Out in Blue (11 page)

“I know that,” she said, her voice quiet but her tone serious. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Wren rubbed his face, trying to quiet the pounding of his pulse in his ears. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I didn’t want you to be afraid of me.”

“Why would I—” She sucked in a breath and edged on her hands closer to him, her eyes narrow. “Who was she?”

He stared at her in surprise.

“An old flame?”

“That’s not how I would describe her.”

“Tell me.”

Wren leaned away. Shit, this was a conversation he hadn’t planned on having. Telling her about the night Lark had attacked his family was one thing. This was a different kind of hurt, not easily expressed by simply relating the events. If anyone else had asked, he’d have refused to speak of Trinity and what had happened between them. But Gin…

Ginger frowned deeply as his silence stretched out, but determination glowed in her eyes. “Okay, this is what I think.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“There was a girl, but your gift frightened her, yes?”

He shut his eyes and nodded.

“You tried to woo her, but she wouldn’t let you get close to her because of her fear?”

“No.”

“No?”

Wren saw, in his mind’s eye, the picture perfect creature that was Trinity. Every mahogany feather and matching hair arranged just so. Her pants and halter tops always pressed and flawless. Never a speck of dirt on her.

He swallowed acid.

Beauty is not always an endearment. In Trinity’s case, the more glorious she looked, the more fragile she seemed, because there was no spark, no strength underneath. So different from the inner strength that made Ginger glow, that gave life to her exquisite features. Wren had never had a single romantic feeling for Trinity.

“Trinity was—
is
, she’s still out there somewhere—a pure-blooded archangel, born on earth about the same time I was. Despite my estrangement from the Guardians and the colonies,
she
sought
me
out a few years ago. She even left her personal bodyguards behind to spend time with me. I’m the only male archangel her age, and she wanted a baby, you see.”

Ginger’s cheeks flared scarlet. “You have a child?”

“No. She never conceived. We were together only a month before I ended it. She was terrified of me. Her desire to be a mother trumped, but didn’t eliminate, her fear. Even though I left everything up to her—I
never
did anything to her without her consent—she trembled every time I touched her and cried when we made love, if you could call it that. She never slept in the same room with me, let alone in my arms.”

“So she used you as a sperm donor, basically?”Anger flashed in Ginger’s eyes. “And you
let
her?”

He lifted his shoulders. “We are a dying species. It seemed like a worthwhile idea at the time. I have no chance of a mate in my future, thanks to Lark and this cursed gift, so I took the chance to give a child to a woman of my kind who was willing to endure me.”

“Then why did you end it before she got pregnant?”

Wren pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because even though Trinity and I weren’t mated, the odds of a child inheriting both of my psychic talents were high. I could stomach being despised, but as the weeks went by, and I realized it was not just fear, but loathing, I saw in her face, I knew I couldn’t give a child of mine to a mother who’d eventually hate him.”

Ginger didn’t follow that with another question. A long moment of quiet passed, then she leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder. She let out a long, contented sigh and shut her eyes.

“Gin…” He wrapped his arms around her and reached his wings forward, enclosing her. “You can’t imagine how much that means to me. How much
you
mean to me.”

She half-lidded her eyes and gazed at him from under her eyelashes.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, brushing her hair behind her shoulder. He dropped his head and kissed her neck.

It was the most wonderful thing to feel her arms tighten around him, aware she knew of his cursed talent. Knowing it was too much to hope for, Wren hadn’t even entertained the possibility of Ginger accepting all of him. He couldn’t get his mind around it.

“Wren?”

He lifted his head and met her gaze. At the distress he saw in her face, he stiffened, wondering if perhaps he had been too quick to relax. “What’s wrong?”

Instead of pulling away she stayed close, speaking against his skin. “I want to stay with you.”

“Gin—”

“I know how skilled Lark is, but the Guardians have an excellent chance to kill him while they rescue your father. If Lark is dead, we have nothing to—”

“Even dozens of Vin’s men might not be good enough in this case.” Wren held Ginger’s face in his hands. “If Lark escapes, my father and I—and anyone with us—won’t be safe anywhere. Lark is going to keep coming after us, and he won’t stop. I will
not
put you in that position.”

Her diamond blue eyes flashed. “And if Lark
is
killed? What would you want, Wren?”

