Out in Blue (5 page)

Chapter Six

Raphael woke to the sound of activity beyond the door of his prison. The locks released and the lights flicked on. He squinted, stood, and stretched his wings, the room just large enough to allow him to extend them fully.

The door opened. Lark stepped in to the room, flanked by two human guards.

Raphael folded his wings and his arms. He clenched his teeth.

“Evening,” Lark said, flashing a smile. The demon set down a long black case and flipped it open. Empty. But Raphael knew what the case would contain when Lark left with it. Lark came with the case every six months, the amount of time it took to grow in a new set of flight feathers.

Lark pulled a syringe from his pocket. Raphael backed up, moving as far away as the concrete prison walls allowed. In eighteen years, he had never cooperated, not once. He refused to let Lark break him, to meekly let the traitor have his way. But there was nowhere to go. The guards backed him into the corner.

One of the humans, a tall brick of a man with a crew cut and military poise, reached out and grasped Raphael’s wing. Raphael yanked free and backhanded the bastard.

Lark used the moment to get close and buried the syringe in Raphael’s neck. The drug stung as it spread out under his skin. Raphael lashed out but Lark evaded, stepped back, and folded his arms with a tight grin.

Raphael slumped to the floor on his back, unable to move or even blink. He breathed in shallow gasps. The concrete floor chilled him through his jeans.

Lark took a large pair of pliers from the guard. Raphael’s heart sped up, powering an adrenaline surge. Time had not made this any easier.

Lark pulled Raphael’s right wing with both hands and flexed it so that the flight feathers fanned.

Raphael watched, unable to speak, his blood boiling. Lark gripped the base of the outer most flight feather with the pliers and pulled the thick quill free of Raphael’s flesh. White hot pain seared in the feather’s wake. Lark moved on to the next flight feather. And the next.

Lark’s guards took the feathers, wiped the excess blood away and set them into the black case.

The demon finished the right wing and moved around to the left. Blood coated his hands and the pliers. Raphael’s only comfort was that the hundreds of smaller feathers that covered his wings were spared.

When Lark finished the second wing, he grasped Raphael’s chin with bloody fingers and looked straight into his eyes.

“You’ll be seeing your son again very soon, old friend. He finally slipped up. My men are securing his capture as we speak.”

Raphael shattered inside. He had endured eighteen years of imprisonment and abuse, but the only thing that could break him was this. Even the pain from his wings dulled into the background compared to the anguish of knowing the poachers had Wren. A tear slide down his temple.

Lark gave Raphael’s cheek a condescending pat. “Don’t worry. I intend to finish what I started so many years ago, but I’ll let you see Wren before I tear the wings from his back.”

Only the paralytic drug prevented Raphael from ripping Lark to pieces.

Lark stood and left, guards in tow, leaving Raphael on the floor to wait for the drug to run its course. He stared at the flickering fluorescent lights.

Minutes passed, and Raphael gradually regained command of his limbs. All six of them. He dragged himself to his feet, leaning on the wall for support, and moved to the shower in the opposite corner. He stripped out of his jeans and washed the blood from what remained of his wings, but his mind focused only on his son.

Wren, twenty-eight years old now. He would have grown into his wings and learned to fly in his early teens. Raphael wondered if Wren had taught himself, or if he had found another archangel adult to help him through that sacred but dangerous rite of passage.

He had so many questions; he wanted to know his son. But he’d choose to never see Wren again if it meant his safety.

Had he found a mate? Did he have a young of his own? The possibility of Wren having a family warmed Raphael’s chest and sent a chill down his spine. What would Lark do to them?

Kora’s bloodied face materialized in his mind as he turned off the water. He shuddered, the horror of his mate’s torture and murder strong, despite the passage of time.

Raphael shook his wings to expel the water, sat back on his heels, and dropped his head into his hands. He spoke aloud to his late wife as he often did, seeking comfort from the possibility that maybe, wherever she was, she could hear him.

“Kora, I will see our son safe again. I swear to you. These monsters will not have him.”

§

“Ginger?”

Ginger heard Wren’s voice and opened her eyes. Her head rested against his shoulder and she sat on his lap, his arms tight around her. Gazing beyond Wren, her heart stopped for a moment as she stared down…and down. The vastness of the view pulled her forward at the waist.

“Careful,” Wren said. “I hope you meant it when you said you weren’t afraid of heights.”

“I’m not afraid,” she murmured, dazed, as she stared out at the Green Mountains. The green and orange autumn foliage stretched for miles below them, in every direction, until the mountains disappeared in the cloudy horizon.

