“About twenty, perhaps twenty-one on a very mature day,” Valerius unexpectedly supplied.
“Yes,” Xander said. “I am in training.” He winked out of sight of Valerius. “And because my father was a great general”—a fast swallow, a hitch in his breath—“and my grandfather is Alexander, I can’t miss a single session without being called on the carpet.”
A tentative set of grins from the human teenagers before one dared to ask what kind of training Xander was doing. He immediately began to tell them about crossbow drills and aerial maneuvers. Ten minutes later, Elena left him happily surrounded by fascinated teenagers and being bombarded by questions on every side, and came to join Valerius where he stood a short distance away.
“He is a young man growing into his strength and will soon be considered a true adult, but he found himself lost today—he is not used to being looked upon with hatred and fear,” Valerius said under his breath, a humming anger to him that she sensed only now that she was standing right next to him. “Not after growing up in his father’s territory, training in Titus’s, only to return to the wave of love and respect commanded by his grandfather.”
Elena wasn’t familiar with how Xander’s father had treated the people in his region, but she knew Titus was beloved. Not just by the women he took to his bed, but by all his people—mortal and immortal alike. Elena could well understand why. The big warrior archangel was one of her favorite people in the Cadre. He believed in honor on the deepest level. “Titus never harms the weak, doesn’t consider it honorable.”
“Yes—and this lesson, Xander has learned from all three of the defining men in his life. I, too, seek to show him the same.” Valerius’s tone held a deep pride, but the anger remained. “As such, he has never been faced with fear in a child’s eyes or had a woman lose all color when he smiles at her. Like most pups, he is more used to smiles and flirtation in return.” A harsh exhale. “This town . . .”
“Yes,” Elena said though he hadn’t finished his sentence.
Together, the two of them stood watch over Xander. Valerius missed nothing. Neither did Elena. So she noticed that, around them, the hatred was morphing into confusion as the boys chatted with Xander, while she and Valerius stood nearby but didn’t interfere.
When Xander pulled out the short sword he wore at his waist, horror crept back into those faces with the suddenness of a bloody strike . . . only to fade into open bewilderment when he gave the sword to the awed teens to handle, even going so far as to show them the correct way to hold it.
Then a little girl maybe three years of age, dressed in an orange-red dress trimmed with thin gold rope, her black hair in two neat braids and her feet in pretty golden slippers, escaped her mother to run straight for Elena and grab at the edge of her wing.
Elena caught the look of primal terror on the mother’s face as she bent down to pick up the little girl. “What are you doing, azeeztee?” she said in a chiding tone that she totally spoiled with her smile. “Your mama is worried.”
Having gone to that pale-faced woman to ease her concern, Elena blinked in shock when the woman, who was maybe in her late twenties, dropped to her knees and, head bowed, began to speak very fast. Elena couldn’t understand her, reacted on instinct, dropping to one knee herself, her wings spread on the earth behind her. “Here,” she said, holding out the child. “She’s safe.”
The woman snatched at her daughter, kissing her face over and over again as tears streaked down her own cheeks. The child whimpered, scared by her mother’s fear. Again, Elena didn’t think—she reacted. Reaching for a feather she could feel was about to come loose anyway, she tugged it off and held it out.
It happened to be one of the shimmering pale feathers near the edge of her wings, the color most often described as dawn. “Here, azeeztee.”
The mother froze again, but the child gave a wobbly smile and closed tiny fingers gently around the feather. “Shokran.” It was a shy whisper.
Elena smiled. “You are welcome.” Rising to her feet, she held out a hand to the mother.
The woman remained distraught, but she took Elena’s hand with a shaky one of her own and allowed Elena to help her up. Then, swallowing, she met Elena’s gaze and said something in her native tongue.
Gesturing for her to wait, Elena looked over her shoulder to see Xander and the teens frozen in place, their attention on the small drama. “Riad!” she called out. “I need a translator.”
The teenager ran over at once, a redness in his cheeks that spoke of a fearful rush of blood only moments earlier. “What do you want to ask her for?”