Archon(43)

“She took from me what I loved most—” Israfel said, feeling Raziel’s hand cup his cheek.

No. It was only Nunkir, concerned.

“—and violated him right in front of me. And she laughed the entire time, like it was a game to take my heart and crush it underfoot. My heart. I never thought she’d dare . . .”

“What was her name?” Brendan absently touched his own skin, playing with his neck and collarbone. With or without his sister, Rakir would murder him, or at least that much was obvious from the way his lower jaw shivered. If the obsession growing inside of Brendan didn’t destroy him from the inside out, then in a day or so, the Throne would rip him in half.

Israfel’s lips trembled. “Lucifel.”

Brendan froze, his eyes widening, too shocked to remember his caution anymore. “He’s—a woman . . . but that can’t be—”

“Yes, a woman.”

Lucifel was a woman. One who had forced her subjects to call her “Prince” out of envy. But she wasn’t—and couldn’t be—like Israfel no matter how she dressed or spoke or cut her feathered hair. Because Israfel was a natural enigma, his true self known to a very privileged few, most of whom had never lived to tell about it. They’d exchanged an evening of intimacy for their lives. “A woman who gave birth to two abominations that resemble her, and with the very person I loved most.”

“Then, she’s the Ruin.” Brendan sounded triumphant. “You said she’s in Hell. But we believe that she’s coming to Earth for revenge. The public aren’t allowed to read the official prophecies; they’re told about the red hair she possesses so that they send qualifying children to the Academy.”

Nunkir was shaking, so deeply had Lucifel’s name upset her. Yes, it brought back terrible memories for them all. Israfel knelt down, dizzy, but took her head against his lap, letting her hear the hope moving inside of his slender stomach.

She relaxed, though her concern for Rakir continued. Her eyes had narrowed to green slits, and still, Brendan continued to gaze openly at Israfel, teasing her brother until it bordered on cruelty. The crimson stripes flaring on Rakir’s wrists and hands said that he was aroused, but the feeling was far from deliberate. Red stripes of rage blushed across his cheekbones as well.

“The Archon,” Israfel’s words began to slur again, “whom you ignorantly call the Ruin is not Lucifel.”

Brendan was too enamored to be aware of his company anymore. He barely noticed Rakir step nearer to him, the angel’s tall shadow darkening their faces. “Well, thank God.”

“The Father has nothing to do with it.” He couldn’t even if he tried.

Israfel had seen to that.

He slipped away from Nunkir, stroking her shoulders and hair. Slowly, he approached her twin, distracting Rakir with a soft touch until the Throne’s eyes closed once more, and he relaxed into the tenderness of Israfel’s gesture, grateful. He had certainly suffered enough. Israfel took his hand and brought him nearer to Brendan. “Come,” he said, hot with the fire of the Father’s blood in his veins.

Brendan groaned, turning to escape this sudden temptation.

Israfel lifted a finger, and the human froze, invisible chains of ether locking him into place.

“Poor thing,” Israfel said, clutching Rakir close so that they stood tightly together. “I should reward you for your self-control.”

Nunkir smiled at Brendan, gloating over his lesson for the day.

It was one she’d learned long ago: possessiveness had its price.

“Please,” Brendan said, his slightly muscled arms already shaking underneath the tension. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“You mean punishing your ex-girlfriend?” Israfel said, teasing. He pulled Rakir down for a kiss.

Brendan gasped. “God . . .”

“Oh, but he would punish you.”

“Israfel,” Brendan pushed, hardly understanding the situation in which he was entangling himself, “come with me tomorrow, to the All Saints’ Day ceremony. Stephanie will be at the ceremony with the other members of the sorority. They have to attend in order to keep up appearances. Once you show up, the priests will listen to you—they’ll have to—and then she’ll be officially tried as a witch and”—his voice lowered, softer—“burned.”

Israfel broke away from the honey of Rakir’s mouth. “How barbaric.”

“It’s justice,” Brendan said, lunging forward violently. “It’s what she deserves.”

“But what will I receive in return for such an immense favor?” Israfel said, slipping off his coat, savoring the breeze. His slim, androgynous lines seemed to make Brendan’s mouth water. “What could you possibly give me in exchange for that kind of generosity?”