Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 118699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 593(@200wpm)___ 475(@250wpm)___ 396(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 593(@200wpm)___ 475(@250wpm)___ 396(@300wpm)
“This is an astonishing device.” Zanaya’s eyes were pinned on the black screen that showed a turning hourglass, the skin of her face tight over her cheekbones. “Is it not, Alexander?”
“I’m still on the fence about all these advances,” he muttered even as he spread his wing behind her own, the contact as much for him as it was for her.
A coldness spread through his limbs, a premonition of news terrible.
An image appeared on the main screen at the same instant: the insignia of the Cadre—a simple circle with all their emblems arranged inside it. It changed with every change in the Cadre, emblems being added or removed.
Zanaya’s emblem, an ankh below which ran two curving lines representing her Nile, sat opposite Alexander’s: an outline of a raven in flight. Titus’s updated emblem sat next to his—the familiar outline of a baobab tree remained unchanged . . . but now, there soared above it a hummingbird.
It was Sharine, the Hummingbird, Alexander remembered all at once, who’d drawn the original outline of his iconic emblem. It had taken place soon after his ascension. He’d been talking to Caliane about what he wanted his emblem to be, while her quiet best friend sat sketching nearby, the gold-tipped black of her hair glossy in the sunshine, and the next thing he knew, she’d shown him her sketchpad and said, “Akin to this, Alexander?”
Because the thing with Sharine was that she’d never been intimidated by archangelic strength; she’d always had a power of her own that no one could explain. It wasn’t of the Cadre, wasn’t martial. Yet it clung to her, a tranquil yet potent cloak.
Dragan, rough-edged but insightful, had once looked at her and said, “Perhaps she is evolution, Alex. A better, kinder, more intelligent us.”
How odd that, until this instant, he’d forgotten such a critical memory and all the others connected to it. Another example of the tangle of age. He wondered if Sharine remembered the genesis of his emblem? He’d ask her, perhaps delight her with a remembrance long lost.
A flash on the screen in Zanaya’s hands as the insignia split into ten unique emblems before vanishing to reveal a crisp visual of Elijah. Standing beside him was Caliane’s blue-eyed son, both of them situated against a backdrop of snow and stone. What Elijah had to say was the worst news of all: “Antonicus has risen. There is no body in the grave.”
55
Antonicus had fed again. The more he fed, the more of himself returned to him . . . and the more disgust he felt at—
The thought fragmented, his eyes narrowing as he kicked the half-shriveled body whose lifeforce he’d acquired. At first, he’d thought he needed their blood, but blood, rich red and metallic, was a mere transfer mechanism for the energy that fueled him. Soon he’d have so much that he wouldn’t need to bother with the distas—
Another fragmentation.
Frustrated, he roared and kicked the body again. Again. Again.
Until when he stopped, the once-whole form was in bloody pieces, bones shattered to punch through skin, and Antonicus’s reborn crouched nearby, waiting to scavenge what flesh remained. Dark green plants grew at their back, the leaves plump and wet in comparison to their emaciated state.
His upper lip curling, he waved a hand and they swarmed to feed.
Repulsed by their slurping and lack of control, he was about to turn away when he caught a movement in the sky in his peripheral vision. He looked up into the late afternoon light with the instinctive caution of a man who’d won more wars than he’d lost; it was highly unlikely even a flyer skimming the canopy would see Antonicus and his reborn, for he’d chosen his feeding ground with care—deep in the heart of a rainforest verdant with life and thick with shadow.
Still, there was no point in becoming careless now.
The angel was skimming the treetops, but that wasn’t what caught Antonicus’s eye. It was the underside of his wings. Pure silver. The kind of silver he’d seen in the wings of no other angel in the world but Alexander.
Alexander wasn’t his enemy.
But Alexander had oft lain down to sleep with the one who was the enemy.
All at once, Antonicus knew what he had to do. And he wasn’t going to use his resurrected power to do it—no, he had to hoard that for the fight to the death to come.
Instead, he grabbed the crossbow he’d acquired from a pile of weapons beside the barracks of a remote squadron. That had been his first taste of returning power—he’d fed, and had soon after been able to don his glamour.
No one could or had seen him.
Crossbow in hand, he rose up through the waterlogged air of the forest . . . and fired.
56
The sun’s rays flowed to red-orange with the oncoming sunset as Alexander stood with Zanaya on a wide balcony that faced the direction from which his grandson would fly toward them. Alexander’s chest stretched in prideful anticipation of seeing Xander’s powerful wings in flight—and in painful joy at the thought of introducing this most precious piece of his heart to Zani.