Fallen Embers (Fallen Guardians #9)

Chapter 9

Chapter

Nine

Lore flashed to the mountain plateau above the abbey, where Nia had had her near disaster, raising his hand to touch his mouth. The sensation of her lips remained imprinted on his, stirring within him a disturbing need so unfamiliar that even now, it shook him.

She’d accused him of lacking empathy and feelings, and he frowned at that concept. He didn’t need those to do his job, but her words troubled him.

A deep inhale of frosty air did little to clear his mind. He lowered his hands, needing the spiritual sway of the Celestial Realm to clear the confusion away.

He shifted and reappeared in the realm’s sunny meadow. Before he drew the notice of the cadre who ran the Absolute Council of Angels, or Chamuel, the Supreme Seraph who had tasked him with this job, he let the serenity of the place flow through him…

Once in control, with a thought, he changed his clothes back to the white drawstring pants and tunic he wore here, his wings fluttering free.

His mind slipped to one of the duties awaiting him. He sent out a mind-missive to the angel who had chosen to fall from grace.

Ashwin, meet me in the meadow.

A moment later, the guardian angel appeared, his dark brown wings tucked close to his body. His black hair was tethered in a ponytail, revealing his quiet, bronze features.

“Ditari,” he greeted Lore by his Power title and bowed.

Instead of giving his counsel, Lore asked, “Why?”

The angel stood firm, but his throat bobbed. He knew better than to evade the truth. Lore would know.

“I want a life…”

“You have one here.” Lore sat on a white garden bench.

Ashwin straightened his spine. “I want a different life with…with the mortal I love.”

Indeed. That was the usual for angels who decided to fall, except for those who wanted more power and tarnished their halo with inhabitants from the Dark Realm.

“You would give up everything for a mortal?” he asked, curious now.

The angel’s deep blue eyes glowed with tenderness. “For her, yes.”

Lore didn’t speak for a moment, staring out into the flowing field covered with tiny white flowers, which reminded him of the snow around the abbey. Nia’s smirking face and sparkling amber eyes slid into his thoughts. He shut her out.

“You do understand the repercussions of your decision, yes?”

“Aye. I will lose my wings and most of my powers, and…and much more.”

“And her?”

His chest rose and fell. “She knows. I told her. She didn’t want me to do this, but I cannot remain here without her.”

Lore frowned at the blooms, then he rose and nodded, giving the go-ahead for the angel’s fall from grace.

“Thank you, Ditari.” A smile lit his face like a star, as if he’d been granted heavenly favor.

His task completed, Lore focused on what he’d actually come for. Answers. There was only one place for those.

He shifted to the archives situated deep in the pale cliffs on the northern side of the realm, shrouded in miasma. Billows of mist swirled around him as he took form. Not many could find the ever-moving and always shielded archives. Given who he was, Lore had earned the right eons ago to enter at will.

He bypassed the towering pillars of pearlescent marble, veined with shimmering silver and framing the colossal doorway, and headed inside, sensing only the archive keepers about.

Good.

The murals on the luminous walls drew his attention, depicting the intricate scenes of celestial battles, the dawn of creation, and the harmonious moments shared between angels and humanity…

But it was no longer so, was it?

He approached a pair of massive doors forged from dark metal and inlaid with glowing celestial quartz along the edges. The doors bore the sigil of the seraphs, a brilliant sun flanked by crescent moons signifying the eternal balance between light and dark, day and night.

The doors slid open into the cool interior, with the same pale walls, but the glimmer here remained muted.

Three angels in long white gowns and hoods covering their hair worked quietly at their stations.

Lore drew his wings flat to his back as he approached the first workstation.

A dusky-skinned angel seated at the desk looked up. “Ditari Loráed.” She rose hastily and bowed, her voice soft and reverential. “How may I be of service?”

“I need access to the sanctified depository.”

She blinked her dark gray eyes, seeming startled. Guess not many—no, no one —had requested a visit to the place.

“Ditari, I don’t have the authority for that level. I must consult with Archeia Charmelai?—”

He cast her a cool stare.

“I shall make haste.” She bowed and shifted.

Lore slid his hands into his pockets and waited, his thoughts back on Nia and what she had revealed. Had the winds pushed her to the mountain edge?