“If…” Wren allowed himself a moment to embrace that prospect. Hope hit him hard, a physical blow. Even with the dream of Lark’s eventual demise, it had been years since Wren had allowed himself to long for a future with a woman. He’d always feared his psychic weapon would cause hurdles, but he’d granted his experience with Trinity the power to entirely crush the aspiration of ever having a mate…

A mate?

He took Ginger’s hands and turned them over to rub his thumbs over her palms, imagining the little twin scars that would be left on her skin by a mating ceremony. Warmth filled his chest.

A mate: the physical bond an archangel can make to only one other in his or her lifetime, something beyond a lover, beyond a spouse. It had been Kora’s agony that had summoned her mate from a deep sleep to her and Wren’s aid. Not only had Raphael felt Kora’s pain in his own body, he had known exactly where to find her, out in the woods.

Mates shared pleasure, as well. Lovemaking with a mate was said to be pure rapture.

Wren shivered. If he dared hope for a future with a mate, he saw Ginger in that role. She was the woman he hadn’t thought possible, the one to accept his macabre talent, to lean into his touch, to flinch when he walked
away
rather than toward her. More than he, she was the angel.

His
angel. And he’d be damned if he’d let her go.

“Well?” Ginger pressed, a hint of unease edging into her voice.

He squeezed her hands and lifted his gaze to her face. “Gin, if you were safe from that madman, there’d be nothing I’d want more than to have you at my side. The first thing I’ll do if we come back from such a victory is ask you to stay.”

The smile that spread across her face was breathtaking, and the sight seared itself into Wren’s mind. Like a blinding light, he could still see her when he looked away.

The sound of knuckles on the door didn’t surprise Wren; his sensitive hearing had alerted him to the meeting breaking up across the hall. Devin’s voice carried through the mahogany.

“Wren? We’re preparing to leave.”

Wren pulled Ginger close for a deep but too brief kiss. “No matter how things turn out, I’ll see you soon.”

Chapter Fourteen

Raphael lay on his back on the concrete floor, the only way he had to support the shattered bone of his wing. For once, the constant cold of his prison felt good. The concrete soothed him as it leached the healing fever’s heat out of his body. He’d lost track of how long he’d lain there, in and out of sleep as the fever raged.

The sound of the heavy locks turning filled Raphael’s ears, and the door opened, spilling bright light into the darkened cell. Raphael let his eyes adjust, turned his head, and stared up at the guard who stood in the doorway.

“Are you ready?” Jett folded his arms.

“Yes.” Raphael had absolutely no second thoughts about dying at Jett’s hands with a quick gunshot to the head rather than days or weeks of Lark’s torture. Hearing Wren’s voice had banished any possibility of hesitation. That voice…the voice of a grown man, yet still familiar. Raphael closed his eyes. He wished he could see his son, all grown up. Just once.

But Raphael would not risk being used as bait by Lark to lure Wren. Not at any cost. He eyed the gun at Jett’s waist.

“Yes,” he repeated. “I’m ready.”

He didn’t look away from Jett as the mercenary’s hand went to the semi-automatic at his waist, but he allowed his eyes to see other things. Kora’s serene face and the white cloth wrapped around her hands after their mating ceremony. Kora at the piano, pausing in her practice to reach down, her mahogany hair cascading over her outstretched arm, and rock the bassinet when infant Wren stirred.

“Archangel.”

Raphael jerked back to reality. “What?”

Jett stared, the gun in his hand pointed at the floor. He leaned back against the wall. “Still interested in walking out of here alive?”

Raphael blinked. “Excuse me?”

The corners of Jett’s mouth turned up, but only the slightest bit. “Lark and two of the other mercenaries have left on a supply run. We have a short window before they’re expected back. I don’t suppose you can walk?”

The searing pain in Raphael’s wing throbbed anew as if to answer in the negative, but Raphael’s eyes focused on the door, which stood open an inch. Eighteen years…any amount of pain would be worth seeing the sky again. To breathe fresh air. And if Jett was on the level, Raphael would see his son again.

He sat up.

“Mother
fucker!
” Raphael collapsed back down, specks of light swimming in his vision and a cold sweat coating his skin.

Jett frowned. “Get to your feet. If you can’t walk, we won’t make it. I’m going to go ahead and deal with the two remaining mercenaries. I’ll be back for you.”

Jett hurried out. He shut the cell door behind him, but the grating sound of the heavy locks didn’t follow. The promise of freedom pulled on Raphael like a rope.

