Out in Blue (9 page)

Like his room, the space was bare. Empty shelves lined the walls. Boxes stood in stacks. But somehow, despite the cleaning and the passage of time, the room still held the scent of his mother’s rose oil.

The contents of the closet had been packed into well-organized cedar boxes and he quickly found one of his father’s specially tailored shirts. Normal in the front, the back had been cut to fall to either side of each wing. Wren couldn’t remember the last time he’d been fully dressed. He pulled the smooth, black material over his head and fastened the clasps below his wings.

Wren stared into the wall-mounted mirror as he adjusted the wrist cuffs. He rolled his shoulders and flicked his wings. The feel would take some getting used to, but his movements weren’t restricted.

Wren returned to the kitchen. A single voicemail message, two missed calls, and the remnants of dinner awaited him. He ignored the pang caused by the sight of the two plates and two wine glasses, and focused on the phone. The message was from Vin, requesting a call back as soon as possible.

But as Wren held the phone in his hand, he stared at the unfinished food. Ginger’s lip prints marked the edge of her wine glass. She had picked mushrooms out of her lasagna and pushed them to the side of her plate.

Wren didn’t like mushrooms either, but he would have scraped his plate clean if dinner hadn’t been interrupted. During months of scavenging for food, mushrooms were the tastiest form of fungus he’d consumed. He envied Ginger the little luxury of being picky.

He’d done the right thing by sending her away. If she were his, he’d banish every damned mushroom from her presence. But he’d never be able to give her a life in which mushrooms were her biggest problem.

Wren finished the lasagna on the plates, including Ginger’s mushrooms, and washed the dishes. The clang of porcelain against porcelain seemed loud in the silent house, so he opened the door to the flight deck, letting in the distant music and voices of the colony.

The grandfather clock chimed ten. Done procrastinating, Wren picked up the cell phone and dialed Vin. Hopefully, the demon had some good news.

Chapter Twelve

Ginger opened her eyes and realized she no longer sat at the reception desk. She lay on a window seat under a heavy blanket. Darkness reigned outside and cold radiated from the glass, but the room was warm and the blanket cozy. Disorientation subsided as she lifted her head and spotted Devin and Vin huddled over a computer at a nearby desk.

“Did I pass out?” She pushed the blanket aside and sat up. Her muscles protested the shifting of her weight, but her stomach no longer churned.

The two demons looked up in unison, the lamplight catching their reflective eyes.

“You slept.” Devin straightened. “You needed it after expending that much energy. Were you talking to the ghost the whole time I was gone?”

Ginger blinked and rubbed her head, certain she’d heard him wrong. “I’m sorry…what?”

Devin came around from behind the desk and sat in a leather chair near her window perch. He leaned forward and clasped his hands on his knees. “You were half asleep already, so you probably don’t remember. But earlier you tried to tell me you spoke with the ghost of a Guardian.”

Ginger sucked in a sharp breath. “Devin, I—”

“If you’re worried about us not believing you, relax. Psychic talents are not unusual.”

Ginger did more than relax; she slumped. But she dropped her head into her hands and a humorless laugh escaped her throat. “You’ve seen these skills in
humans?
”

Devin paused. “No…”

“But you believe me?”

Devin sat back and flattened his hands on the arm of the chair. “I have complete faith in you, daughter mine.”

Relief swept over Ginger, and she leaned back against the pillows. She hunted around at her sides. “The notepad. Where—”

“I have it,” Vin said from behind the desk. “And I have the address up on Google maps now, and there’s a photo. Cute place. Covered porch, lacy curtains. I look forward to burning it to the ground. You did good, Ginger. We have enough information to formulate a decent plan.”

“Thank goodness,” she said.

“Did you get the name of this Guardian?” Devin asked.

She shook her head, recalling the haunted expression on the spirit’s face when she’d asked. “No…he avoided the question.”

“Strange,” Vin said, his eyebrows low.

“That doesn’t sit right,” Devin said, a deep frown on his face. “Why would a Guardian withhold his identity?”

Vin stood up and moved to stand in front of a packed bookshelf. He selected a thick, leather-bound album, and carried it over to Ginger.

“There is too much on the line for our informant to be anonymous,” Vin said. “In this album is a snapshot of every Guardian who has died for this colony in its existence. It’s a grim task, but can you look through this, Ginger?”