Ginger recovered enough to grasp that they sat on a tiny metal platform hundreds of feet above what must be the tallest mountain in the area. Ginger craned her neck to see straight down the red and white steel lattice.

“Is this a
broadcast tower?
” She looked over her shoulder at Wren.

“Yes.” Concern marred his features. He lowered his eyes. “How do you feel?”

She followed his gaze and stopped breathing. Dried blood saturated her clothes. Memories caught up to her in a torrent, bringing with them nausea and adrenaline.

Her hand went to her chest, where she remembered being shot, and found her shirt torn. She fingered the tattered cotton, trembling, and examined a ragged scar over her heart.

“How…you… You healed me? You have the same talent as your father?”

“Yes and yes,” he whispered. “I can’t heal myself, but I can heal others just fine.”

She reached up and touched his face. “Thank you.”

He covered her hand with his own. “You’ve been out for an hour, typical after the shock of being healed like that. Vin called on your cell a few minutes ago. They have regrouped not far from here, so if you’d prefer ground travel, I can drop you off with them. But I have no problem carrying—”

“I’ll stay with you,” she said, perhaps too quickly. He arched an eyebrow and heat rushed to her cheeks.

“I’m glad.” His mouth curved at the corners.

Ginger gasped as Wren stood and pulled her to her feet with him. His arms encircled her like a protective cage. He extended his wings to their full span and—God damn. His wings dwarfed the rest of him, graceful and strong.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

“Definitely,” she said, giddy, but not from nerves. She glanced up in expectation.

“All right.” Wren hooked an arm under her knees. “Hold on to me.”

Ginger wrapped her arms around his neck, his skin a welcome warmth against her cheek in the cold morning air. Wren dove off the tower. Her stomach lurched. Forceful beats of his wings propelled them upwards. The wind stung her eyes, but pressed to Wren’s chest as she was, the brunt of the rushing air hit her back.

They rose swiftly through the clouds. The moisture soaked her clothes, but she wasn’t cold, not pressed against Wren. He radiated warmth as his muscles worked. The sun illuminated the white clouds below them like a landscape after a major snow storm.

“It’s not far,” Wren said into her ear.

“Take your time. No rush.”

He squeezed her. “We need to be there to meet Devin. The sooner you get home, the better.”

She bit her lip, struck by his flat tone. Did he look forward to getting rid of her? She hoped it was her imagination.

Wren stilled into a glide, the tips of his flight feathers turned up in the wind. Ginger held on tight, but not because she had to. Wren had a firm grip on her.

She had never felt more secure.

Chapter Seven

Wren circled high over the colony, staring down at the few rooftops and yards that could be seen from above. The colonists had cleared as few trees as possible during the construction of Sanctuary, demons being creatures who preferred to live in the shadows of the thick forest. Archangels possessed a physical and psychological need for wide open spaces, so Raphael had spent as much time above the colony as in it, often carrying Wren. Though this was the first time ever flying over the colony under his own power, Wren knew every mark and blemish of the landscape.

A lake cut a swath of gray through the woods, which spread out as far as Wren could see, acting as a buffer of rough terrain between the demons and the humans of Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. The half-mile long, dark green stand of towering, old-growth hemlock on the east shore sheltered the majority of Sanctuary’s homes. The orchard divided a hill into orderly, evenly spaced rows of brown, the apple trees having lost their leaves for the winter, and the vegetable fields plowed and left until spring.

Wren flew low over a light green clearing, sending an alpaca herd into a run. To his right, along the rockier section of the shore, a three-story granite building stood in a small clearing, the wraparound second-floor deck inviting him in for an easy landing.

Home. The house the colony had built for his parents.

But he banked and headed away. The house could be occupied by strangers. If the colony had seen fit to leave it empty, there would be no food or clothing or heat.

Ginger shivered in his arms. The temperature had dropped, and the scent of snow gave the air a hostile edge. Wren descended toward a house on the southern shore of the lake, the home of his parents’ closest friends.

He landed on the lawn in front of the simple but large brick manse and lowered Ginger to her feet. She found her footing, but didn’t lower her arms from around his neck. A frigid wind laced with snow flurries barreled into them from across the water, and Wren lifted a wing to block the assault. But instead of moving toward the shelter of the house, he found himself frozen in place, Ginger’s breath warm against his skin as she gazed up at him.

“That was…” She sounded breathless and shook her head. “Thank you for that.”

If he inclined his head just an inch their lips would connect. He expected her to move away, but seconds passed and she didn’t budge.

“Gin?”

Without breaking eye contact, she tilted her head and brushed her lips—the faintest touch—across his cheek at the corner of his mouth. Her eyebrows lifted in silent question.

