Out in Blue (6 page)

Jett abruptly turned away.

“You disagree, human?”

Jett tilted his face toward the ceiling before returning his gaze to Raphael. “No. No, I certainly don’t. But not all sons are lucky enough to have a parent who cares one way or the other. ”

“Are you speaking from personal experience?”

Jett folded his arms and frowned at the floor. After a long silence, he said, “About your son. I may be able to help.”

“
Help?
” Raphael stared. When Jett had first joined Lark’s men five years ago, he’d been as cold as the rest of them. But he’d eventually engaged Raphael in conversation. Now, Raphael could almost call the human a friend, but the acts of kindness never went beyond candy, books, and conversation. Never…
never
had Jett’s loyalty to Lark faltered.

“Lark is still searching for Wren, and he has the means to make phone contact, assuming Wren survives his injuries. He intends to torture you and use you to lure Wren here—”

“No!”

Jett held up a hand. “I’m a killer. I can give you a quick, painless death. Wren will have no reason to give himself up if you’re dead.”

Raphael swallowed the acid that rose in his throat and flicked his wings. For Wren’s safety, his life was a small price to pay. But was Jett being honest? Was this a trick? How did he expect to get away with such a thing under Lark’s watch? “What about Lark? He’ll kill you.”

Jett scoffed. “I can handle myself. Deal or no deal?”

“I don’t suppose you’d consider getting me out of here, instead?” Raphael met the human’s gaze.

Jett paused, then shook his head. “I can kill you with a silencer, walk past the guards and disappear. Getting you out is a very different scenario. I cannot take on all the other mercenaries as a group. And Lark? Forget it. My offer’s on the table. Take it or leave it.”

Raphael kept his chin high. “I’ll do anything to keep my son safe.” He swallowed. “I’ll take your offer.”

Jett nodded and his hand went to the semi-automatic at his hip. But at that moment, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway beyond the door. Raphael tensed; he knew that gait. Sure enough, a second later Lark’s voice rang out, commanding Jett to get a move on.

“I’ll come back later.” Jett’s throat worked. He turned on his heel and left the cell.

§

Wren circled his childhood home several times before landing. Unexpected relief swept over him as he approached the familiar structure, the arched windows circling the second and third floors like ribbon. He had assumed the memories of the attack that destroyed his family so many years ago would be overwhelming upon his return, but instead, he felt drawn in and relieved.

He gazed down at the little harbor formed by the rocky shoreline where his mother had swum. His father would fly her above the water and drop her, at her request, over and over again. It was her favorite outdoor activity. Wren, even as young as he’d been, would stop whatever play he’d been engaged in and watch his mother swim. Archangels couldn’t swim; wings made it impossible to negotiate the water. Indeed, an archangel trapped face down in the water would quickly drown. Wren often fantasized what it would be like to dive beneath the surface, to be weightless. Like flying, without the work?

The old elm tree still occupied the back yard, its thick branches reaching higher than any other tree in the vicinity, its leaves yellow for autumn. His father had often carried him to that tree in the evenings and taught him the constellations. The legends and lore behind the patterns of stars had been Wren’s favorite bedtime stories, and he’d often fallen asleep in his father’s arms in that tree.

The flight deck—constructed of granite, like the rest of the house—encircled the second floor, no railings or other obstructions. He beat his wings to reduce his speed, found his footing, and helped Ginger to her feet. Folding his wings, nostalgia knocked the air from his lungs like a physical blow.

“Is this where you lived?” Ginger gaped at the house, clutching the paper bag full of clothing to her chest. Wren followed her gaze. Simpler in design than most Romanesque architecture, the home still appeared elegant and pensive, like an aging queen mother. Beyond the windows that lined the flight deck, ghostly furnishings sat, covered in white sheets.

“Yes. This is home.”

“I never would have expected a building like this all the way out here,” she said. “All the stone work. Haven has all log buildings.”

“Granite grows in Vermont like weeds.” He grinned. “It was before I was born, but everyone in Sanctuary helped build this place, and most of the other buildings in the colony.”

Wren led her to the double doors. He took the slip of paper with the new security codes out of his pocket, and entered the numbers into the keypad on the wall. When the locks released, he pushed the heavy doors open and led Ginger inside.

