It would take the warrior a few minutes to recover. He was at his weakest right then.
Blaéz kept watch, glancing around the quiet alley where not even a vermin scuttled. The threat was annihilated for now. A slight vibration in the air and Týr re-appeared with Echo. Her gaze darted around, then settled on her mate. Her anger gone, she sprinted over and skidded to a halt. “Aethan?”
He didn’t speak, just yanked her close and buried his face in her hair. Despite the couple’s earlier friction, their need for each other hammered home to Blaéz what mattered most. They let nothing stand in the way of their love. While he had nothing to fall back on with his present built on lies. So far he’d been making a damn mess of everything with Darci.
I have feelings that need to be fed and nurtured, her words rolled in his head like scattering marbles. Indeed, he couldn’t have fucked up more.
A pained expulsion of breath slashed the unnerving silence, pulling Blaéz out of his thoughts and back to the alley. Echo shoved away from Aethan. He reached for her, but she shook her head. “No.”
Aethan’s features tightened into grim lines. “Echo—”
“You can’t touch me right now.” She held him off with one hand, steadying herself with the other on the grimy wall. “It hurts worse when you do…”
Aethan’s fists clenched, he stared helplessly at her.
Blaéz had never seen Echo heal the veils before. Her eyes closed, she stood so still, but the agony on her face conveyed a helluva lot of pain. One he couldn’t tap into and draw into him because it wasn’t physical.
He glanced at his friend. “What’s happening?”
Anger and worry edged Aethan’s words. “All her energy—everything she is, is directed toward healing the tears.”
“How?” Blaéz asked. It made him realize how little he knew of Echo’s ability.
Aethan’s gaze never left Echo as he spoke, “The rift’s drawing on the magical properties of her bloodline. Its wound becomes hers, and it’s fucking hurting her. And I have to stand by and watch this torture—”
Another agonized gasp. Echo swayed. Her knees gave way. Aethan grabbed her before she hit the sludge-coated asphalt. “I have you,me’morae.” He swept her into his arms and dematerialized with his unconscious mate.
Blaéz scanned the veils. The shimmering weave, like a million sparkling raindrops, flowed smoothly once more. The tear had knitted. Healed. Echo had done her job. But at what cost?
He had to go back to the castle, see Darci and mend the rifts he’d unintentionally caused.
About to leave, Týr loped over to him, just as both their cells buzzed. He pulled out his and snorted at the text. “The Arc wants a quick meet.”
Blaéz dematerialized.
* * *
Blaéz entered the kitchen. He scanned for Darci and found her in the shower. Instantly, his mind went back to last night when he’d made love to her. Images flowed through him, but that breathtaking moment had all the intensity of a Polaroid shot. He felt nothing.
He pulled down a glass from the cupboard and poured a shot of whiskey as Týr walked in.
He circled the long oak table, dropped into a chair and faced him. “Does the Arc seem a little distracted to you lately?”
Blaéz leaned against the counter near the window and sipped his liquor, the burn a transient sensation, diminishing all too fast. He shrugged. Michael was the last person on his mind. “I imagine we’ll know soon enough.”
“Suppose so.” Týr drummed a restless tune on the wooden table as they waited. “We still have to keep an eye out for the Watchers’ descendants awakening. Why the hell don’t they have a name or something? Do we call them angel babes, nephilim—what?”
“Psionic,” Michael said, striding inside. Black Aviators concealed his eyes as usual. His hair had slipped the ponytail he’d taken to wearing. His face gleamed with sweat as if he’d come from a battle or a heavy bout of lovemaking—it couldn’t be the latter since he was of the divine angels, celibate and in service to their God.
“That’s the name the seraphim gave The Watchers’ offspring because of their impossible power,” Michael said, swiping a coke from the fridge. He tore off the tab and guzzled it like he’d been in the desert without water for decades. “Dagan summoned me. Seems we have a problem.”
“Demoniis?” Týr asked, tilting his chair to balance on two legs. “Eliminated a horde of them just now at the rift.”
“Not sure.” Michael headed back to the table and set his soda down. “The rift’s dealt with?”
“Echo’s done her job if that’s what you mean,” Aethan said, stalking into the kitchen. He appeared ragged, his fury barely leashed as he dropped into a chair. “She’s unconscious—will remain so for who the hell knows how long this time. Just what the fuck is Lore doing? Wasn’t he supposed to help her handle this?”
“Lore is her tutor,” Michael stated coolly. “He’ll help her with learning and understanding her power and what she can expect to face in other realms. We’ll concentrate on honing her fighting skills. But she has to build up her body’s resistance on her own. It’s about willpower. She has to fight this part herself. And you need to start her training.”