“Sure.” She accepted the heavy volume with a lump in her stomach. So many dead. She smoothed her fingers over the leather.

“I’m meeting with the other Guardians to develop our strategy,” Vin said. “We’re not going to let Raphael sit in that prison a moment longer than necessary, but we’re not going to go in without a solid plan and a little backup intelligence. I’ve already sent my
reconnaissance
team.”

Devin added, “And we’re staying here for tonight, in case the spirit has anything to add.”

“How long did I sleep?”

Devin glanced at his watch. “Only an hour. Psychic talents drain a great deal of the user’s energy, so you need to rest some more. Sugar and caffeine will be in order in the morning.”

“I have more blankets if you need them,” Vin said. “Are you comfortable enough?”

She nodded, adjusted the pillow behind her back, and opened the photo album. “Yeah. I’m going to get started looking through this.”

“You should sleep more,” Devin said.

“I’m too awake at the moment. I might as well put the time to good use.”

“We’ll be across the hall in the conference room—” Vin broke off as his cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen and his brow furrowed. “It’s Wren. I still need to tell him what’s going on. Excuse me.”

Vin left the room as he put the phone to his ear. Ginger stared after him, wondering how Wren would react to her sticking around for a little while longer. Her shoulders sagged. The prospect of a second goodbye made her queasy. Maybe it would be best not to see Wren again at all. But running into him was probably unavoidable.

“Ginny, about this psychic talent.” Devin stared out the window, his light skin paler than usual, a heavy weight to the lengthening silence.

“Dev?”

When he finally returned his gaze to her, his eyes didn’t seem to focus. “All archangels have psychic talents, as do one in a hundred demons, give or take. Never humans…”

She chewed her lower lip. “I thought you believed me?”

“I do, honey. What I’m questioning is your family history.”

The floor dropped out from under her. “I… A mixed bloodline? But that’s extremely rare, right?”

Devin lifted his shoulders. “Demons and archangels are incompatible with humans overall, but there have been several halflings over the centuries. Wren, for example, though Raphael’s healing talent had a lot to do with that. Raphael treated his mate with his healing talent every single day of her pregnancy, I’ve heard. Demons have had better success intermixing with humans, but still, the numbers of surviving offspring are low.

“Your biological father definitely had no such background. As you know, Sebastian worked for the Guardians and we have much information on file about him. Your mother, however… All we know about her is in the brief statement he provided, along with the single photo.”

Ginger recalled pouring over the file in her teens, memorizing everything. The information on her mother had been thin, a single-page memo written by Sebastian and one photograph. Fearing hate crimes in retaliation for his support of the demons, her human father had kept the family as distant from his job as possible.

Maybe Sebastian had had more reason to fear for his wife’s safety than just the hazards of his occupation. Maybe she’d had something to hide from the masses. Something she had passed on to Ginger.

“I…” Ginger found herself at a complete loss for words.

Devin squeezed her shoulder. “I shouldn’t have brought it up now, sorry.”

“No, I…it would make me very happy if it were true.”

His eyebrows shot up and he shook his head. “I love you, daughter mine. Get some rest. We will find some answers when we get home.”

“Love you, too.”

Devin stood and left the room. Ginger needed sleep, but there’d be no chance of that happening. She opened the leather-bound volume, displaying the first of the photos.

Candid snapshots, so old they were shades of brown, filled the opening pages. The Guardians pictured wore clothing similar to civil war uniforms. She leafed ahead. Her Guardian had worn modern clothing. Current century, at least.

Page after page of faces. Ginger tried not to think about the fate of the demons staring back at her.

“Gin?”

Her heart in her throat, she glanced up. A pair of gem-green eyes stared back at her from the partially open door. Wren pushed the mahogany out of the way and stepped into the room.

Ginger’s heart kicked up a gear. Wren had put on a black, silk, button-down shirt over clean, black pants. His black-marked white wings framed the ensemble; his flight feathers crossed neatly over each other and just brushed the floor as he walked. Caught between the opposing colors, the almond skin of his hands and face glowed.

His expression gave none of his thoughts away. A perfect mask.

“Looks like I’ll be here a little longer,” Ginger said.

Wren stopped halfway across the room. “Vin just finished telling me everything. I’m still processing it all.” He paused. “You may have saved my father’s life.”

She bit her lip. “I’m just the messenger.”

Wren closed the remaining distance and caught her face in his hands.

“Still. Thank you,” he said, his voice earnest.