Warmth spread inside his chest at the invitation. He tightened his arms around her waist. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to find out if her lips were as soft and warm as they looked. Wanted to run his hands through her hair and down her smooth, human back.

But the mental image of his hands on her in an intimate way brought him to his senses, cold dread replacing the intense longing. In a couple days, the span of the continent would separate them, protecting her from falling into Lark’s sights. No kiss would change that. But his touch…no, he couldn’t touch her like that. Not first without the full disclosure of his
other
psychic talent. As strongly as he wanted to connect with her, he wasn’t ready to discuss that little secret.

Wren didn’t need Lark to drive a wedge between him and a romantic interest. Ginger wouldn’t be so comfortable around him if she knew he could kill her with just the intention and a touch.

He turned his face away and released her waist.

“Sorry,” Ginger murmured, hurt evident in her tone. She took a step back, a blush spreading across her cheeks.

Ah, hell
. He didn’t want her to misunderstand. Even if he couldn’t tell her the whole truth, he couldn’t tolerate the idea of Ginger thinking he felt nothing for her.

He wanted so much to pull her close again, his fingers twitched. “Gin, I—”

“
Wren
?
” a male voice choked out, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass.

Wren turned to see a demon lurch forward from the open back door of the house, past the shattered remains of a ceramic coffee mug on the stone steps. The bald male wore only a white shirt and black boxers, but he stalked across the frozen grass in his bare feet, the tips of all four of his fangs visible as he gaped. He staggered to a halt in front of them, squinting in the bright sun, words tumbling forth in a rush.

“Wren. I…I don’t believe it. We thought you were dead…I can’t believe I’m looking at you right now. Shit, are you all right?” The demon stared in the direction of Ginger’s torn and bloody clothing.

“We’re fine, Jac. I took care of her injuries.” Wren reached out for the demon’s hand.

“Ah, of course you did.” Jac took Wren’s offered palm and pulled him closer, stopping short of a hug but looking Wren in the eyes and squeezing his shoulder with his other hand.

“Shit, it’s good to see you.” Jac shot another glance at Ginger. “Who’s your…friend?”

Wren beckoned Ginger closer. As she stepped up next to him, he partially extended a wing behind her back, a gesture of affection to her, and a territorial, protective display to onlookers. Not every civilian demon in Sanctuary would be open to an unfamiliar human in their midst, even a Guardian’s daughter who’d grown up in Haven. But no one would dare question or otherwise act out if said human stood under the wing of an archangel.

Ginger glanced over her shoulder. She met his gaze with wide eyes. In silent response, he moved his wing forward to rest against her back.

“Not just a friend,” Wren told Jac. “She saved my life.”

Jac’s eyes traced the length of Wren’s outstretched wing. His eyebrows quirked and he extended a hand to Ginger. “I’m Jacamar. An old friend of Wren’s family. Please, call me Jac.”

“Ginger Magellan.”

“You’re more than welcome in my home, Ginger,” Jac said. “My sister Lexine isn’t here at the moment, but I know she won’t mind you taking some clothes. Please come in, both of you. It’s friggin’ northern Vermont out here.”

The wind howled in agreement. The three of them crossed the lawn, hurrying to the house. Wren kept his wing across Ginger’s back as they moved.

“What happened?” Jac indicated Ginger’s blood-soaked sweater. He followed them through the door and shut it tight against the wind.

A wide, open living area with brick interior walls and pine beams greeted them, heated and scented by a large wood stove. Many voices drifted to Wren’s ears from distant rooms: Jac and Lexine’s roommates. Demons only slept once a week, and nothing could wake a sleeping demon.
Nothing
. They watched out for each other by living in groups and staggering sleep schedules.

Ginger stood close to the cast-iron stove and held out her hands. Wren caught himself reaching to warm her shaking fingers and forced himself to stay a few feet away.

He recapped the events of the last twenty-four hours in as few words as possible, leaving out his father. No need to get Jac’s hopes up if it all turned out to be a lie. Wren needed to do something first, needed to get more information. But how…

Jac listened in grim silence as Wren spoke, horror and concern and, finally, relief flashing across his face.

“You are so lucky to be alive right now.” Jac shook his head. His voice hardened a bit. “You never should have left the colony. But now that you’re here, you’ll be staying. You’re not going back out there.”

“I haven’t decided.” Wren held the demon’s fiery gaze.

Jac stared at Wren for a long moment, a barely audible growl emanating from his throat.

“We need a place to stay tonight,” Wren said, steering away from the argument. “Devin won’t be here to pick up Ginger until tomorrow.”