Light filtered in from the wraparound windows, leaving nothing shadowed in the wide open space. Wren stripped the sheets off the furniture, as if the dusty veils mocked him with his family’s grim past.

“This is beautiful.” Ginger turned in a slow circle. “But why is the kitchen up here?”

Wren glanced to his left. The kitchen occupied the northeast corner, an island separating it from the rest of the living space. All new appliances, as Jac had said, but the ivory cabinets and dark granite countertops were just as he remembered them, and his mother’s orchids continued to grow in the windows. One plant stood in full bloom.

“My father designed this house. Archangels don’t live on the ground floor if they can avoid it, and we prefer wide open spaces, even inside. There are enclosed bedroom suites on the third floor, though even they are designed for wing room. The ground floor is just storage.”

Wren glanced around, struck by the little things that were missing. Everything was neat and clean and in place, but it was too quiet, too orderly. His mother’s piano, which she had played for hours every day, stood under its brown cover. His father’s books were arranged on their shelves, instead of scattered on various end tables.

Wren turned away from the scene and headed toward the stairs. Ginger followed in silence, as if she sensed his sudden unease.

The stairs and the hallway above were wide, similar to fancy, human mansions, but for archangels, the width was a necessity. Wren lifted his wings so his flight feathers wouldn’t drag on the stairs.

On the third floor, he stopped at the first set of double doors—no narrow, single doors in this house—and led Ginger through. Floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall windows dominated the far side of the otherwise nondescript, empty room. A large, stripped bed occupied the center of the space. Jac and Lexine must have put everything away. Just as well. Walking into his room just the way he’d left it would have been too much. A clean slate was much better.

“This is bigger than my entire house. Was it your room?”

“Yeah. Like I said, wing room.” He stretched his wings, uninhibited in the large space. He pointed toward a wide archway. “The bath is through there. I’ll be downstairs.”

“Okay.”

“May I use your cell phone?” He struggled to keep the edge out of his voice as he mentally prepared himself for what he was about to do.

She gave him the device and headed for the bath. He left the room, hurried down the stairs, and stepped out onto the deck.

Wren didn’t intend to leave, but he needed the cold air to quell the molten fury that threatened to burn him to ash from the inside out. He’d long since stopped asking himself why Lark had turned, so completely and brutally, on his family. The reality of Lark’s atrocities rubbed like sandpaper against older memories. Lark…the Guardian who’d killed dozens of human extremists to protect the family when Sanctuary was attacked…who’d taken Wren to the colony’s market to get holiday gifts for his parents… who’d stood sentinel outside the house in all weather conditions, night and day, without complaint…who’d taught Wren basic self-defense and how to throw knives without a hint of impatience. Lark had laughed and cried with Wren’s family and, right up until those last, terrible moments, Wren would have sworn Lark had loved them.

Wren dialed the number that had called Ginger over and over, five times total now. Lark’s number.

“Hello?” A smooth, calm, and familiar voice answered.

Wren didn’t bother to greet the demon. “What do you want?”

A pause. A low chuckle. “Wren? I was expecting the woman.
Ginger
, correct?”

“You have nothing to talk to her about.”

“Don’t I?”

“She is a stranger with a thing against murder who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all.”

Again with the low chuckle. “They weren’t going to kill you, young one.”

Wren tasted acid in his throat at the term Lark had called Wren as a child. “
About that
. My father. Is my father alive?”

Lark went silent, but he hadn’t hung up. Faint background noise came and went. Unintelligible voices. Footsteps. More voices.

“Lark, damn it. Answer me!”

“I’m not the one you want to answer your question.”

Before Wren could speak again, another voice came on the line.

“
Son
?”

Hearing his father’s voice, Wren collapsed to his knees, his wings lifted behind him, all air knocked from his lungs.

“
Wren
?”

“I’m here, Father,” Wren managed to speak.

“Don’t let them catch you,” Raphael said in a rush, his voice rising in panic. “Don’t worry about me. Keep yourself safe no matter what—No! Get off me—”

“Father!”

“Does that answer your question?” Lark’s voice returned to the phone.

Wren heard his father scream in the background, the strangled sound of someone trying to hold it in, but whose lungs had other plans.

“What the fuck did you just do?”

“Don’t worry, young one. He’ll heal. I won’t kill my cash cow.”