She leaned back from the dangerous temptation of his face so close to hers, until the cold from the window glass pressed against her neck. “Wren, I can’t say goodbye to you a second time.”

He released her, his fingers brushing her jaw. “I know I shouldn’t be here. But I had to thank you in person.”

“You’re welcome.”

He nodded once, a stiff movement, turned and left the room without another word.

§

Wren shut the door to Vin’s office and leaned back against it. Damn, seeing Ginger after being so certain he never would again had been too much of a relief. Now all he wanted to do was beg her to stay. She was right; they couldn’t manage a second goodbye. He had to stay away.

He glanced inside the conference room across the hall. Despite the late hour, a couple dozen Guardians mingled inside.

Another group of the field-ready, heavily armed demons filed past him, conversations fading to silence. One couldn’t judge a demon’s age by appearance—they reached their mid twenties and visually stayed there for a couple of centuries—but Wren’s presence drew shocked stares from the young ones, while the older Guardians averted their gazes.

“Holy shit,” one demon sputtered as he locked eyes on Wren, or rather, Wren’s wings. He was young enough to look like an awkward teenager. Seventeen, eighteen maybe.

“Show some respect,” a familiar voice chided. Devin emerged from the conference room and smacked the offender upside the head.

“Sorry,” the young demon murmured as the older Guardian shoved him through the doors with the others.

“Wren.” Vin’s voice broke through from the conference room and he joined Devin. The hall emptied of stragglers.

Wren didn’t mince words. “I’m going with you to Burlington.”

Vin’s expression of resignation said he’d expected this. “Wren—”

“I’m
not
staying behind.”

“I can’t jeopardize your safety,” Vin said, his voice flat.

Wren locked eyes with the demon. “My father’s wing is broken. If you move him while the bone is knitting, you’ll cripple him. I’ll need to heal him before you can get him out of there.”

Vin raked a hand through his hair. “When we return your father to Sanctuary, the wing can be re-broken and set properly.”

Wren shook his head. While the feathers themselves had no nerve endings, the flesh of an archangel’s wing was so sensitive they could feel the weight of an insect sitting on a feather tip. No other creature could imagine the pain of an archangel wing injury.

A phantom ache still throbbed along Wren’s wing from the gunshot. The bullet had missed the bone: a blessing. Hollow like the bones of typical birds, archangel wing bones shattered and splintered when broken. All those tiny fragments then dug into the surrounding flesh, especially if the wing moved. A broken wing was the single most painful injury an archangel could suffer, short of the amputations inflicted by the poachers.

What Vin suggested was unnecessary torture, and unlikely to work. Thanks to all those tiny bone fragments, it wasn’t one break to reset; it was dozens.

Wren shuddered and took a deep breath. “Similar attempts in the past to fix improperly healed wings have had a fifty-fifty rate of success. Unacceptable.”

Vin exchanged a loaded glance with Devin, then cursed. “All right, but I have conditions. First and foremost, we’ll be taking a large van to bring Raphael back in. You’ll stay in the van while we raid the house. You’re not going anywhere near—”

“I just told you, you can’t move him until I—”

Vin paced. “I intend to return here with two
living
archangels. Moving him from the house to the van is a risk we’ll have to take. Period. And another non-negotiable: Devin will stay with you for your protection.”

“
Devin
?”

“Sanctuary’s resources are stretched to their limit to pull off this mission and protect the colonists. Devin is one of Haven’s best and I trust him. I’ve asked for his assistance and he has generously agreed.”

Devin nodded in confirmation.

“Those are my conditions,” Vin continued. “You’ll stay in the van and you’ll be under Devin’s protection. Or you’ll stay here. Agreed?”

Wren clamped down on the fury that came from being given orders by a Guardian. His pride wasn’t what was important here.

“Agreed,” he ground out. “But what about Ginger? I thought Devin was taking her back to Haven.”

Devin tilted his head to the side, his eyes assessing Wren in a way that said he knew Wren’s interest was not just practical. Wren met that stare steadily.

To Wren’s great surprise he saw a glint of approval in the demon’s gaze.

A moment ticked by, and Vin cleared his throat. “My men are spread too thin to provide Ginger with an escort. She’ll stay here until Devin returns.”

“But—”

Devin interrupted Wren’s protest. “I’d rather her be on the road, too, but no one wants to leave the forty-three families in the colony without adequate protection.”