They flew on.
Until at last, Naasir’s mind touched Raphael’s. Technically, the other man shouldn’t have been able to speak to him this way, not given who and what he was—but Naasir had never been one to follow the rules. Sire, I am going inside.
We’ll hover above the cloud layer until you give us the go-ahead. Take care, Naasir. You are smarter and stronger, but vicious cowards are not to be underestimated.
I will be the stealthy hunter, Naasir promised. Our prey will never see me.
Raphael kept an eye on Illium as they waited, all but able to see the rage that boiled in his blood. Illium hadn’t laughed or smiled for anyone but Lady Sharine since the day Aodhan failed to arrive at a courier waypoint; and even for his cherished mother, he could only manage bright falsehoods that didn’t fool her except for when she was far into the kaleidoscope.
The rest of the time, he was grim rage.
Raphael could’ve never imagined such an incarnation of their laughing, playful Bluebell.
I have Aodhan’s scent. Sharp. Strong. He can’t be far. Fierce exultation in Naasir’s voice. The servants are weak and lazy. No threat. But I will find our sparkles, make sure he is alone.
Blood fury hazed Raphael’s mind the next instant, Naasir still connected to him as he went into a sudden killing frenzy. Go! he ordered Jason and Illium, even as he dived through the clouds toward the stronghold situated in the midst of what would be rolling green hills in the summertime.
Cloaked in snow and ice this winter’s day, it appeared a beacon of glimmering gray stone—look only at the elegant outside and you’d never deduce the filth and malice that coated its walls.
The counterfeit sense of peace broke right then, transformed into screaming anarchy.
Angels flew up from every corner, their wings beating in terrified desperation, while below, vampires ran out into the snow. A number stumbled and fell, crawling insects who deserved no mercy.
Raphael struck them all down with a single modulated blow of archangelic power. Enough to slam them into unconsciousness—and cause a few broken wings and bones for the angels in flight.
No death. Not yet.
Anyone who’d worked in this stronghold was liable to be guilty of abetting in Aodhan’s torture, but he would make certain of that. No one who’d helped harm Aodhan, if only by their silence, would ever again know anything but terror.
Jason.
I’ll take care of the stragglers. Sire—Illium won’t stay with me. He’s heading after you.
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.