Cash cow? His feathers… Lark had been farming his father’s feathers? Wren almost broke the phone in his grip. “You sadistic bastard—”

“I’m just getting started. You see, I’m out of patience. I’m damned tired of looking for you and I’m very—”

Another muffled scream.

“—
very
upset that you got away yesterday.”

“Will you let my father go if I turn myself in?” Wren ground out.

“No.”

“God damn you!” Wren pulled at his hair. “What do you want from me, then? I’ll do anything—”

“I’m not negotiating with you, Wren. This is what’s on the table. I’m done chasing after you; consider yourself free to go. What I planned to do to you, I’m just going to do to Raphael instead. You know, I’m amazed how many nerve endings archangel wings have. Fascinating biology.”

Another choked sound of pain in the background.

“Get your fucking hands off him—”

“However, if you give yourself up and come here, I will let Raphael resume the comfortable life he’s had for the last eighteen years.”

Comfortable. Right. But anything was comfortable compared to Lark’s torture methods.

“Wren!” Raphael yelled, hoarse and strained. “
No
. Stay away—”

The plea cut off with the gut jerking sound of breaking bone, followed by keening. Wren broke out in a cold sweat and went so numb, he no longer felt the wind.

Lark returned to the phone. “Tell you what, Wren. In a show of good faith, and because I want him alert when you get here, I’ll leave your father alone to heal that wing. A broken wing will take a couple days to knit, even for an archangel.”

Wren shook. “God damn you… God-fucking-damn you…”

“I’ll contact you with a location to meet my men. If you don’t show at the appointed place and time, Raphael will lose his wings entirely.”

Chapter Eight

The multiple showerheads hung from the ceiling in the very center of the large bathroom. No shower walls. Just tile and open space. Like everything else in the house, the room was perfect for a being with wings. As Ginger hunted around for a way to turn the water on, she heard Wren’s muffled voice from outside, his angry tone drawing her attention.

She hurried out through a set of glass doors onto a small balcony and heard another shout.

“Lark, damn it. Answer me!”

Lark
? She looked down—wary of the lack of railings—and saw Wren on the deck below, alone, holding her cell phone to his ear. His lips moved, but she couldn’t hear the words over the wind unless he raised his voice.

He dropped to his knees, his wings splayed out behind him.

She stayed rooted in place. Was Lark the one who’d been calling her cell phone? Since the police were cooperating with Lark’s men, getting her number was plausible.

“Father!” Wren shouted, his voice thick.

Oh God
… Ginger covered her mouth with her hand. Lark really did have Raphael. Alive, from the sound of it. Nausea swept over her. A Guardian… Lark had been a Guardian. How could he do this to the archangel he’d taken a blood oath to protect?

Guardians assigned to personally serve an archangel swore to do so at the expense of all others, forsaking their own lives if need be. Lark would have made that vow. Would have been one of the most capable and trusted among the Guardians to have been assigned to an archangel…especially one with a child.

What the hell had happened to cause this madness?

“What do you want from me, then?” Wren’s furious demand reached her ears, chilling her more than the wind. Ginger imagined the answer to that question and cringed. Lark wouldn’t be dangling Raphael in front of Wren for any reason other than bait. Panic welled up in her chest. Wren couldn’t turn himself over to that madman.
No
…

Ginger sucked in a deep breath. Yesterday, when she’d overheard the poachers’ plans to attack Wren, she’d helped because she’d thought it was the right thing to do. It was different now. More than just her conscience, this time. Even though she could count the hours she had known Wren, the idea of him getting hurt tore her up.

She reminded herself that she was leaving for Alaska tomorrow. Also, despite the chemistry she thought thickened the air around them, Wren had turned away from her when she’d tried to kiss him. What she felt was one-sided. Grateful for her help, he was just making sure she got back to Haven safely by bringing her here. Her opinion on how he dealt with Lark probably wasn’t wanted, but she had to say something.

Wren got to his feet and disconnected the call. Ginger rushed back inside, down the stairs and across the living area to the main doors. Looking out the wall-to-wall windows, she spotted Wren on the deck. He stood with his back to her, the angular pattern of black markings on his wings in motion as the wind whipped across his feathers. She opened the door and stepped outside.

“Wren?”

