Cold, blue eyes met his. With his pale skin and shoulder-length, ebony hair pulled into a queue, he didn’t belong in the desert. Dagan wasn’t in the mood to interrogate, not when it came to his sister’s life. He attacked. The male met him strike for strike. The male’s countermoves held the precision of one well versed in war. He waspowerful.
Before questions formed, the pale warrior cursed and leaped away, his gaze scanning the area in front of them. “I am Blaéz of the Celtic pantheon, assigned as protector to the Goddess of Life. We havetrouble.”
Dammit. Of course! He’d been watching out for him.Trouble?Dagan pivoted, scanning the area. A sudden haze spilled over the place, and more figures appeared. Red eyes flashed. Dagan stumbled back.Demons.Here?
Fiery hellbolts whizzed past them. Dagan ducked. With his mind, he seized them, flinging them high into the air. His power was such that they didn’treappear.
Blaéz flew into the horde, hacking offheads.
A hissing sound echoed in the fracas, and a bolt hit Dagan in the back. He stumbled. Fury exploding, he wheeled around and struck out with his mind, splitting the demons in two. Then it all suddenly stopped. The demons vanished, leaving only a thick, dusty hazebehind.
Inara!Dagan flashed to the temple, panting hard. At the sight of the blood and the broken bodies of the handmaidens on the floor, a tortured cry ripped from his soul. “No—Inara!”
He raced to her room. More carnage surrounded him. Gore soaked the bed sheets dragged to the floor. Several slain soldiers lay there amidst the crumpled bodies of the handmaidens, their sightless eyes staring at nothing. It hurt to breathe. Tears glazed hiseyes.
A groan pierced the pain in his mind. Dagan whirled toward the sound. A huge form pushed off the floor, climbing to his feet as ifdrunk.
“What the hell happened?” Týr groaned, rubbing hiseyes.
Dagan dove at the warrior, slamming him into the opposite wall. “For all that is holy, Týr, tell me she is safe,” he pleaded. “Tell me you kept my sistersafe.”
Bleary, pale brown eyes blinked and looked around. Anguish swept over his lean features, and Dagan knew. An agonized cry tore free. He swung his sword in a deadly arch and sliced the carotid of his bestfriend…
The tinny sound of a sword falling to the floor brought him back. Breathing hard, Dagan stumbled away, fighting to shut off the images that still haunted him to this day, eonslater.
Heavens knew he’d paid the price for his crime by being imprisoned inTartarus.
His gaze fell to the droplets of plasma spilled on the gymnasium floor. Týr stood there, blood seeping from deep gashes on his heaving chest, anguish distorting his usually perfect features. “Bróðir,forgiveme.”
The Norse’s words hit him hard. They’d been best friends—brothers—once. Drawn together in the unforgiving world of their pantheons when they’d squired as young boys at the Gates of the Gods, the political powerhouse of all deities. Later, Dagan had shunned his old life to become protector to the new Goddess of Life, and Týr had, too. In all that time, he’d never spoken of his past or his kin. Dagan hadn’tpried.
Swiping the sweat from his brow, he realized he not once asked Týr what had occurred all those centuries ago. He’d only understood that Týr was responsible for Inara’sdeath—or so he’d thought then. And in his anguish, knowing he’d failed in keeping his dying mother’s wish to protect his sister, he’d sliced the throat of his best friend, nearly killing him—which is what would have happened had they not been yanked out of the temple to the Gates of the Gods for judgment in that precisemoment.
It tortured him daily, wondering what else he could have done to save his sister. Where he’d fallen short. But it was too late—too fucking late for anything. The desolation in himdeepened.
“Dag—”
Shaking his head, he strode out before the pain roiling inside him erupted and he tore everything apart with his bare hands and hurt the people whomattered.
And the bastard, Týr,did.
He just couldn’t forgivehim.
* * *
An hour later,showered and changed, Dagan took the stairs up to Michael’s quarters on the fourth floor, knocked, andentered.
“Dressing room,” Michael calledout.
The Arc’s quarters had the same layout as his. He headed for the first door next to the fireplace. Michael stood in the middle of the room with closets on one side and a mirrored panel on the other. He re-hitched the towel slung low on his hips. A brow rose. “What’sup?”
“I found one of the demons who attacked Shae and me—the same one who took a shot at her. Took care of him. But the Fallen he was with escaped.” Dagan leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. “It seems the Fallens are rallying together for something big. You knowanything?”
Lines furrowing his brow, Michael opened his closet. His back bore two deep, lumpy, lengthwise scars where his wings should have been. “I’ve heard rumblings about them gathering here. I trolled through the city a few days ago, but nothing seemed amiss. At least not sofar.”
“You do realize they could be hiding whatever it is they’re up to when you’rearound?”
Michael had probably been behind a lot of those Fallen losing their wings. Revenge was always in the cards when it came tothem.