He hauled his weight up again and grasped his knees to stay there. Grimacing, he glanced at his wing. A small but sharp piece of bone protruded, and blood seeped into the surrounding feathers. The room tilted and faded, but just when Raphael was sure he’d lose consciousness a shout reached his ears.

“Father!”

Raphael turned his face into the pillow and adjusted his wings to cover his head. From the other side of the bed, Kora laughed, the sound muffled by her own pillow. He moved closer to her and tried to drift back to sleep.

“Father? Father! It’s morning!”

Light hit the side of Raphael’s face as a pair of hands pulled on his wing. Naturally, the fact that he and Kora had only fallen asleep a few hours ago after a lengthy celebration of the tenth year of their mating was lost on the eager seven-year old. Raphael started every morning with a flight over the colony, and for the last year or so, had carried Wren along. Typical of an archangel young, Wren had quickly become fixated with being in the air.

And now he was having none of this sleeping-in business.

“Dad!”

Raphael gave his wing a gentle flick to send his son off balance, then quickly refolded the wing over his head. The mattress shook with Kora’s laughter.

“Five more minutes, Wren,” Raphael said into the pillow.

Wren’s voice grew more desperate and deepened, became the voice of an adult speaking over a bad cell connection.“Father!”

Raphael slammed back to the reality of the cement bunker. Holy hell, he was not going to give up now, even if he had to crawl.

Raphael shifted his weight to his feet and forced his body off the floor. The pain surged into a chilling numbness. Shock perhaps, or adrenaline overload. But an improvement. As long as he remained conscious, he could push through this.

He braced himself against the wall by the door and waited. Minutes ticked by and something shifted under his skin, a sensation he’d hadn’t experienced in years. His healing talent, reacting to an injury in his vicinity. A serious injury, judging by the intensity of the irritating skin crawl.

He edged along the wall and shoved the door open. The hall, awash in fluorescent lighting, was empty and featureless, save for a couple of small air vents. Concrete walls, floor and ceiling, just like his cell, led to another door at the far end.

Raphael waited for another minute. Jett didn’t return, and the preternatural energy that fueled Raphael’s healing ability grew more unsettled. It was time to move.

He staggered down the hall. The reinforced door didn’t give an inch when Raphael shoved against it, and there was no handle or lever. No control panel or buttons. Just smooth, polish steel. He flattened his palms against it.

“I want to see my son,” he seethed at the indifferent, cold barrier. “I’m not going to die in this godforsaken prison!”

He pounded on the door, succeeding in nothing but bloodying his knuckles.

“Please,” he begged the door, wondering if he had finally lost his mind. “Please—”

An electronic beep startled him and he lurched a step backward. The door slid into the wall, smoothly and quietly, revealing a mercenary. Not Jett. The youngest and cruelest of Lark’s men stalked forward, his excessive, muscular bulk filling the doorway. His too-small eyes stared down a swollen, bandaged nose. This was the mercenary Raphael had struck in the face only days before, when Lark had taken his flight feathers.

The mercenary’s mouth curled into a nasty grin, and he pulled his arm back. Raphael recoiled but not fast enough; the human’s fist connected with his face. The human’s laughter filled the hallway as Raphael spun in place from the force of the blow and crumpled to the floor.

Blood poured from his nose to his mouth, and he spat it out as the human knelt next to him. The mercenary struck him again. And again. Raphael, despite his wing and overall weakened condition, was not going to lay there and let this human beat on him. He’d be back on his feet already, but he had a plan. He let his head fall limp to the floor and allowed sobs to escape his throat, praying that the human would be too blinded by his anger and his power to notice Raphael reaching under his wing.

“That’s it, cry.” The mercenary landed another strike. “Filthy devil. Cry like the pathetic creature you are.”

Raphael’s fingers closed around a feather. With a quirk, firm jerk, he pulled the feather free. The pain was nothing compared to his broken wing and broken face. Now blinded by blood, Raphael reached out with his free hand and hastily wiped at his eyes.

The human leaned down and spat.

Raphael struck with the feather, burying the sharp quill in the mercenary’s neck. The mercenary screeched and thrashed, blood pouring out of his mouth. Raphael sprang on the writhing human and pulled the feather free. Blood flowed faster from the open wound and in moments, the human stilled.

Raphael looked over his shoulder. The door had closed. Darkness caressed the corners of his consciousness. The human had opened that door somehow, and he wouldn’t have come in with no way out. How did he operate the door?