He lifted his gaze to her, his eyes so haunted, the green seemed to have bled out, leaving a lifeless gray.

“Go back inside, Gin. It’s freezing.”

She moved closer, arms wrapped around herself. “I heard some of that conversation.”

If her intrusion upset him, it didn’t show on his face. He possessed too much turmoil in his expression already, but he flicked his wings.

“Eighteen years… My father is alive, and he’s been a prisoner for eighteen years…”

The vibes coming off Wren were those of a coiled snake, not a man who wanted to be coddled. She reached out and placed her hand on his arm, anyway. He dropped his gaze to where she touched him, but to her surprise, he didn’t pull away.

“You couldn’t have known,” she said.

His face tight and grim, he shook his head. “I know now. I have to do something. In two days, Lark is going to contact me—”

“You
can’t
turn yourself over to Lark!”

That earned her a glower. She’d expected as much.

“If that madman promised to release your father in exchange, don’t believe—”

“He didn’t,” Wren said, his voice as cold as the wind. “Lark only promised that my father would be tortured if I don’t show. And as if I needed more incentive, Lark broke my father’s wing. He held the phone close enough, I heard the bone snap.”

Ginger swallowed, so sickened she struggled to speak past her gag reflex. “Once you turn yourself in, Lark will have no reason to honor any promises.”

Wren covered her hand with one of his and guided her back into the house. He shut the door firmly behind them, muting the howl of the wind.

“I have no intention of serving myself to Lark.” He met her gaze.

She relaxed a tiny bit. “You don’t?”

He raked a hand through his hair. “I will
not
stand by while Lark butchers my father. But even if I could trust him to uphold his end of the deal, his terms are unacceptable. I won’t settle for anything short of my father’s freedom. There must be a way. There has to be something I can do. I need to think…”

“The Guardians,” Ginger said. “They will help you. You need to trust them.”

A muscle jumped at the corner of his eye, but he nodded.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I have no other choice. I’ll talk to Vin as soon as he arrives.”

Wren pulled his arm away and stalked across the room. He paced around like a bird in a tiny cage, flicking his wings and muttering under his breath.

“God
damn
Lark,” he said. “Could’ve asked me to come immediately. He’s deliberately making me wait, now that I know my father’s alive. Taunting me, taunting my father. He’s enjoying every minute of this. Sick, sadistic bastard—”

Ginger rushed over and threw her arms around his neck. He froze, tense under her hold, his arms limp at his sides. She let one hand drift down to his wing and ran her fingers through his feathers. A tremor went down his spine and he finally lifted his hands and touched her back.

She didn’t bother with “it’s going to be okay,” or any other words that meant nothing in the face of such a dire situation. She just held him, content to stay in that position as long as he let her. To her great surprise, minutes passed, but he didn’t pull away. He rested his head on her shoulder, silent and still.

“Tell me something,” he said into her neck.

She swallowed. “Anything.”

“Why does it matter so much to you if I go to Lark or not?”

She hesitated, debating just how honestly to answer. But she’d never been one to shy away from hard questions. Besides, with Alaska looming in her future, this certainly fell into the “seize the day” category.

“I don’t want you to get hurt because I care about you.”

She stroked the edge of his wing, as far as she could reach from his back outward. He responded with a shiver.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “You let me touch your wings. You held me under your wing at Jac’s. Yet, you don’t want to kiss me.”

“You’re right, you don’t understand.” Wren leaned back and pegged her with his deep green stare. “I want very much to kiss you, Gin.”

The words, and the low masculine purr with which he said them, stole her breath for a moment.

“Then why—”

“Because if I kiss you once, I won’t be able to stop.” He paused and sighed. “I can’t get close to you. I want to. Very much. But I’d be damning you to an unspeakable hell if I acted on my desires, Gin.”

“
What
are you talking about?”

He hesitated, then spoke very quietly. “Do you know what Lark did to my mother?”

“I…I know she died a violent death.”

“Violent,” he ground out the word. “An understatement, but we’ll leave it there.”

She bit her lip.

Wren turned to the sprawling bookshelves and picked up a silver frame. He stared at it, but met her gaze when he spoke a moment later. “Lark promised me years ago that any woman in my life would meet an end
worse
than my mother’s.”

His words made her ears ring like she’d been struck in the head. Speechless, she reclosed the distance between them and gazed down at the framed picture in his hands.