The tension eased from Jac’s shoulders, but the intense light in his eyes said he wasn’t done with the previous topic. No doubt the discussion would come up again soon. “You’re welcome to stay with us, of course, but you know how we demons are. Gets noisy around here at night. You can go home, if you’re okay with staying there. The house is empty, but Lexine and I have taken care of it. We even updated the appliances and security system last year after a benefactor made a large donation to the colony. The water works and there is wood for the stove.”

“Thank you,” Wren said, truly grateful. “We’ll stay there. I think it’ll be good to be home.”

Deep sadness twisted the demon’s features, and he sagged back against the wall. He rubbed his face. “Your father would be very happy you’ve come home, Wren. You know…you look just like him. Your face… God, it brings me back.”

An electronic chime interrupted. Ginger pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and stared at the screen.

“Who the hell?” she muttered. She silenced the ringer and tucked the phone away.

“Just let me get some clothes for you two so you can go get cleaned up and rested.” Jac turned and disappeared up a flight of stairs.

Ginger’s phone rang again.

“Same caller.” She frowned.

Wren glanced at the screen, stared, and bit back a curse. The last four digits represented the date Lark had arrived on earth, over two hundred years ago.

Lark.
Damn it!

“Don’t answer it.” Best if she didn’t know who was calling. “It’s probably the police.”

“Yeah, and I have nothing to say to them.” She tucked the phone away. “Guess I need a new number.”

Wren clenched his teeth. What had he gotten Ginger into? How the hell had Lark gotten her number?

Jac came downstairs with a large, stuffed paper bag.

“Clothes, soap, etc.” He handed the bag to Ginger, along with a sheet of paper. “Don’t lose this as you fly over there. These are the various codes for the security system. And my cell number, if you need anything else.”

“Thanks Jac.” Wren clapped him on the shoulder. “See you again soon.” He paused. “We’ll talk. Okay?”

“You bet, we’ll talk.” Jac’s voice had an edge, but his eyes held only concern.

Wren led Ginger out of the house. It took all his willpower to maintain an outward appearance of calm. Especially as her phone rang a third time.

“Persistent.” She snapped the phone shut.

You have no idea
. He picked her up and got airborne.

§

Raphael sat cross-legged on the narrow bed in the middle of his cell, a blanket wrapped around his body. His skin itched as the wounds from his flight feathers healed. The healing fever began to subside, and he stretched his stiff neck. He watched the door as the locks released and a human guard entered.

Jett, dressed in nondescript jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt that covered his platinum-blond hair, appeared older than his twenty-five years because of his perpetual, tight-lipped frown. No one smiled around here except Lark, and Raphael could do without that mocking grin. The mercenary crossed the cell and set a tray of food on the foot of the bed, since the room lacked any other furniture.

Raphael spared the food a glance and turned away. The vegetables and protein his captors provided served to support healthy feather growth, so Raphael ate as little of the stuff as he could and still survive. He did indulge in the confections Jett sneaked in, but less for the enjoyment and more to appease the one guard who treated him with a degree of humanity.

On cue, Jett lowered the zipper on his sweatshirt, reached into a hidden pocket, and pulled out a dark chocolate bar. He set the candy next to the tray and cocked his head, his brown eyes narrowing.

“Have you figured out yet that starving yourself isn’t going to help?”

Raphael flicked his wings. “It makes me feel better.”

Jett arched a blond eyebrow and produced a second chocolate bar, which he dropped on the bed. “You need the calories.”

“As always, I appreciate your kindness.” Raphael couldn’t muster any enthusiasm. His hands shook where he rested them on his knees. As he sat here helplessly in this prison, what was Lark doing to Wren? He swallowed. “I don’t suppose you have news of my son?”

Jett sighed, leaned against the wall, and folded his arms. “He escaped.”

The words hit Raphael like an electric shock. “
Say that again
.”

“Wren escaped.”

Raphael sprang to his feet, clutching the blanket around himself, and approached the human. “My son is safe?”

Jett held up a hand. “Safe isn’t the word I would use.”

Raphael held his breath for a moment. “What happened?”

Jett lifted his shoulders. “They haven’t told me much. Maddox is nursing a broken nose and Derrick has a concussion. Both are too pissed to construct English sentences. Trent says a woman warned Wren and they escaped together, but he had a serious gunshot wound to a wing.”

Raphael slumped. “There’s a good chance he won’t survive an injury like that. If not the blood loss, the healing fever may be too much for him.”

Jett’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Why do you sound relieved?”

Raphael shuddered. “If you were in my place, would you want your son to suffer under Lark’s torture methods? Of course, I don’t want my son to die. But if he can’t escape death, I hope he can die peacefully. And free.”