A tinge of irritation cracked through his shields that others would interfere with his job.

The angel reappeared with a box and set it on the desk. With a wave of her hand, the lid eased open, emitting a burst of brightness. The single key made of pure light rose into the air and glided over to settle on his palm.

It felt like air, but its warmth seeped through his folded fingers, indicating he held it.

Lore flashed to the lower depths of the sacred archives within the endless library and headed deeper. The passing of ages had left the air dense but it remained temperate.

Glowing crystals set in the recessed hollows in the ceiling bathed the place with soft, silvery light, casting intricate patterns on the polished onyx floor. Wards glimmered, warnings that nothing could be removed and that the price of trying would be steep.

He opened his palm containing the key. Its radiance dispersed into the wards, and they flickered, allowing him access to the sanctified space with its labyrinth of knowledge and secrets.

The Watchers , he sent out the thought as he walked the path in search of the history of the formidable angels. While he scanned the shelves, he let his psyche—his spiritual energy—traverse beyond the planes, back to the mountains in Romania.

She was alone now, settled in bed, her phone in hand…and safe.

The key glowed brighter. The row of Aeon. Finally.

Lore slowed his steps, picked up a scroll, and perused its ancient writings…

Every item he touched and the info he absorbed was about their jobs before being tasked to watch over fledgling humanity—not what he required—specifically about their mates and offspring, especially the offsprings’ descendants.

While the key had shown him the cache of manuscripts on the Watchers, the specific volume he sought wasn’t going to simply hand itself over. He would have to scan for it manually.

As he worked his way down the row, that part of him he couldn’t seem to bolt down returned to Nia, tracking her again. She was in the courtyard with Race now, practicing with a sword. He watched her for a second. With each thrust and parry, she appeared like a beacon of light, riveting him.

The sound of her laughter jolted him out of his thoughts. He shut off the sight and focused on the job.

As he neared the end of the row, a volume on the top shelf caught his attention—a massive leather-bound tome inscribed with runes. A dim glow emitted from it, impossible to miss.

Lore picked up the ancient book and settled it on a pedestal. The light from the key he still held shimmered over the runes, and they swirled in a cascade of golden sparks before fading.

This has to be the one.

The compressed volume eased open. With care, Lore turned the yellowed pages, searching for the time before the Watchers’ annihilation. While he had ensured the order was carried out, watched it happen, and understood why it had come to pass, there was more to uncover.

There.

He read the section.

…they bore two genera: Nephilim and Psionics. The Nephilim were monstrosities effectively annihilated along with the Watchers. Their mates and the weaker psionic offspring were pardoned and allowed to live upon the condition that their powers be bound.

However, there were the rare few Psionics who exhibited powers beyond the extraordinary. Posing an immediate threat to the Celestial Realm, they were exterminated… A watch must be kept over the awakening of Zarias’ accursed line. For those of unbound powers are a danger to all that is…

He was aware of that.

He scanned through more text…and found a prophecy written in ancient Enochian.

Frowning, he read it.

O’ Zarias, O’ Fallen One, slain in ash, thy seed freed…

Hidden in the blood of time.

The Impure One will find in twilight and in dusk, the once forgotten line, and awaken the lost ones once more.

The Trinity united. The sacred line protects all…

Beware, O’ wary Executioner, for the once reaped innocence…

He turned the page and found nothing more of the cryptic wording. Only discolored blank pages remained. Someone had obscured the rest of the text.

A mental knock in his mind had him frowning. He allowed it.

A moment, Loráed, Chamuel, the Supreme Seraph, telepathed.

Lore closed the book and dismissed the volume. It settled back on the shelf, the glow receding to dullness.

He flashed to the place where most of the meetings with Chamuel occurred—the Serene Gardens—and strode across a sweeping meadow, lush with a brilliant carpet of tiny blue flowers. The blend of quiet whispers and resonant chorales marked a nearby waterfall, so unlike its noisy counterpart on Earth.

A shift in the air alerted Lore he wasn’t alone. A tall column of swirling silver appeared a distance away. Most seraphs didn’t take corporeal form, and Chamuel was no different.

“I sensed you were back,” his infinite voice drifted to Lore. “Is the job complete?”

