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)
Alexander pointed out a metal pitcher that lay overturned in the corner. “There.”
“There’s no other sign of trouble.” Raphael turned slowly around, taking in the entire space. “The books are still on the shelves, and look there—a plate of undisturbed food on the table from which the pitcher fell.”
“Knowing my brother, he was distracted by an experiment or a sudden thought.” Alexander’s nausea began to recede, to be replaced by a surge of amused affection. For this was just like Osiris. “He’s allowed the fire to go out, ignored the fallen pitcher in his rush to get to his lab.”
When he strode to the heavy iron oven and opened up the door, he saw a few embers, the heat the barest kiss on his skin. Nothing enough to hold back the atmosphere of this land of snow and ice so desolate that even angels gave it a wide berth.
“Osiris must have other means of heating his home.” Alexander shut the oven door. “This oven would barely make a dent.” That was when he spotted the explosion of pipes that emerged from the back of the oven and realized his error. “Water ducts,” he said. “They must run throughout this residence. The oven might be enough once the system is in stable operation.”
Raphael wasn’t listening to him; he was staring at a part of the far wall that appeared to have been damaged to reveal stone building blocks on the other side. As Alexander watched, Raphael put his hand on the stone, frowned.
“What is it, Rafe?” he said, falling back on the name he’d once called the boy—back when Nadiel was alive and Caliane in no danger of madness.
Back then, Raphael had been the cherished child of a beloved friend.
“I don’t know.” Lifting his hand from the stone, Raphael stared at it, then curled his fingers inward. “It disturbs me for some reason.”
Despite his increasing belief that Osiris was just being Osiris, Alexander didn’t disregard the young angel’s words; the boy might be arrogant but he was the son of two archangels, his blood formed of violent power.
At this moment, however, Alexander didn’t have time to look at walls. “Osiris must be downstairs.” He’d spotted stairs to the right, just beyond what appeared to be his brother’s kitchen and dining area.
He went that way, Raphael next to him. They looked down into a windowless stairwell to see ice dripping from the banister, the scene lit by the greenish glow of bioluminescent moss that was dead in large patches. “The cold,” Alexander said. “The moss isn’t designed to survive it.” But enough remained to light the stairs.
No water, no ice on those stairs, but neither was there any extra space to maneuver. Alexander glanced around, frowned. “The interior of this home isn’t as large as it should be if we measure by the size of the external structure.”
“As if there’s space hidden all around.” Raphael turned those familiar eyes toward the wall next to them. “But what I touched behind the wood paneling was stone. Would your brother build stone tunnels around his home?”
“It would mean an enormous expenditure of power for no discernible reason,” Alexander muttered. “It’s not as if he needs to hide things from intruders—aside from Osiris, we’re likely the first angels who’ve ever set foot here.”
“Do you believe he built this place with his own hands?”
“Yes. Osiris has many gifts, many strengths—and he’s patient.” To keep his home a true secret, he’d have ferried every single piece of building material here piece by careful piece. “I’ll go first.”
Again, Raphael didn’t attempt to stop him. Because this was a matter of family.
He heard the susurration of the other angel’s wings as he followed, but all else was silent . . . until just before he was about to turn the corner into the final part of the stairs—which widened out enough to permit them to stand side by side.
Do you hear it? he said mind-to-mind to Raphael, for unsurprisingly, the child of two archangels had exhibited the ability to communicate in this fashion far too young.
Alexander rarely initiated mental contact with those outside his inner court, but it was easy with Raphael—because Alexander had spoken to the boy before this way, in the years after Caliane’s disappearance. Sharine, who had always been Callie’s closest friend, had taken the lead in helping Raphael recover from the catastrophic injuries his mad mother had inflicted on the son Alexander knew was a piece of her heart, but Alexander had been there in the shadows.
He’d made sure no one dared ostracize or ill-treat Caliane’s boy—because there were those in angelkind who’d begun to whisper that surely the boy would soon end up mad, what with both his parents having fallen to that affliction.
He wondered if Raphael remembered. The talkative child who’d once ridden on his shoulders as Alexander walked with Callie and Nadiel had been . . . damaged by his mother’s actions, and Alexander wasn’t sure he’d been truly present for much of the immediate aftermath.