The photo was a posed black and white, and must have been taken by someone with a gifted eye for light and shadow. But the artistic quality was not what brought the lump to her throat.

The close up showed Raphael, Wren—he couldn’t have been a full month old—and his mother huddled together against the granite masonry of the house. The tall, feminine brunette leaned against Raphael’s side, his wing draped across her back, her smile that of a woman who had everything. She held Wren between them, his head on her collar bone, his downy wings unfolded and loosely draped over her arms. Raphael’s hand rested on Wren’s back.

“This is gorgeous,” she whispered. “What was your mother’s name?”

“Kora Amsel.” He set the photo aside and took her shoulders in his hands. “I
won’t
put you in Lark’s crosshairs. What he did to my family…”

She shut her eyes. “Wren… I understand what you’re telling me. I won’t be stupid and make light of it. But Lark is not in this room.” She opened her eyes and stared into Wren’s wary gaze. “Looks to me like there is no one in this room but us.”

“Like I said, if I kiss you, I won’t be able to do it just once—”

She lifted herself to her toes and pressed her lips to his. He didn’t turn away from her this time, though a moment passed before he leaned into her.

The chemistry, the conversation, none of it prepared her for the intensity Wren gave her as he stroked her lips with his and deepened the kiss. The fresh-air scent of him surrounded her as he reached his wings forward, enclosing her in a curtain of feathers. He ran his hands slowly down her back and she leaned deeper into the embrace. But all too soon, he lifted his hands to her face and held her still as he leaned away.

“Oh, Gin…if only…” He shut his eyes, folded his wings, and turned away.

“Wren—”

“You didn’t get your shower,” he said, his voice quiet. “Please go ahead, make yourself at home. I’m going to go see if Vin has arrived.”

He crossed the room to the door and paused. “Set the alarm and don’t leave the house or let anyone in until I get back. No one, not even a Guardian, okay? I’ll make this quick, and I’ll bring back food.”

After he took flight from the deck, she slumped into a chair. The warmth of his hands lingered and sunk below the surface of her skin. She ran a finger over her bottom lip, waiting for her heart rate to come down. Giving up, she got to her feet and headed for the stairs.

§

Ginger lingered under the warm spray of the shower, staring at the scar over her heart. She turned off the water with shaky hands, toweled dry, and emptied the bag of clothes onto the bed.

She pulled on jeans that fit her perfectly, pink cherry blossoms embroidered down the sides, then pressed her face into a brown alpaca sweater before pulling it over her head. She’d grown up with handmade alpaca clothing and blankets, a staple in the self-sufficient demon colonies. The feel of the wool against her skin calmed her the way chicken soup did for most humans.

She headed downstairs.

“Wren?”

No answer, and a quick glance around the open space told her he hadn’t returned. Must be, he found Vin. She went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water.

The cell phone rang. Could it be Lark again? Muscles tense, Ginger glanced at the screen: Devin. She relaxed and connected the call.

“Ginny, are you all right?” Devin asked without preamble, his words so fast, they came out as one. “I spoke with Vin. He told me you were shot?”

“I’m fine, Dev. Wren healed me.”

Devin made a throaty noise that sounded like a dry sob. “Good. That’s…good. I needed to hear that from you. It couldn’t wait. But I’ll see you soon. I’ll be there tonight.”

“Tonight?” A lump formed in Ginger’s throat.

“I’m only a few hours away. I’ll feel better when there is a continent between you and Lark, so we’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.”

The reality of leaving formed a knot in her stomach, and she collapsed onto the couch.

“Is Lark really so dangerous that I’m not safe, even here in Sanctuary?”

“Lark is exceptionally dangerous. The Guardians have never known a more skilled fighter.”

“But there are so many Guardians here to protect—”

“The spring before his betrayal, Lark single-handedly saved Raphael and Kora from over a dozen human attackers. Killed all of them in a matter of minutes, and walked away without a scratch. Doubt the son of a bitch was even out of breath.”

“Damn.”

“You are relatively safe in Sanctuary, but even with Wren’s psychic weapon and all of the colony’s Guardians protecting you, you’re not safe enough.”

She rubbed her forehead. “I don’t see how Wren’s psychic talent could be used as a weapon.”