“Not yet.”

“Mm-hmm.” In a shimmer, Chamuel became corporeal. A gentle breeze fluttered his long white robe. The lowest pair of his six wings swept the grass in a glimmer of white to silver, leaving behind a trail of iridescent dust as he joined Lore.

“What ails you, Loráed?”

Lore kept his thoughts clear. “Why is the information in the Watchers’ annals concealed?”

His endless blue stare briefly met Lore’s. “What is it that confuses you about the Watchers, Ditari?”

Using his Power title was one way to remind Lore of his rank and that Chamuel stood above all in the hierarchy. “Nothing confuses me. It’s simply not available.”

“We preserve our rules for a reason.” Chamuel dismissed Lore’s question with a flick of his fingers. “Information has and always will be accessible according to hierarchy.” He lifted his gaze to the sky as if he sought heavenly direction from the Father… Or maybe he wasn’t pleased that the Archeia had given Lore the key to the tome.

“Why did you not let the mortal fall?” Chamuel inquired, changing the subject. “It would have completed your mission. I sent Jehoel with the order.” With a wave of his hand, the clouds parted, revealing the empty courtyard of the abbey.

There was no sign of Nia, but Race stood on the mesa, on guard duty.

“While my usual targets are immortals and guilty, it’s an innocent you want terminated. A human who was unaware that she possessed a potent bloodline or that she could have the powers of Zarias.”

Chamuel’s expression didn’t change. “Your job is to complete the task, not question me, Loráed.”

“As the Power and Balance of our realm, my title allows me,” he said, equally quiet. “If she is psionic, then her powers can be bound, like the older female living with the Guardians.”

“Finish the job, Ditari,” Chamuel reiterated as he spread his wings. Power streamed over Lore like blades slicing through his skin. His teeth clenched as the decree settled within him.

Without a word, he shifted and reappeared back on the Apuseni Mountains in Romania, the order vibrating through him.

Kill the mortal.

“Not bad,” Race said from the bench under the forlorn tree, watching Nia practice as twilight approached. “Your form’s improving.”

She grunted, wielding a wooden weapon and working solo with the fight moves Race had shown her. After his scary display two nights ago, she’d been wary of training with him. Heck, she still was, but he seemed to have locked down the daunting side.

“Yeah,” she panted. “But this isn’t a real sword.”

He smirked. “It’s lighter and more manageable, and that’s what matters when you’re learning.”

Maybe.

But her mind wasn’t on the dry-witted, if somewhat scary Guardian, but on another, the one with wings like sunset, eyes resembling an algae-ridden pond iced over, and a darn pain in her backside. Even without him there, he still irked her.

He left two days ago, and there wasn’t any message, not even a peep from him.

She had to stop thinking about him. Heck, she doubted she’d even blipped on his radar as anything more than a nuisance.

She swiped her damp brow on her tee, grateful that the heat within had subsided a bit with her workout. So, was Race her protector now?

“Let’s try it one-on-one.” He rose, sweeping his silver, black-streaked hair into a knot and fastening it with an elastic he conjured. “I’ll even let you use a proper sword.”

“Yay, me,” Nia grumbled but darted to the two weapons he’d left against the abbey wall. Before she reached them, one vanished. Gah, stupid magical abilities! She grabbed the remaining sword and flew at him, blade arcing.

He easily blocked her swing, making her work for a strike. Ugh.

Her mind slipped off her lessons. She finally caved and asked, “Is he not coming back?”

“Angle your weapon when coming at me. Like this…” Race stepped behind her.

He was tall, impossibly attractive—a powerhouse of muscles at her back—and she didn’t feel the tingling of any body parts as he repositioned her hands, showing her how to sweep her weapon in an upward counterstrike.

He let go, and she swung up.

“Yes, that’s good. Put your body strength into your blow, and you can behead anyone with a single swipe?—”

“What?” She wheeled to him, weapon swinging.

He leaped back and chuckled. “Good reflexes. He’ll be here. Those winged beings don’t like leaving any job unfinished?—”

A tingle coasted through her, the draw so intense, she didn’t have to turn to see who it was, but she spun around anyway.

Lore glided to the ground, wings spread open like flames in the sinking sun.

