He bent over his knees, laughing hysterically to the point of wheezing. The cackles of the shadows and souls grew louder. I looked away, embarrassed. I pulled the silken gown tighter around my shoulders, unsure of what to do.
It was then that a thought occurred to me.
The shadows. The darkness. These souls.
From what Papi and Manmi told me, while King Tazzias Everthorn was a Soul Bender of Mortent rank, he couldn’t manipulate Nanmiess to this degree.
The souls within an angel? Yes.
Disembodiedsouls?
Only one angel could do that.
Even on Edenael Island, we knew this to be true. Which meant...
I turned from the souls, looking back at the male still shrouded within the shadows. Steel-blue eyes pierced into mine, shining with a knowing that made me tremble with uncertainty. He was no longer laughing. No longer amused.
Which meant I’d run out of time.
Pieces of a broken puzzle re-arranged themselves in my mind as I realized my error.
“You’re not King Tazzias Everthorn,” I whispered. “Are you?”
The souls grew quiet. The shadows plunged us into further darkness.
“No, Phantimèssa,” his deep voice rumbled. “I amnot.”
Chapter 9
Nahomie
The Everthorn Kingclapped all six pairs of his wings together. On command, every ethèrlamp in the foyer came to life. Pearl-shaped bulbs burned brightly, dramatizing the space, leaving me speechless. I released a small gasp, bringing a hand to my mouth, when I saw just how large the antechamber was. Seven chandeliers bathed the expanse with scintillating light, swaying on an unseen breeze. I blinked several times before my vision cleared, adjusting to the new display. Then I looked at the same spot as before, where the figure was shrouded in shadows.
“Holy...”
My jaw dropped.
I stumbled backward in the air.
Tazzias Everthorn, King of Mortevain Island, a thorn in the Empyrean’s side, had been born halfway through the Fifth Age. He would have looked fitly and handsome, but still elderly and wise. He’d already lived past his Tenth Millennia. After so many cycles of life, even for an angel, he would have shown significant signs of aging.
This Hallowed wasn’t old at all.
I languidly tilted my head back, taking in the full measure of the king’s height. My gaze snagged onto the point of his silvercrown, with gleaming steel-blue jewels embedded within each point, before it trailed back down his behemoth of a body. Like me, the king floated in the air. Unlike me, he was barefoot. He wore nothing but loose, raven-black slacks that hung around his hips. Every inch of his velvet brown skin was corded with muscle. Then there were his endless stitches and scars.
“What in the realms,” I breathed.
Never in all my dawns had I seen an angel who looked likethis. Every inch of his skin was a patchwork of gashes that looked sewn shut by needle and thread. Along his torso and arms, in several places, he was lighter brown while in others he was darker brown. His flesh looked like an angelic quilt. Like different parts of him had been removed, rearranged, and sewn back together. He was a horrific display of permanent bruises, scars, and old wounds. He looked like a meticulously carved monstrosity. And I was instantly obsessed with every burning inch of him.
I licked my lips, unable to stop drinking him in.
He was hideously, gloriouslyperfect.
As handsome as he was broken. As beautiful as he was marred. Blackfire stirred within me, hungry and demanding. I ogled the king, taking in the stitches, the bruises, themuscle.
By the stars.
He was a titan of an angel.
