Let him come. Aodhan would need his best friend.
Raphael landed on a wide balcony. Aware of the streak of blue landing hard behind him, he blew open the closed doors, stepped inside.
Silence. No more screams. No more panic.
Naasir.
Sire, they hurt him. Naasir’s voice shook with rage. They took him out of the light and they buried him in water and they hurt him.
“Basement,” Raphael said to Illium, and they both stepped off the railingless edge of the upper level, their destination the ground floor.
While small angelic homes had no basements, they were often added into large strongholds as extra storage. It made sense, since such strongholds almost always had non-angelic staff—the vast majority of whom felt no sense of confinement at going into the basement.
Quite the opposite of winged beings.
Raphael’s feet hit the floor at the same time as Illium’s.
“Sire!” Illium sprinted to the left, having spotted what Raphael just had—fallen and broken vases, tumbled furniture. Casualties of the staff’s rush to escape Naasir’s rampage.
Raphael pounded after the young angel, his boots crushing the flowers scattered on the floor as his wings took out other items. A painting fell with a splinter of glass. A mirror followed right before a small marble statue thudded into the spilled water, broken porcelain, and bruised petals that were all that remained of a floral arrangement.
Ahead of him, Illium disappeared through a wide door that proved to lead to a set of stairs that headed down deeper into the earth. Blood splattered the walls around the stairs, and a vampire who’d been disemboweled by claws as lethal as razors lay gurgling blood on the floor, his hands lost in the rippling folds of his intestines.
What had Naasir seen or smelled on this man that had set him off?
Ignoring the vampire—weak, not one who’d quickly repair the grievous wound especially with no blood to fuel it—Raphael followed Illium down the stairwell. He noticed a lever as he did so, noticed, too, that it had bloody prints on it. Naasir had turned that lever.
Water. Buried.
His gut churned as the scent of damp, cool and unmistakable, hit his nostrils. The stairwell, however, showed no signs of water. It was softly lighted, the walls lined with art . . . Aodhan’s art.
A glow hit the air.
His wings were afire.
Raphael called on all his strength to keep his rage from blinding him. Aodhan needed him to be his archangel right now, not the man who’d seen him grow up, not the one who’d taught him how to use a crossbow, and not, too, the laughing new archangel who’d caught him when he tangled his wings as a babe and fell.
“Adi, Adi, I’m here.”
He’d half expected a scream from Illium, but his voice was quiet, gentle.
Raphael turned the corner and saw.
37
Pieces of iron had been peeled up from a narrow and long box that sat on a stone floor still pooled with glimmering wet. The box had been manacled with chains now broken. Naasir’s bloody hands were jagged with embedded shards as he sat crouched on one side of the open part of the box, struggling to tear back more of the iron, while Illium knelt on the other side, his hand trembling as he reached within and brushed back Aodhan’s hair.
Sachieri had kept this angel full of light in a box in the dark.
Going frigid within as that was the only way he could deal with this, Raphael said, “Naasir,” and the other man moved with primal speed.
A single flick of archangelic power and the iron box was nothing but dust. But he’d been careful, so careful, that nothing he did hurt Aodhan. Striding forward, he saw eyes of translucent blue and crystalline green shards turn toward Illium.
No other part of Aodhan moved.
Couldn’t move.
His wings . . . his beautiful wings . . . battered and damaged to the point that they were nothing but strings of tendon over rotted bone. His body was emaciated, his skin broken and bloody and scarred.
It took a long, long time to do that to an angel, but Aodhan was young yet. Young enough to hurt. Young enough to hurt to the point that he hadn’t been able to break out of the box. Sachieri had to have struck him a near-fatal blow at the first, then kept him too weak to heal. Else, he’d have used his power to smash out of the cage.
Raphael would find out. He’d find out all of it. He’d strip her mind bare until she was nothing but a sniveling shell. But not today. Today, he would take Aodhan home.
* * *
* * *
Raphael contacted Dmitri and Galen the instant they were close enough to the Refuge to speak through their minds. Cage Sachieri, Bathar, and their entire household. I will deal with Elijah. It was in the other archangel’s Refuge territory that Sachieri made her home, and she was bound peripherally to his court.
Dmitri was the one who replied. Unsurprising. Galen, on watch with a full squadron, would’ve sprung into action. The weapons-master was also apt to be in a rage; Raphael would get no words out of him until his task was done.
I’ll speak to Elijah’s second—he won’t stand in our way. Sire, Aodhan?
He’s badly wounded. Warn the Medica that I’m bringing in a critical case.
How do I stop myself from killing them?
No fast death for either of them, Dmitri. No mercy. That goes for you, too, Galen. Keep them alive.
A grunt of acknowledgment from Galen.
Nothing from Dmitri, but Raphael didn’t need it. His closest friend had too close an understanding of the need for vengeance—and for justice. He would do nothing to diminish the harshness of the punishment Raphael intended to mete out.
What Dmitri did say was, I’m near the Medica. I’ll see Aodhan first before I join Galen. He doesn’t need me for anything but dealing with Elijah’s people. Our Barbarian is not the best at politics.
Raphael didn’t deny him. Like him, Dmitri had watched Aodhan grow from when he was a babe. He’d once walked hand in hand with Aodhan when Aodhan got it into his head to visit an angelic monument on the far edge of the Refuge. Naasir’s “small sparkles” was beloved of them all.
Raphael looked down to make sure that the cushion of power he’d wrapped around Aodhan’s blanket-enveloped body was still holding. He lay in Raphael’s arms, unconscious and without any real weight to him. He’d reacted only once—when he’d tried to speak to Illium. Then his eyes had closed, and he’d slumped into this state.
Raphael had known he’d likely gone to a place beyond pain; he’d wrapped the cushion of power around him nonetheless. Never would he risk being the cause of even a minute trace of pain for this angel who was the gentlest member of his court, the one who saved small insects caught in pools of water and made sure the wild birds were fed.