He searched the body. Guns, knives…a cell phone? Raphael puzzled over the little electronic device. Technology had advanced considerably in the eighteen years he’d been imprisoned. Lark’s phone had at least looked like a phone: it had flipped open and had a number pad. This device was just a rectangular screen.

Raphael tossed the contraption aside, frustrated. He pulled at a chain around the human’s neck and studied the thumb-sized piece of black plastic he wore like a necklace.

A tiny button. Raphael pressed it. The electronic beep sounded, and the door slid back.

Raphael got to his feet again, aware of blood dripping from his face to his chest. Pain lit up every nerve in his body, and stars and blood marred his vision, but still he stood, determined to get out, a bone-deep need to escape propelling him forward.

“I won’t die in here,” he affirmed to himself and stepped forward. One foot, then the other. Repeat.

He came to the foot of a flight of stairs. Unfazed, Raphael climbed. When he reached the landing at the top, he collapsed to his knees. Rest, just for a couple seconds, he promised himself.

He glanced to his left and started at the sight of another mercenary, then recognized Jett and let out a long, shaky breath. Raphael had all but forgotten his psychic talent’s alarm under all the pain, but now the crawling sensation surged anew.

Jett sat against a wall in a pool of blood, his chin on his chest. He breathed, but the movement of his chest was barely discernable.

“Jett?”

Jett lifted his eyelids and surprise lit up his features. “You…made it. I’m sorry, I…fucked this up.”

Raphael craned his neck, but couldn’t see much of the rooms to his left and right. One body, its head a bloody mess, lay face down under a window. “Are there more?”

“Jasper…”

“The big guy?”

Jett nodded, grimacing. “The fucker shot me.”

“I got him.” Raphael spat more blood.

Jett’s eyes flared in surprise. “Then…the place is clear. But Lark will be back…any minute. Get out. Get…the fuck out of here. Take my phone…and my gun, in case he catches you…”

As the human’s words faded to a soundless whisper, Raphael moved closer on his hands and knees. He took the gun and the phone.

“Go.”

Raphael shook his head. “Letting you die here is no way to thank you.”

Jett arched an eyebrow. “Go, damn it. You can’t help me—”

Raphael flattened his palm on the gunshot wound over Jett’s abdomen. “You will sleep for a few hours, but you will wake up just fine. I promise.”

Jett’s brown eyes stared in open shock. “You…really are a h-healer?”

“Yes.”

A wet laugh escaped Jett’s throat and blood appeared on his lips. “I thought Lark was bullshitting me…”

“Sleep now,” Raphael said. “And thank you, human.”

Raphael let the healing energy flow and the mercenary’s tissues slowly knit together. Jett’s chin dropped heavily to his chest in deep sleep. Covered in blood as he was, he looked good and dead. Hopefully, no one would check him too closely, and he’d escape.

Perhaps Raphael should have left the assassin to die for the greater good, but he didn’t have the energy or the time to debate the decision. A feeling told him he’d made the right choice, and that would have to be good enough under the circumstances.

But he paused to consider something else.

Jett, even though his injury was only minutes old, had felt feverish under Raphael’s hand. Was that possible, for a human? He was bleeding out, and should have felt cold. Only an archangel or demon would go into a raging healing fever…

Raphael pressed his wrist against Jett’s forehead. He jerked away from the heat. No human could reach a fever that high. Very carefully, Raphael lifted Jett’s lip to expose his teeth.

No fangs, but…
Holy shit
. Jett didn’t have any canines
at all.
Just four gaping holes, two on the top and two on the bottom.

But his incisors had the sharp edges unique to demons. Damned things could bite through bone.

A demon. But…his fangs…

When torturing a demon, the fangs were a prime target. All the nerve endings associated with the venom system made for a great deal of agony.

“Who are you, really?” he asked, but it was no use. Nothing could wake the human—the
demon
—from the healing sleep for the next few hours.

Raphael stuffed the gun into his back pocket and gripped the phone tightly in his hand. As he stood, stars filled his vision and he caught sight of his wing. Blood soaked his feathers and more bone protruded. He watched blood flow freely from the wound and realized the bone had cut one of the major blood vessels of the wing. Cold absolution flooded his veins.

He wouldn’t heal from this. He was going to bleed to death.

Raphael staggered into what looked like a normal dining room and continued on to an immaculate kitchen. His eyes locked on the door, lacy curtains over the window. He had two goals for the time he had left.

He had to get outside, to die under the open sky. Free.