Her rational mind broke in with a jolt of memory. The rolled parchment clutched in Garret’s hand. “I thought you were inviting me here to discuss my next assignment.”
He went still at her side and pulled back, his face serene, but his antennae betraying his agitation with a florid display. “Yes, well, had I not spoken with my sister on your account, there might not have been another assignment.”
As he rose, Ayla scooted around to watch him stalk to the chest at the end of his bed. In the Astral, Faeries had slept on mossy banks or in the crooks of trees. At least, that was what the stories spoke of. At the Guild, Ayla slept on dank blankets piled atop a wooden plank bunk. Garret had a real mattress, imported from the surface, with funny metal coils that made the whole contraption shift and bounce. That kind of comfort was hard to come by, and Ayla added it to her list of reasons to accept Garret’s proposal. But she did not answer him now, while he still silently fumed with agitation. “Was the Queene very upset with me?”
“More than you know,” he replied, but it seemed more for himself than for her. “I must meet with her again tomorrow morning. That will give us the night, if you’ll have it, and you’ll be able to set out on this in the morning.”
She took the parchment from him and unrolled it, though it did her no good. “What does it say?”
“It comes straight from Mabb’s hand. She requires the deaths of five Demons. It seems there has been some…encroaching of the Demon population on locations in the Lightworld, at the Southern borders where the Strip does not separate us from the Darkworld. She wants to send a message to the Demon king.” He paused. “If you’d rather not take the assignment…”
Not take the assignment! An assignment from Mabb’s own hand was a higher honor than Ayla had ever received.
“I’ll have a messenger bring over your things in the morning,” Garret continued. “We can sleep a bit late, perhaps visit Sanctuary. It would be appropriate, to begin our life together there.”
She forced herself not to cringe at his words. Instead she smiled. “I would not wish to keep Her Majesty waiting.”
He nodded. “Her Majesty. It is a post you might one day hold, Ayla. If you would accept me.”
“It would be far in the future, if the day even came. You know as well as I do that your sister is immortal. And to speak of her death, even in speculation, is treason.” Ayla looked furtively over her shoulder, as if one of the Queene’s spies would jump from the trunk at the foot of Garret’s bed and drag her to the dungeons.
Or perhaps Garret was one of Mabb’s spies, trying to trick her? No, that was ridiculous. Garret had never given her any cause to doubt his loyalty. Living at Court had allowed the seed of suspicion to grow into a sinister garden in her, and she cursed it.
Garret’s palm closed over the back of her neck, his tongue snaked over her earlobe. She pulled away. To distract herself from the throbbing in her veins, she congratulated herself on her foresight in bringing a weapon. She could start off for the Darkworld immediately.
“Ayla, I wish you would not go,” Garret tried, but he broke off, helplessly indulgent. It was a practiced expression, Ayla was sure, but it did not annoy her. So many at Court perfected their mannerisms in that way, and it was often difficult to drop them when outside of the Palace walls.
She pulled open the door and swung the strap of the scabbard over her chest, the weight of the weapon nearly knocking her over the threshold. “Demons are clumsy and easy to kill. I will not be away for long.”
“And when you return, you will give me your definite answer?” Garret’s voice took on a teasing edge. He’d already decided what her definite answer was.
Taking a deep breath, she swung out the door and opened her wings. Before descending to the ground below, she turned to him. “When I return, I will say yes.”
Nine
The Strip. An assault on the senses. A feast of sin and vice. A haven for the lowest souls—and the lower soulless—in the Underground. Malachi surveyed it all with pronounced distaste. His companion shouted over the group of mortals clamoring before a covered stand. Keller’s voice was heard, his request fulfilled and he handed Malachi a fragile paper cup that looked as though it had been used—and perhaps washed, though Malachi would not have expected so much from the establishment—before.
“Drink up, buddy, drink up,” Keller urged, raising his cup before quickly gulping down the foul-smelling liquid inside.
The vapors off the potion stung Malachi’s nose. He would not drink it under any circumstance. “I thought you brought me to see the healer, not to become intoxicated.”
“She’s a healer,” Keller said with a shrug. “Might as well let her heal us of liver damage, too. Get our money’s worth.”
Trade! That other bizarre force that consumed the mortals. How could he have forgotten. “I have no money,” Malachi said bluntly, offering the cup back to Keller. “Not to pay for this drink, not to pay for healing.”
“Drink’s on me,” Keller said, eyeing the cup. “Unless you don’t want it?”
Malachi gave up the malodorous liquid and watched with disdain as the Human consumed it in one swallow. Keller made a guttural noise, eyes going wide before squeezing shut tight. Then his body shook, like a man dying of exposure, before he let out a satisfied “Ah.”
“The healer doesn’t work like that,” he assured Malachi with a voice that sounded damaged by the strong drink. “Well, she might for me, but she won’t ask you for money. She likes the strange ones, and I bet she’s never seen one of you.”
“Angels fall often,” Malachi said simply. What could possibly tempt his brethren to willingly give up their immortality? The flesh of the dirty women, Human and unHuman, who displayed themselves provocatively on their walks up and down the Strip? Could a creature have inspired such lust in him before his fall?
Yes, his conscience whispered to him. One could have. And his rage swelled anew at the thought of sodden red hair flashing above the water, strange eyes flaring to take in the sight of him.
“Mortal blood,” he cursed under his breath. Yes, he did lust for her. Desire, so fierce it froze the breath in his newly Human lungs, overcame him at the thought of gripping her pale neck with his big hands and squeezing, squeezing until the fragile bones and fibers within snapped and the life gurgled from her body. Immortal or not, she had mortal blood. He could kill her. Would kill her. He would find a way.
Keller led on through the crowded tunnel, though the way parted easily for them with Malachi in tow. Curious whispers followed them, as well as stares and brazen hands reaching out to touch the curiosity that was Malachi.
“Have they never seen a creature with wings before?” Malachi grumbled, slapping aside a scaly, blue hand that had curled around his biceps.
Unperturbed by the attention, Keller plowed on through a group of pale Humans. “None like yours. I set you up with a sweet patch job. Hey, watch out for these guys, they’re Vampires.”
The creatures in question opened their mouths, baring gleaming, pointed teeth. One of them, a female with severely short-cut hair and a tight, leather bodice that pushed her breasts up nearly to her neck, stepped forward and placed a palm on Malachi’s chest, her touch icy and dry.
“Want to play with me, pretty birdie?” She laughed, showing dangerous, yellowed