Chapter 1
The commander tasked me to guard the prisoner with my life. A strange request seeing as Lord Raphael could not only self-heal, he couldn’t even die. But nobody questioned the commander, and I wouldn’t be the first to do so.
My partner, an angel named Koliko, stepped away from the door located in the small alcove connected to the kitchen. The door led to the keep, a dungeon under the House of Command. I did the same. His hearing, far better than mine, likely heard the commander ascending the steps, and I could tell Koliko heard the commander specifically by the way he pulled back his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and stared somewhere above my head, never making eye contact with me even though, at my five-nine, we were almost the same height. I mirrored his posture.
From the other side, the commander knocked, and I opened the door for him, wondering for the millionth time why he bothered knocking when he could simply swing the door with a flick of his wrist.
He exited, then paused in front of me, a massive angel with golden wings, eyes, and hair, and also, a heart made of solid gold, hard and kind at the same time. The commander carried his divine presence like a second skin, and it made him seem larger than life. So when he turned his attention to me and those golden eyes locked with mine, I simply said, “Yes, Commander.” It didn’t really matter if he asked anything or not. The commander welcomed and rewarded obedience.
He took my hand and stared at it. An electric current ran from my fingertips to my shoulder, raising goose bumps on my skin.
“Bring me a bucket of this nail polish,” he said.
We stared at my glittery gold polish. “It comes in small bottles, Commander.”
“Then a bottle of it. For Julia, of course.”
“Of course. I will bring it tomorrow.”
“Excellent.”
“And Nevaeh?”
Shit. He said my name. He addressed soldiers as soldier, and if we ever found ourselves in the unfortunate situation of having to speak with him personally, we addressed him as Commander and prayed he never found out we seldom folded the right corner of our blanket before heading out for the morning run. I prayed he never found out I visited the prisoner once a week, from the first week the commander put him in there.
“Yes, Commander.”
“What’s the one thing we identified as necessary to optimal sustainability of the mental walls we built against the forces of evil?”
“Sleep.”
“Not just any sleep. Be more specific.”
“Adequate sleep.”
“So why have you not been sleeping?”
I dropped my gaze. Someone had ratted me out. At night, I tossed and turned as dreams that felt more like memories of a life I’d never lived assaulted me. Often, I tried going back to sleep, but never could because of what I’d done to the man in the dream. “I don’t know.”
“Since you are unwilling to share the reason with me, this is what you will do. You will sleep no less than eight hours tonight and every night for no fewer than thirty days. Is that clear?”
Not waiting for my answer—because his orders were always clear and accepting them was the default—the commander left.
“Yes, Commander,” I said anyway. He’d put me under watch, and if I broke the eight-hour sleep curfew, he’d get to the bottom of the problem and find out I was plagued by dreams the same way my friend Georgia had been plagued by dreams right before Lucifer marked her and the commander eliminated her.
Koliko raised an eyebrow. I shrugged and glanced at the clock. Almost time for breakfast. Right before the breakfast bell, the kitchen activity hit its peak, with Mom barking orders at the staff and again chastising Cayen for his soft-boiled eggs and poor presentation. Cayen knew perfectly well how to boil eggs. He was a lieutenant from the Court of Sunder and regularly created distractions so I could descend into the keep and feed his lord.
Cayen glanced at me and nodded, a signal I could move down the steps without being spotted by the light benders, the invisible creatures that guarded the House of Command. I waited some more. Koliko fluffed his feathers, eyes drifting to the clock, and when the breakfast bell rang, he said, “Cover for me.”
“Sure thing.”
Koliko left. Cayen tossed me a small sack, and I snuck into the keep. Pausing, I allowed my eyes time to adjust to the darkness. Descending the steep stone steps made my heart race every time, no matter how many times I’d done this. The journey down felt like a voluntary trip into the abyss.
I rolled my shoulders and ignored the smell of mold and rotting birds heralding my destination. On the tips of my toes, I descended the many winding steps to the bottom of the keep. Here, the path wound like a snake. I’d memorized the way to Lord Raphael’s cell, a bird-cage-style crate with massive bars situated right across from his wings that gave off the rotting-bird smell.
Lord Raphael sat in the corner, one leg up, an elbow on his knee. Bones stuck out of his back, and those would, eventually, form new wings in place of the ones the commander had ripped off, then nailed to the wall across from the lord’s cell. Lord Raphael stroked his long black beard before tucking his black cheek-length hair behind his ears. Even broken, he was beautiful.
He didn’t acknowledge me. Given his circumstances, I wouldn’t talk to anyone either. He had acknowledged me once before, so I knew this angel had a heart somewhere in his chest. An iron heart, but a heart nonetheless.
During the battle for the Court of Command and before Lord Raphael lost his wings, I had been lying in the mud, dying of multiple stab wounds, when Lord Raphael landed next to me, maybe to rest, maybe just to check his own wounds, I didn’t know. But he took one look at me, then bent and touched my cheek. I would never forget the enormous purple wings looming over me, the violet eyes that lit up as my body burned. He’d healed me.
I’d have left it at that. I’d have thanked him when I got the chance, but aiding him wasn’t in the plan. Until the dreams came, and with them Lucifer, who offered me a deal: feed the prisoner or become one of the Marked, a person completely consumed by Lucifer’s will. Since I’d rather die than get marked, accepting Lucifer’s offer was a no-brainer. I’d been feeding the prisoner ever since.
Although Raphael was an immortal, starvation depleted his power, which in turn kept him inside the prison.
“Perfectly boiled eggs this week,” I whispered, and reached into the sack. I withdrew two eggs and held them out. I couldn’t bring plates or anything besides food because everything inconsumable left traces of wrongdoing. I crouched and stuck my hand between the bars. “Here, birdy. Nom nom.”
One corner of his mouth quirked. All too quickly, he schooled his expression. If I hadn’t seen him smile at my nonsense before, I’d have thought it a trick of the light. Lord Raphael glanced at the food, then tapped the filthy floor with his claw. I hated when he did that. He should take the food from my hand, not eat from the dirty floor. But I didn’t fuss, mainly because I’d protested in the past and he’d ignored me.
I tsked so he knew I disapproved and put the peeled eggs on the gross cobblestone that people had stomped, vomited, and pissed on over the years. I placed three perfectly sliced pieces of fresh-baked and still-warm bread next to the eggs. I put one nice big sausage between the eggs so the tip of the sausage pointed toward him, making it look like a male organ. I garnished the “plate” with fresh-cut apples before I stood and wiped my hands on my uniform.