Archangel's Storm

a message just before we left.”
    “Good.” She didn’t want to handicap her mother, but as Jason had known about the tunnels’ possible tactical use before the blood vow was deemed complete, remaining silent would’ve blemished his honor and put his life in danger.
    “Faster, Mahiya.”
    Calf muscles straining as the tunnels began to slope steadily upward, she saved her breath and her strength until they exited at last . . . from a trapdoor in the floor of the broken-down temple where she’d found the teddy bear. “Why didn’t Venom use this before?” The exit was cunningly concealed in a dark alcove.
    “Chance the door would be stiff with disuse, give him away. He oiled the hinges for us prior to leaving.” He went into another alcove, came out with a bag she assumed Venom had stashed. “Weapons, should we need them.”
    Rubbing at the fine grit on her face, cobwebs no doubt dusted over her hair, she dropped her bag in the corner and entered the open space in the center of the unbroken part of the temple. “I can’t leave.” The unvarnished words simply spilled out, before she was even aware of making a choice.
    “I know.”
    A terrible ache blossomed in her chest at his simple acceptance.
    “If the world suddenly changed and she stood in front of me, I would run into her arms just like that little boy.”
    It would’ve been smarter to stay silent, to not push at his boundaries, but a life of walls and secrets was not what she wanted with her spymaster. “Will you tell me?” she said, asking him to share a piece of his history with her, even if he could not share his heart. “How she died?”
    *  *  *
    J ason leaned against the wall at the back of the ruined temple, his ears cocked to the wind. It brought a single word.
    Nivriti
.
    Not long to wait, he thought, guessing the vengeance-driven angel had a spy in the fort who’d informed her the instant her daughter was out of Neha’s reach and no longer at risk of being used as a hostage.
    His eyes lingered on the woman who stood with her back to a column that had survived the vagaries of time, her face a study in strength and vulnerability intertwined. Waiting for his answer, waiting for him to tell her of a nightmare he’d shared with no person on this earth. But this princess had nightmares of her own.
    It could be that that was why he spoke. Or perhaps it was because of the luminous warmth at the back of his mind that was Mahiya’s presence. He should’ve blocked her out, was certain she didn’t realize she’d maintained the connection since he first allowed her through his shields. But he was loathe to cut her off—it felt as if she’d tucked herself into him. Not prying, not in any way aggressive, just curled up against him as she liked to be in bed, her hand on his heart.
    “My mother’s life,” he began, taking strength from that gentle radiance, “was stolen when I was a boy whose wings were yet too big for his body.”
    *  *  *
    T rembling, Jason made himself stop looking at the rust that
wasn’t
rust, and pulled himself out of the hole, closing the trapdoor with careful hands—and averted eyes—so it wouldn’t make a noise. And then he stood staring at the wall. He didn’t want to turn and see what lay on the other side, what he’d pushed off the top of the trapdoor. But the wall was splattered with the rust that wasn’t rust, too. Tiny bits of it had begun to flake off, baked by the hot sun pouring in through the sky-window.
    Stomach all twisted and his heart a lump, he looked away from the wall and to the floor, but it was streaked with pale brown, his feet having made small prints on the polished wood. The dirt inside the hole hadn’t been wet. Not until after.
    After the screams went quiet.
    He closed his eyes, but he could still smell the rust that wasn’t rust.
    And he knew he had to turn around.
    Had to see.
    She was looking at him from the other side of the room, her pretty dark brown eyes filmed over with a whiteness that was wrong. The stump of her neck was crusted with blood where it sat on the table in the corner, as if placed there for just this purpose.
    He didn’t scream.
    He knew never to scream.
    Instead, he looked at the chunk of meat that had been blocking the trapdoor. It wore a silk sheath of brilliant amethyst.
    Amethyst. That’s what his mother always called her favorite color. Amethyst.
    It had taken him a long time to say it right, and she’d always laughed in delight when