He closed the distance and threw himself at the angel, grabbing on to the front of the male’s neck with one hand while swinging widely with his right fist. And as soon as he made that cracking contact with Lassiter’s face, he didn’t stop. He swung again, now from the left side, hitting whatever was in the way. Then he locked hold of the head and swung hard, casting the angel out into the foyer, onto the mosaic floor.
People were shouting at him. He heard nothing.
People were pulling at him. He shoved them off.
Qhuinn let loose with pounding fists and kicking legs, mounting the angel’s prone body and slamming Lassiter over and over again into the hard floor—
Without warning, Qhuinn was lifted off bodily, dragged back and held off, whoever it was strong enough to keep him from his target.
So he used his voice instead of his fists.
“You knew!” he screamed at Lassiter. “You knew what he was going to do—and you didn’t tell me! You cost me my brother!”
He fought against the iron bars that were under his armpits. They held steady.
“Or you could have stopped him!” Qhuinn’s voice rebounded all around, all the way up to the ceiling. “You’re an angel, you’re supposed to save souls—was he not good enough for you? Was my brother too broken for you to bother saving? Why! Why did you let my brother die!”
He was utterly unhinged, his tirade filling the house, calling all kinds of people into the doorways of other rooms. But like he fucking cared? And meanwhile, Lassiter just lay where he had sprawled, oddly colored eyes showing no emotion at all.
Qhuinn surged against whoever was holding him. “He deserved your help! He deserved to be saved—”
“Let him go.”
The angel’s voice, soft and low, cut through his hollering, and he abruptly became aware that there was silver blood all over the floor, all over his own fists . . . all over the male’s face from the split lip, the busted nose, that cut over his eyebrow.
The angel had not fought back.
He hadn’t even tried to protect himself.
“Let him go!” Lassiter yelled.
The constriction was released, and Qhuinn fell forward. Unable to catch his balance, he landed hard on all fours.
And still, Lassiter just looked at him, that silver blood flowing like melted sterling.
“You’re pathetic,” Qhuinn spat. “You’re not worth the effort to kill you. I hope you can live with what a fucking failure you are as the successor to the Scribe Virgin. You’re nothing but a goddamn lazy joke.”
Scrambling to his feet, he stumbled, pushed off someone’s hands—he didn’t know whose. He was alone as he went up the stairs.
That much he was clear on.
Good thing, too.
As Qhuinn stormed up the grand staircase, Blay stood at the base of the carpeted steps and watched his mate retreat. He wanted to go after him, but it was very clear that he was not welcome. He’d been shoved away.
He didn’t know what to do.
So he turned to Lassiter, who was still lying on the foyer’s floor and bleeding silver. Others had gathered around the angel, including V, who had actual medical training—but the bodies parted as Blay went over and lowered himself down.
“He didn’t mean any of that,” he said as he helped the angel sit up. “Truly, he didn’t. I have no clue what he was talking about.”
“Help me to my feet?” Lassiter asked as he wiped his face with his forearm.
Blay grunted at the weight of the male. It was as if gravity had a special interest in the angel, his body heavier than even his prodigious muscles suggested, his bones clearly made of solid gold or something.
“I don’t need medical help.” Lassiter shook his head as V stepped forward. “A little sun and I’ll be fine.”
“At least let’s clean you up,” Blay interjected. “Come this way.”
Blay took the angel’s arm and led Lassiter around to the left of the staircase. Tucked under the steps, the formal powder room was like a jewel box, with rare stone inlays and twinkling crystal fixtures, everything so lush and lovely. And talk about karats. The sink was gold, and so were the filigreed faucets and the tiny little lamps with the hand-tooled silk shades—which were like birthday candles for a tsar.
Pushing Lassiter down onto the silk-covered bench, Blay snagged a monogrammed hand towel. As he wetted a corner, he had a thought that it was a good thing Lassiter bled silver. The fine terry cloth was a pale gray.
Red blood would have ruined it.
“I’m really sorry,” he said as he leaned into the angel’s busted face.
Lassiter hissed at the contact. Then cleared his throat. “There is nothing to apologize for.”
“He’s still just . . .” Blay blinked and saw Luchas’s face in the snow. “I’m just really sorry. About everything.”
“As am I.”
Back to the sink. Running more warm water. Rinsing the hand towel out.
Returning to that face, Blay focused this time up by the eyebrow. As Lassiter cursed and jerked back, Blay murmured an apology. Which seemed to be his theme song.
About ten minutes later, most of the silver blood was gone, Lassiter’s classically handsome face re-revealed . . . for the moment. The swelling was coming, the bruising not black and blue, but a shimmering under the surface of the skin.
Blay backed up and leaned against the sink counter, crossing his arms. Focusing on his feet, he frowned at his Bally loafers. He’d had boots on, back when he and Tohr had been dealing with the Christmas tree. When had he swapped those for such flimsy footwear?
That he’d taken out to find Luchas.
“I’ve ruined my shoes,” he said absently as he lifted one of his feet and inspected the wet leather. “Funny, I didn’t even notice the cold.”
On that note, he bent down and took off the loafer. The sock was next. What was revealed was bad news. His toes were a white color he never wanted to see again: They were exactly the same as Luchas’s frozen face—opaque, like marble.
Shying away from the image, he stared at his foot. The damn thing was going to hurt like hell when things started to warm up, but he welcomed the physical pain. It would be easier than what was in his soul.
“Here, let me help.”
Lassiter reached forward and put his palm underneath Blay’s sole. Instead of the fearsome energy that had exploded out of Vishous’s curse, this was a warm glow that enveloped and revived: Over the next minute or so, Blay watched as color returned to his flesh, the warm, healthy skin tone coming back.
“Give me your other one.”
Blay shucked his remaining shoe and sock, and extended the left side. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s a miracle.”
“That’s the plan.”
As the magic was worked on his other foot, Blay realized that the angel was not wearing one of his trademark crazy outfits. He was in all black, his wild blond-and-black hair likewise braided and out of the way. For a male who usually went around in spandex leggings, à la David Lee Roth, the reserve was yet another jarring shock.
Nothing was ever going to be normal again. Of this, Blay was quite sure.
“Can I ask you something?” he blurted.
“Anything.”
It was a while before Blay could frame the question. “What can I do to help him?”