had his respect.
Caliane might be an archangel known for her grace and the haunting beauty of her voice, but she had the same killer instinct as Naasir—and the same devotion to family.
* * *
Andromeda was still giddy with relief an hour later when Naasir climbed up to her balcony and walked into her room through the open doors. He’d bathed somewhere, was dressed in clean jeans and a white collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Made of either a fine cotton or linen, it was washed soft and fit him so well that she knew it was his. He must’ve left clothes in Amanat.
Walking over to where she was sitting on the edge of her bed making notes on a small pad, he sat down beside her and nuzzled at her. She should’ve stopped him but she didn’t. His warm breath, his warmer skin, his quintessentially masculine scent, the dampness of his freshly washed hair, it all felt too good, felt like the best thing she would ever feel.
“Did you feed?” she asked in a husky tone, having noticed the fine lines of strain on his face when he first arrived.
“Yes.” He sprawled on the bed behind her—as if he had every right to just take over her space. “Have you seen the angel we rescued?”
Andromeda turned to sit with one leg bent and on the bed, curling her fingers into her palm to keep from reaching out and stroking the hard muscle of his thigh. “No, she’s in anshara.”
“She was brave,” Naasir said, his tone matter-of-fact. “She’ll survive.”
“The body, yes, but I worry about her mind and her heart.”
“When she wakes, she’ll make a choice to live or to die while living.” Starkly solemn words. “No one can make it for her.”
That metal hand, it was back, crushing her chest. “Did you ever have to do that?” she whispered.
“Yes, when I was created. I decided to live and to be me.”
He picked up Andromeda’s scent the instant he hit the temperate air of Amanat; it was a shiny, delicious thread in the active mix of a thriving city.
“Naasir!”
He waved at the friend who’d called out to him from the second story of a nearby building, but didn’t stop. Isabel’s cool, clean scent crossed with Andromeda’s at one point, then both scents ran parallel toward the walled courtyard Isabel used as a sparring ground.
He grinned when he heard the clash of swords.
Loping up a wall on one side of the sparring ground, he crouched on top and watched Isabel and Andromeda dance with blades. His former partner in Amanat was good . . . but Andromeda was better. He hadn’t expected that. Neither, he saw, had Isabel. Naasir knew her, could read her expressions, tell when Andromeda’s moves surprised her.
Because, Naasir realized, Andromeda fought instinctively.
Dahariel had given her an excellent grounding, but she adapted her moves to the flow of combat, causing Isabel to have to rethink her more classical style. His eyes narrowed. That wasn’t just skill, not given Andromeda’s age—the instinct came from within.
She was an archangel’s granddaughter.
But where her mother wasted the strength that ran in her veins, Andromeda had honed it, made it her own. When she put her blade to Isabel’s throat in a move that signaled a win, her chest heaving but her hand steady, he wanted to growl in pride. Instead, he waited until the women drew apart and raised their swords in front of their faces in the respectful bow of two warriors.
Jumping down to the ground, he saw Andromeda’s head whip around. “Naasir!” She ran straight into his arms, sword thrust into a scabbard that hung alongside one of her thighs. He recognized it as one of Isabel’s.
And then she was cupping his face in her hands and all he could see was the clear brown of her irises, the golden starburst around her pupils bright. “You’re safe!”
Sliding his arms around her under her wings, he picked her up and spun her around. “You were worried about me.” He could look after himself, but it seemed right that a mate should worry.
“Of course I was worried.” Andromeda pretended to hit his shoulders as he held her up off the ground, but it was more a caress than censure. “You took your time getting here.”
Really wanting to kiss her—stupid Grimoire—he put her on the ground and sneakily petted her wings.
She shot him a minatory look but her lips were tugging up at the corners, her eyes sparkling. Playing with him again. Their own secret game. When her fingers brushed his, he closed his hand over hers. “I had to avoid Lijuan’s squadron,” he told her and Isabel. “They’re waiting for Andi to emerge from Amanat.”
Hands on her hips, Isabel asked for further information. “Hmm,” she said afterward. “Let them skulk about for now. We’ll eliminate the four from the equation when you and Andi are ready to leave—we don’t want to give Philomena a chance to send reinforcements or replacements.”
“We can do it,” he said, including both women in his statement.
Isabel shook her head. “Caliane’s squadrons need the experience and the confidence that comes from defeating the enemy.”
Naasir decided he could allow the squadron that; this prey wasn’t very interesting. “I need to speak to Caliane.” The Ancient would expect him. He wasn’t hers, but she thought of him as hers while he was here, and regardless, she had his respect.
Caliane might be an archangel known for her grace and the haunting beauty of her voice, but she had the same killer instinct as Naasir—and the same devotion to family.
* * *
Andromeda was still giddy with relief an hour later when Naasir climbed up to her balcony and walked into her room through the open doors. He’d bathed somewhere, was dressed in clean jeans and a white collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Made of either a fine cotton or linen, it was washed soft and fit him so well that she knew it was his. He must’ve left clothes in Amanat.
Walking over to where she was sitting on the edge of her bed making notes on a small pad, he sat down beside her and nuzzled at her. She should’ve stopped him but she didn’t. His warm breath, his warmer skin, his quintessentially masculine scent, the dampness of his freshly washed hair, it all felt too good, felt like the best thing she would ever feel.
“Did you feed?” she asked in a husky tone, having noticed the fine lines of strain on his face when he first arrived.
“Yes.” He sprawled on the bed behind her—as if he had every right to just take over her space. “Have you seen the angel we rescued?”
Andromeda turned to sit with one leg bent and on the bed, curling her fingers into her palm to keep from reaching out and stroking the hard muscle of his thigh. “No, she’s in anshara.”
“She was brave,” Naasir said, his tone matter-of-fact. “She’ll survive.”
“The body, yes, but I worry about her mind and her heart.”
“When she wakes, she’ll make a choice to live or to die while living.” Starkly solemn words. “No one can make it for her.”
That metal hand, it was back, crushing her chest. “Did you ever have to do that?” she whispered.
“Yes, when I was created. I decided to live and to be me.”
