Archangel's Enigma

7

Andromeda had forced herself to stop struggling during the journey. The futile action would only tire her out and leave her defenseless when they reached their destination.

Do not be stupid. That is the first lesson of battle. Think.

Repeating Dahariel’s words silently in her mind, she lay painfully quiescent.

As it was, Xi’s squadron did stop twice. The first time, it was in an ice-strewn cave only about an hour out from the Refuge. And though they stayed there until daylight had faded from the skies, Xi didn’t release Andromeda, despite her repeated requests. She finally worked out that they wanted her tied up and ready to go should they have to make a rapid departure.

Stiff and cold after so many hours in such discomfort, she was almost grateful when they did finally take off again. At least this way, she had fresh air. The second stop came deep into the night, on a small island that was a dot in the ocean. She might have been tempted to fly off, but her wings were severely cramped from being crushed in the net, and she knew her speed in flight was nowhere close to Xi’s. Better to bide her time, to be smart and wait for a better opportunity.

“I can fly,” she said after the short rest period when she’d been given some water and trail bread to replenish herself. “There’s no need to truss me up like a chicken.”

Xi didn’t answer, just threw a blindfold in her direction. “Or I can blind you,” he said conversationally when she balked. “Given your age and the complexity of eyes, they’ll probably take three months or so to grow back.”

A trickle of cold sweat rolled down her spine. “I’m sure your archangel wouldn’t be well pleased by such abuse.” Lijuan needed her.

“You don’t need eyes to tell my lady what she needs to know.” The general stared at her, his own eyes as dark and hard as onyx. “Which will it be?”

She put on the blindfold, wondering once again why evil wasn’t ugly. Her grandfather with his skin of deep gold and hair of richest brown, had been beautiful before the ravages of disease, would be again when his body healed. A mortal poet had once written of him, saying:

My heart’s blood for but a single instant

My soul for the agonizing glory of his touch

Such beauty is not meant for mortal eyes

It maddens. It ravages. It murders.

Xi, too, was a very handsome angel and she knew he had no dearth of lovers. Long ago, before she’d realized the cold heart that beat in his chest, she’d admired his form in flight—he was a sleek and beautiful machine, his one-of-a-kind wings starkly beautiful.

Yet even as she thought of his nature, she knew that to his squadron, he wasn’t evil. To them, he was simply a loyal general serving his lady. The fact his lady had proven she had little regard for the lives of the people she professed to rule, and yet Xi still followed her, that was what made him evil.

“How can you justify it?” she said to him when he hauled her up to her feet.

No answer as he lashed her wrists together.

Her blindness made her bold. “Giving your allegiance to an archangel who turned her people into the walking dead?” The reborn were nightmares given flesh and set free to feed, to infect, to murder. “If that alone is not crime enough, she feeds from the lifeforce of her subjects and leaves them dry husks.”

As a scholar and apprentice teacher who worked under Jessamy, Andromeda had access to reports filed by both sides of the fierce battle above New York. Each had used different words, but neither disagreed on the basics: Raphael’s side said Lijuan had fed on the lifeforce of her people until she was glutted with power.

Andromeda could still remember the line in the report that had made her skin chill: Her mouth was rimmed with blood after she lifted it from the neck of her sacrifice.

Lijuan’s side had stated that her soldiers had volunteered in droves so their archangel could gain glory. In this, the soldiers had found honor beyond mortal or immortal ken, leaving a proud legacy for those of their bloodline.

In this case, Andromeda had a feeling both reports were equally true.

One side had seen horror, the other side honor.

She couldn’t fault Xi for the reports he’d personally filed: he’d been brutally honest in terms of the wins and losses of battle. He also hadn’t attempted to make it seem as if Lijuan had won—though he had softened her fall, as would any loyal general, saying that his lady had retreated from the field of battle so that she would be strong for the war to come.

His interpretation was strikingly different from the report filed by Illium. Raphael’s lead aerial commander had stated that Raphael “blew Lijuan to smithereens,” though Illium, too, had made a note that Lijuan may or may not be dead: Zhou Lijuan is an archangel and they do not easily die.

“I have served my lady for most of my nine hundred years on this earth,” Xi said after another member of his squadron tied her ankles together. “You know nothing of her. Your task is to record, not to judge.”

Andromeda inclined her head because in this, he was right. “But,” she added, “some small judgment is required when we record the histories. We must often search for the truth amid grandiose claims, outright lies, and everything in between.”

That, Jessamy had taught her, was why they so often put competing reports into the official history. Both Xi’s and Illium’s reports lay within the pages to do with the battle in New York, along with an overview written by Jessamy after she’d read, watched, and listened to all records of the battle. “If we record blindly, we are little better than machines.”

“As I make no untrue claims in my reports,” Xi responded, “you have nothing to say to me on that point.” His fingers gripped her chin without warning, the hold firm but not painful. “I will give you one piece of advice, scholar.”

Able to feel his power crashing against her, though it was more muted than she’d previously felt near Xi—testament to the statement in Illium’s report that Lijuan fed her generals power—Andromeda went motionless.

“Do as you are told,” Xi said in his cool, refined tone, “and you will not be harmed.” He released her chin. “Unlike your grandsire, my lady has a soft spot for scholars.”

“I appreciate the advice.” It wasn’t a lie. Xi’s statement told her how she could play this until the opportunity rose to escape—because she didn’t have the same faith in Lijuan as Xi. Badly injured angels were like any other injured creatures in their pain and frustration. They could strike out without warning.

The fact Lijuan had been unstable prior to her injuries only made the situation more volatile. Add in the fact that she was an archangel . . . No, Andromeda would never survive a confrontation should she anger Lijuan. No matter what she saw or heard or experienced, she had to act the meek scholar who was out of her depth.

Xi barked out an order at that instant and Andromeda found herself lifted up unceremoniously into a sling formed of the net. They did her the courtesy of allowing her to lie on her side this time, ensuring her wings weren’t crushed, but the netting dug into her flesh nonetheless. As the salt wind whistled past her on takeoff, she found herself thinking of the wild creature with whom she’d sparred under lamplight.

Never had she fought with anyone who moved like Naasir. She wanted to do it again, wanted to watch his eyes flash in the darkness and that slow, dangerous smile wreath his face as he took open pleasure in the dance. There was something fascinating about the vampire who was not a vampire . . . fascinating and dangerous.

Andromeda wanted to escape for many reasons, but chief among them was the driving compulsion to dance with him again, to fly too close to the flame that, for the first time in her existence, made her question the rigid control and sensual discipline that defined her.

A vow of celibacy was easy to hold when there was no temptation.