The moment he landed, he stalked across. “I’ll take over.”

“It’s about time,” Race drawled. “Nia, it was a pleasure. You’ve alleviated my millennia of boredom.” With a wink, he vanished in a brief swirl of air, leaving behind a faint whiff of burnt ember.

She frowned at the smell, then forgot about it as Lore picked up the sword Race had left on the bench, his enormous wings retracting and vanishing.

“Let’s see what you know about keeping yourself safe.”

Unsurprising that he didn’t seem inclined to explain where he’d been. But it niggled at her. “Where were you?”

“Work.”

Back with the one-word responses? “I thought I was your job?”

He calmly palmed the blade and waited.

But his utter silence irked. She said sweetly, “Oh, thanks for Race. He’s a great teacher. He taught me a lot.”

Lore didn’t react. His normal patience curled around her, yet she sensed something was different…off with him.

“Show me.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “You think Race’s incompetent?”

“Not him.”

Irritation surged at the insult. Absolute swine!

Teeth clenched, she whipped around for momentum, sword gripped in both hands and swung hard?—

He countered so fast that the vibration rang up her arms. The power of the blow sent her lurching back. Chest heaving, she glared at him.

“The Guardian treats you like a babe.”

“What would you know?” she shot back. “You weren’t even here?—”

“I know.” He came at her hard and fast.

She ducked his swing and tripped. Only her quick reflexes saved her from falling on her ass. “You know what? Go fight with yourself! I didn’t sign up for any of this!”

She pivoted and stalked to the kitchen.

“Scared?”

Was he freakin’ kidding her?

A whoosh of air sounded behind her. Nia spun around as his sword came down. She ducked and attacked hard, her weapon thrusting straight through flesh and bone?—

“No—no!” She stumbled back in horror, her spine hitting the door. “Oh, God, oh, God, I’m so sorry!”

He blinked as if coming out of a daze. Terror strangled her as she darted into the kitchen, found a hand towel on a chair, and sprinted outside again.

Lore leaned against the wall, the sword still embedded in his chest, staring at the one he held, his brow lined in pain.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” the words tore from her throat. “Why didn’t you counter?”

Adrenaline pounding through her veins, she yanked out the weapon, flung it aside, ripped his shirt apart—buttons pinging everywhere—and pressed the towel against the seeping wound on his chest.

Feeling as if her lungs would shut down, she gently swiped across the lesion. The bloody hole closed.

It didn’t matter that he healed so fast; she’d hurt him. If he were human, she would have killed him. A terrible chill swept through her. Tears burned her eyes.

Lore straightened, glanced at his healed chest, then back at her. “Your reflexes are good.”

“You asshole!” Anger tore through her. Was this his idea of fun? She shoved him so hard that he actually took a step back. “If that was meant to frighten me, consider yourself successful!”

She wheeled away and stormed off. A clang sounded as if he flung the sword down. She didn’t look back, her throat tight.

“Nia, wait.” He grasped her wrist as she neared the kitchen door.

“What do you want?” She spun back. Even with shock still vibrating through her, her voice remained pure ice. “I don’t care that I can’t kill you. What I just did will haunt me for the rest of my life! I am not a murderer!”

“I know.” His gaze skimmed her face as if nothing devastating had just happened. No sign of his earlier coldness now, just curiosity. His thumb gently stroked her inner wrist.

Nia blinked, awareness and desire seeping through every pore and pooling low. If it was meant to soothe, it sure as hell was working in a way she didn’t expect.

And that pissed her off even more.

She tugged her wrist. He didn’t let go. She flung him a killing look. “Let. Me. Go.”

Those otherworldly eyes skimmed her face, then lowered to her mouth. Something intense shifted in their silvery-green depths. Remorse? She wasn’t sure and didn’t want to delve deeper.

He stepped back, and she was freed.

His jaw clenched like he’d broken some sacred oath or something.

Nia rubbed her wrist, but his touch remained imprinted on her skin. Was he mad because he’d caressed her hand? Of course, he was.

About to snap something sarcastic, like she didn’t have cooties to taint his divine self, she shook her head instead, opened the door, and headed inside.

What would be the point? He didn’t see her as anything but a weak human.