He was sorry for that now. He hadn’t had any ill-intent and he’d done nothing to be accused of leading her on, for he’d flirted far more with others with no bruised feelings on either side, but Illium didn’t like to hurt women even a touch. He could’ve responded with a playful comment that would’ve kept her happy until he figured out what he felt for this woman who was an echo of the past . . . but he knew already.
He’d known from the first. Had felt it from the first: a sweet, sharp nostalgia intermingled with affection. No roar of need, of wrenching love. Just a thing old and weathered and of a different time in his life.
Take away his initial shock at her appearance, and that was all that remained.
Frowning inwardly at the quiet knowledge he’d been refusing to face, for to face it was to alter the shape of him, he nonetheless managed to keep his expression warm as he said, “I think we must all lift a glass together. After journeying to the coast together, we will be fast friends.”
A fading of her smile, but as with Kaia, bold and determined, she wasn’t a woman to give up on what she wanted. “Please do call me if you need any help, Illium—I’ll respond at once.”
Only after she’d headed safely up the stairs did he move out into the living area. He didn’t realize he’d been mentally holding his breath until he saw Aodhan safe and sound.
40
Aodhan had finished lighting the fire already set out on the hearth when Illium reappeared with a tray full of food. His stomach muscles unclenched. That hadn’t taken long at all, not considering the fact Illium had been with Kai.
Stopping by where Aodhan stood near the fireplace—while Jinhai was pressed up against the windows—Illium kept his voice low as he said, “He say anything else?”
Aodhan fought the urge to stroke his hand over Illium’s wing, the possessive need making his face flush. It was stupid to be irritated about Kai; she wasn’t Kaia, who’d treated Illium with such a lack of care. And it wasn’t like the young mortal could take Illium from Aodhan. The two of them had been friends too long, the tie between them a thing unbreakable.
“Jinhai,” he told his friend, “was the name of his grandfather—Lijuan’s father.”
Aodhan nodded when Illium raised an eyebrow in a silent question. “It’s truth. Suyin mentioned the name once when we were talking about their wider family. The elder Jinhai has been Sleeping an eon.”
Nodding, Illium went to put the tray on a table near the windows that Aodhan had noticed already held a fresh pitcher of water and three glasses. Kai’s handiwork no doubt. Since she’d had no idea they’d be returning with Jinhai, she must’ve been expecting an invitation to join them for the meal.
Shrugging off a renewed surge of irritation, Aodhan joined Illium, and they both took a seat. “Eat,” he said to Jinhai, and picked up a slice of bread, on which he began to pile on cheese, sliced meat, more.
Jinhai watched warily for a second, then scurried over to join them. His table manners were impeccable. Perhaps not a surprise. Prior to her descent into obsession, Lijuan had been an archangel of great learning and culture, her cruelty informed by intelligence. She’d buried her son in that cavern—but she’d also provided him with clothing, lessons, language.
“Eat slowly,” Illium directed when the boy began to shovel food into his mouth. “Otherwise, you’ll just throw it all back up.”
Jinhai had frozen at Illium’s first words, but when that was all he said, the child kept on eating—but at a more reasonable pace.
Aodhan touched his mind to Illium’s. He seems too easily scared to have done what was done to the villagers. At least some of them would’ve tried to fight back.
Leaning back in his chair, Illium rubbed at his face. Sparkle, I want him to be innocent . . . but those people lived in a world where they believed Lijuan a goddess. How do you think they’d have reacted to an apparently scared, starving young angel with broken wings? Especially one who is so clearly the son of their goddess?
He held up his hand before Aodhan could reply. Even if the village was set up as Jinhai’s kitchen and the home of his guards, I don’t think all the residents were aware of his existence. I’d say, at most, they had knowledge of a nearby prison where some neighbors went to work, and that was it—and we know Lijuan inspired devotion. The guards entrusted with the knowledge would’ve held it close.
Aodhan’s hand clenched on the glass of water he’d just poured, for Illium’s thinking aligned with his own. There was no reason for Lijuan to have entrusted an entire village with this secret; the more people who knew, the higher the chance of an accidental leak.
The others would’ve considered his sudden appearance a boon, a sign of Lijuan’s triumphant return. Aodhan glanced once more at the boy. You think he’s capable of being so cunning?
Illium’s face twisted. I have no fucking idea what the hell is going on. Rising, he went back into the kitchen, returned with a bottle of mead and two new glasses that he filled, one for him, one for Aodhan.
“Not for you yet,” he said to Jinhai. “Mead is a rite of passage after you reach your majority.”
The boy said nothing, more interested in his food.
While the honey wine was a rite of passage, it did nothing to angelic systems. The taste, however, was a pleasant one familiar from their youth. This dark morn, it threatened to send Aodhan back to a party long ago, when he and Illium had both been lanky young angels finding their feet. It was during that party that he’d had his first sensual experience that had gone beyond kissing; it had been a thing of blushes and delight and exploratory touches of skin on skin in the secret hollow behind a large rock.
Aodhan had recently seen that warrior, for he was now part of one of Caliane’s squadrons, and they’d both smiled at the youthful memory that had aged well. The warrior was now much in love with one of Caliane’s angelic maidens, and had colored with happiness when he spoke of her.
Aodhan had felt a wave of profound joy for the other man, for he’d helped Aodhan in his darkest hour without ever knowing it. The memory of their long-ago shared joy, and others akin to it—of intimate touch that was welcome, of riotous hugs and embraces from Illium, loving pats on the cheek from Eh-ma, even his parents’ absentminded strokes of his hair—he’d repeated them over and over in his mind during his captivity as a reminder that not all touch was unwanted. Not all touch made his skin crawl. Not all touch was a violation.
It hadn’t worked to ward off the psychic scars, not for two centuries. But he’d had the memories with him in that time of pain and horror, and he’d had them as a foundation on which to stand when he began to heal at last.
Jinhai, on the other hand . . .
No fond memories of blushing youthful kisses or fumbled explorations for him, no memories of joy at all. Of course, it was all relative.