Page 17 of Angel's Conquest
In a span of a few hours, Bronze had been hit with a veritable oil tanker’s worth of puzzle pieces that he was beginning to suspect didn’t all go to the same puzzle. About the only thing he could take to any sort of proverbial bank at the moment was that relic around Clara’s neck, and Rhode’s bone-deep assertion that it had some connection to Cyro.
To possibly, one day, return to the Empyrean.
“Are you prepared to do this, then?” Tungsten asked.
Bronze swept an elaborate hand out to model his precision-perfect packing skills. “Have you not seen the number of blades I stuffed in here?” Again, he was met with a look so dry and void of amusement, he wondered whether they had all been created by the same prime mages.
Questionable, that.
“Are you prepared to enter these games under the farce we’ve constructed?” Tungsten added wearily. “I’ll not lie to you. The stakes are rather high. If what Rhode suspects has even a modicum of truth to it, it’s an assertion that may?—”
“Just get us home,” Iron finished.
It was the one whisper that all the sentinels, even those who had become happily mated to their soul bonds, still offered up to the prime mages. Some habits die hard. Though Bronze had always wondered what would happen should a time arise when that choice had to be made for his brothers. Most of the mated soul bonds were mortal and could not follow the angels to the Empyrean. And not surprisingly, no one had ever given an actual voice to the circumstance. Why should they, when their other halves had been discovered in the mortal realm and the promise of return had gone so long unfulfilled?
He got it. He truly did. Should the day ever come, he’d weep and mourn along with his brothers for the agony of the choice they’d face. But for him, home had an entirely different set of implications, ones that started and ended as a final oath on a battlefield and had haunted him ever since.
A promise made in blood can only be broken by blood.
Of course, when Bronze had made that pact and spoken those words, neither party involved had had the foresight to consider the only other thing that could strip a vow of its power, even when sworn to by one of the Empyrean’s sentinels: banishment.
“I know what’s at stake,” Bronze said. “I’ll get in, play some games, learn what I can, nab the relic, and leave. Honestly, I’m looking forward to it. Haven’t booked a vacation with an excursion package in quite some time. Should be fun.”
Bronze threw the final zipper home on his rucksack and stormed over to the kitchen to load up on far tastier travel provisions. They had another thirty minutes before he and Clara were due to head out, and if his hands couldn’t wrap around the handle of his halberd, they were better off doing what damage they could to the food stores.
But even as he rummaged through produce and protein bars, two phrases from two different females, one a plea and one a warning, ran roughshod over his otherwise calculated selection process.
“Compete for me.”
“Lycans are so very fond of their games.”
Bronze couldn’t remember tossing the gingerbread cookies into his pack, but their spice lingered on his skin long after he closed the bag.
Chapter 9
“So, what do people address you as where you’re from? Your Majesty? No, wait, that’s usually a king and queen thing, right? Princes and princesses, at least in the Western mortal monarchies, get served up with the ‘Your Highness’ stuff instead, if I remember. Or should I be calling you something else?”
Clara lowered the canteen of water from her mouth and did her best to hide her coughing fit behind the back of her hand. Goodness. They had only been walking for a little less than an hour, and already she’d been so churned up by his tales of the human lands and what lay ahead for them that she’d nearly spilled water on herself three times, almost rolled her ankle twice, and had been smacked in the forehead by a low branch she was convinced must have jumped out of nowhere.
The only small mercy granted was Bronze’s insistence that he walk in front of her. A bit silly since she was serving as his guide, but the energy it would have taken to argue was far better spent figuring out just what the hell she’d do once they arrived back at her home.
“Clara is fine when it is just us in conversation. Otherwise, most call me ‘lady.’”
Bronze hung back a bit and waited for her to ascend the small hill he’d already scaled so she wouldn’t have to shout. “My lady or Lady Ander? You explained how lycan females take their surnames from the mother’s line, but didn’t go into how you use it.”
“No, just ‘lady.’”
When Clara finally reached the top, she handed him back the canteen. He took it, but when he didn’t immediately stow it or continue walking, she stopped as well. He simply held the canteen, which was significantly lighter than when he’d offered it to her.
A tremulous sense of dread poked at her midsection. Had she drank too much? Were they to share one canteen each, or had she just imbibed far more than her fair portion, leaving him with very little water for the journey? Gosh, she hadn’t a clue. They hadn’t spoken of it. All that occurred earlier were a few small coughs on her part, which she’d covered with her mantle as best she could. By the time the fit had subsided and the dry dirt on their path had settled a bit, Bronze had already thrust the canteen beneath her nose, urging her to drink, so she did.
But, oh, he did not look happy. Dappled sunlight pierced through whatever openings in the tree cover it could find, casting Bronze’s features in slashes of highlighted brilliance, as well as revealing a sour look of consternation.
“Your people just call you ‘lady?’” he said dourly. “As in, ‘hey, lady’? Like they’re calling a dog or screaming at an irate shopper or something?”
The tone in his voice caught her off guard, and again, she worried she’d done something terribly wrong.
Perfect. Just perfect, Clara.