Angels' Flight

eyes and on the lips of other women, but she’d also understood that any such relationship— even if there was true desire involved—would be a temporary one. It would end the instant her lover understood that she was bound to the Refuge.

Unlike him, she could never fly beyond the mountains, never live in the outside world—because the angels could not be seen as weak. Mortals had an awe of the angelic race that kept them from attempting insurrection that could only ever end in the deaths of thousands. An angel so imperfect… it would shake the foundations of that awe, lead to bloodshed as mortals thought to see in her a truth about the angelic race that didn’t exist. Jessamy was one of a kind.

Better, she’d long ago decided, far better that she assuage her painful hunger to see the world through the pages of books, than to incite mortals into an act that would stain the ground darkest red. As for intimacy… Her hand clenched on the sheets again, on the bed of an angel unlike any other, one who stirred things in her that could not be allowed to be stirred, not if she was to survive the millennia to come.

Because her beautiful barbarian, too, would one day fly away, leaving her behind. And still she rose, pushed the curtain aside, and padded on bare feet to the living area… where Galen, dressed in nothing but those pants of some tough brown material, his wings held tight to his back, was lying parallel to the floor with his palms flat on the ground, his entire body a straight line. As she watched, he pushed up, veins standing up on his arms as his muscles strained, went down, repeated.

“You’re already strong,” she said, her eyes lingering on the bunch and release of an unashamedly powerful body that made butterflies flitter in her stomach. “Why do this?”

“A warrior who considers himself the best,” he said, never pausing in his actions, “is a fool who’ll soon be dead.”

A blunt answer from a blunt kind of a man. He wasn’t like the scholars she spent the majority of her time with, wasn’t even like the lethal archangels. Raphael, with his power honed to a cruel edge, was as different from this man as she was from the angel Michaela—the scheming, intelligent ruler of a small territory whose strength had grown so acute, Jessamy was certain the stunning immortal was on the verge of becoming Cadre.

“You should rest,” he said when she didn’t reply.

She scowled. “I’m older than you are, Galen.” No matter if she appeared breakable, she could go for even longer periods without sleep. “Perhaps you’re the one who should rest after this exertion.”

A hitch in the smooth rhythm of muscle and tendon, a small pause as he caught her gaze with eyes of some rare, precious gemstone that seemed to see into her soul. “Are you inviting me to bed, Jessamy?”

5

“No.” It came out a croak, and she was so frustrated with herself for letting him rattle her that she said, “I am not a carnal creature,” her words made a lie by the slumberous heat that lingered in her even now.

Pushing up and to his feet in a smooth motion that belied the bulk of his body, Galen shoved back his hair. Then he took a step forward. Another. And another. Until she thought he’d back her against a wall… but he stopped with a single breath between them, the dark, hotly potent scent of him overwhelming her senses. “Are you sure?” Reaching out, he ran his hand over the arch of her right wing, the twisted reality of the left hidden behind the fall of her hair.

“Even in Titus’s court,” she said, fighting the excruciating pleasure that threatened to ripple over her skin, “that would’ve been an unacceptable act.” It was a touch permitted only to a lover.

Hands at his sides once more, he raised an eyebrow. “If you aren’t a carnal creature”—a challenge—“it means nothing.”

“The sensitivity of that region springs not only from base urges.” It scared her, how much he made her need, how effortlessly he shattered defenses built up over the endless eon of her existence. He had no comprehension of what he was asking.

Two thousand six hundred years she’d been alone and trapped in the Refuge. She’d had to find a way to survive, to become more than a ghost who lingered on the edges of other people’s lives. She’d made herself—into someone who was respected by adults and loved by the children she taught. It wasn’t a glorious life, but it was a life far better than the painful existence of her youth.

To risk the small happiness she’d found by jumping into the unknown, trusting that this warrior, this stranger who wasn’t a stranger, would catch her? It was a terrible thing to ask… but even as she thought it, she knew she might well be willing to pay the price for the chance to know Galen body and soul. Because this man, he didn’t simply look at her. He saw her.

“And yet,” he said, responding to her argument when she’d almost forgotten what she’d said, “it’s a caress shared between lovers alone.” With that, he stalked over to take a seat on the stool beside which he’d left his sword and, picking up the weapon, began to clean it with a soft cloth.

She wanted to shake him, this big boulder of a man who thought he was right in everything. “Do you think you’ve won?” Do you know what you’re doing to me, understand the fractures you’re creating?

Smooth, slow strokes on the gleaming metal. “I think we need to find out what you know that is so important, someone would seek your life for it.”

The chill she’d almost managed to overcome invaded her bones again. Rubbing at her arms, bared by the design of her simple gown, she walked into the tiny kitchen area and started to open the cupboards. Whether Galen cooked or not, one of the angels in charge of keeping the warrior quarters supplied would have stocked it with the essentials. She found flour, honey, butter in a cooling jar. A little more hunting and she had dried fruits, and eggs. “Do you have wood for the oven?”

Galen got up in answer, and walking to a corner of the aerie opposite from where she stood, reached into a basket to bring out two small logs, which he placed in the oven. A bit of tinder, and the fire was lit, the door closed. Designed for the aeries, the smoke from the stove would vent into the gorge, while the heat would remain inside. Angels didn’t feel the cold as mortals did, but warmth was always welcome in the mountains.

Returning to his sword, Galen continued to clean the already pristine blade, but she could feel him watching her, the sensation an almost physical touch. “What are you making?” The faintest hint of some gentler emotion.

Longing?

She went to dismiss it, hesitated. He’d been raised in a warrior court—had that small boy ever been made a treat, or had he been considered a warrior-in-training from the cradle, taught only discipline and war? “A cake with dried fruits,” she said, shaking off the idea, because his mother had surely lavished him with affection—if she knew one thing, it was that angels adored their babes. Jessamy might not be able to live with Rhoswen’s guilt, but she’d never doubted her mother’s love.

“It would be better if the fruit had soaked overnight,” she continued, heart settling, “but I don’t want to wait.” Picking up the kettle on top of the oven, she poured some of the already hot water on the dried apricots, berries, and slices of orange. “And I know many things, Galen,” she said, forcing herself to face the nightmare because it wasn’t going to disappear. “I’m the keeper of our histories.” A million fragments of time, more, they existed inside her mind.

Rising to place his sword on a bracket on the wall, Galen began to stretch slowly in the center of the room while they talked. She realized she’d interrupted him earlier, was glad, for it meant she could watch him now. No matter what she’d argued, what she knew to be the safe choice, she was a woman who ached for something that might well break her forever… and he was a beautiful man.

“But,” he said, twisting in a move that had his abdomen clenching tight, the filaments of white-gold in his wings glittering in the lamplight, “we only need to pay attention to that which could influence something important at the present time.”

Concentrate, Jessamy. “There are always a thousand small politics happening among the powerful.” No one who wasn’t immersed in that world could comprehend the labyrinthine depths of some of what went on. Which made her think— “If you are to be Raphael’s weapons-master, you must know all