Except he wasn’t. He’d offered to tell me anything I wanted to know. Zeke would honor his word and answer me no matter how personal.
I licked my lips, frantically sorting through the myriad of questions I could ask. Did I start small and work my way up? Or did I rip the Band-Aid off directly? If I chose the latter, he’d do the same. “Were you trained specifically for this mission, or was your study of Drevlin tech part of a larger purpose?”
My coward’s path painfully obvious, Zeke considered my question for a moment. “The latter. Dad sent me to Milan even before my powers kicked in because he said I had a quick mind. Michael didn’t even bother to meet with me. In fact, I didn’t meet him for another twenty-five years. Not until he summoned me for my assessment.”
There was some bitterness in his words. I got it. Michael was aloof and yet intimately involved in every aspect of our lives.
“After I became proficient, I was told to find a new career and not to discuss my training. I went to culinary school, but Michael didn’t think that provided good cover for when he needed me to use my knowledge. So I became a private detective and did my best to never come to his attention. Amazingly, he never called on me until this assignment.”
I nodded, unsurprised by how his life had been scripted for him. As a soldier, they didn’t care what we did, so long as we stayed in fighting shape. I never received an assignment, but I suspected most of my travels with Ares originated from Michael.
Zeke watched me carefully. It was his turn, but he was giving me an out.
“Go ahead, it’s your turn,” I said.
Zeke held my gaze for a beat, searching my face, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the road long enough for him to find what he wanted. “Do you have any hobbies or interests other than fighting, martial arts, training?”
I blinked, surprised by the unexpected direction of his question. I should’ve seen this coming. I’d been a coward and not asked what I really wanted to know.
“No,” I said, trying to hide my embarrassment at being so one-dimensional. “You have to remember it was a different time when I was born in 1105. Life was more survival focused. Not for angels but in general. Most of those with artistic talent joined the church, either as a brother, priest, or as a sponsored artist. Again, not angels, but it was harder to blend in if you were an artist or sculptor and weren’t attached to the church.
“Once your father saw my fighting skills, my path was set.”
“Dad has a lot of hobbies. He paints, plays six instruments, can fix cars, hell, he can even knit.”
“You’re lying.”
Zeke laughed and crossed his heart. “I swear. He and Mom sit on the couch and knit while they talk. Come visit me in Virginia and I’ll show you a few of the blankets they’ve made for me.”
There was too much to unpack. Ares knitting was a crazy idea, but it explained the blankets and sweaters from “Ruth and Ares” I got over the years. What really set me back was his invitation to visit him.
“Does learning to play violin about five hundred years ago count?”
“Do you still play?”
Such a simple question and it dredged up bad memories. “I haven’t in . . . not anymore. I would like to take it up again and maybe learn to draw.”
“You should do both.” Zeke’s eyes danced with interest. “And anything else that piques your curiosity.”
A flush crept up the back of my neck at the half-compliment, half-flirtation in his tone. I also liked the idea, unexpected though it was. Having an outlet separate from combat andcelestial politics did hold some appeal, especially if it helped quiet the storm of emotions that had been revived within me lately.
“Maybe I will.”
“Better than a no,” Zeke said with a silly grin. “Your turn.”
My pulse kicked up a notch as I considered what to ask. I wanted to go deeper and start to strip away the protective layers we’d built around ourselves. It meant revealing those vulnerable places inside I was terrified to share. If I found the courage to go there, I’d also learn more about Zeke. A prospect that thrilled me more than I’d admitted before that moment.
Drawing in a steadying breath, I met his gaze. “Have you ever been in love before? Truly, deeply in love?”
I had to keep my attention on the road, but before I turned my head, I saw Zeke swallow. I did what he wanted, and he had to pay the price of his desire.
“Once,” he said slowly. “I think.”
He snorted, and I let him take his time before finishing his answer. Or if that was all he was going to say, to ask his question.
“His name was Joaquin. We met in Milan back in 1899. I was twenty-two and he four hundred and sixty-eight. He worked for Michael and I’d just arrived to study Drevlin technology. I assumed because I thought about him all the time, I was in love. He was sweet, affectionate, a great lover who taught me so much.”
The ache of loss resonated clearly in Zeke’s voice and expression. He’d been in love, even if he wasn’t sure. “What happened?” I asked gently.
