The two of them stepped inside, Kiama’s eyes alert even as she continued her story. “I couldn’t stand it and refused to follow orders if those orders were to take young women from their homes, or to enforce punishment for the lack of a tithe from the poor. I fought with my mother and father over it—and in the end I left. It was that or end up executed.”

Moving to the left, Kiama touched her fingers to a switch that filled the entrance hall with a soft light that added to the daylight coming through the windows. From beyond the open doors came a whisper of wings at the same moment, the warrior from Kiama’s squadron arriving to stand guard.

“My parents died in defense of him, that creature of filth and degradation,” Kiama said in a voice cold and hard. “I will hate him to the end of my days for stealing what time I had left with those I loved most.”

As a woman who’d been betrayed and who held her own anger close, Sharine understood. But as a mother, she was torn. That same maternal instinct compelled her to speak. “I know that should something like that ever happen to me, I wouldn’t want my son to live his life nurturing hate in his heart. Hate poisons, as much as a lust for power or envy.”

Commander Kiama looked at her, eyes flashing. “With every respect, my lady, my emotions are my own.”

Sharine smiled. “Yes, child. But I’m a mother—I’m afraid we can’t help trying to make things better.”

Kiama looked at her for a long moment before surrendering to a slight upward tug of her lips. “Even when we were on opposing sides of the line, my mother would send me messages ordering me to make sure that I was looking after any injuries, and that I was eating well.”

Sharine laughed, but left it at that. The other woman’s hate and anger were new yet, the wound fresh. It’d take her time to come to terms with the loss, and to make a decision about how she wanted to live her life. She did, however, have one other thing to say. “I hope you’ll allow me one more moment.”

When Kiama gave a small nod, she said, “Hate can be a poison, but turn it into an anger that fires you from within, and it becomes a strength.” She exhaled. “My anger has become my resolve.” It wasn’t about being revenged on Aegaeon any longer; she looked back and saw him as unworthy of such attention, of any further space in her head. This anger drove her to be the best she could be—for herself and for her son.

She took a step forward on that thought, into the court of an archangel who had chosen power above all else. He’d been willing to sacrifice not only those of his own kind, but mortals and vampires, too. No one had been safe from his ambition. And for what? To rule at the side of the Archangel of Death? Had he not understood that sooner or later, Lijuan would have no more use for him?

This first section of the stronghold proved relatively clean—a bit of dust, some cobwebs, but the tiles that lined the entranceway as well as the hangings on the walls weren’t marred by dirt or blood.

She ran her fingers over the intricate knotwork of one hanging and wondered at the lives of those who’d spent so long creating what was unquestionably a masterpiece. She recognized this work as coming from the region near Lumia; it was done only by mortals, the tradition so ingrained no immortal tried to change it.

That mortals made such hangings was part of why they were so prized. It was a thing of time and of devotion. This large a piece would’ve been the work of a lifetime for multiple artisans. For those artisans in turn, it would’ve been a thing of great generational pride that their work hung in the hall of an archangel’s court.

She walked on, under the wide curving roof, plenty of room for multiple angels to pass, and found herself at the lip of a sunken area that seemed to be a place designed for feasts and other large gatherings. Similar to the first level of Titus’s home, it was a massive space, with a soaring emptiness all the way up to the ceiling. But where Titus’s gathering area was square and all on one level, this was round with three steps leading down into it.

Ledges had been built into the walls, wide enough for several angels to use as a seat. Here, in this celebratory area that seemed far too baroque and richly decorated for a border stronghold, was where she found the first signs of chaos. Chairs overturned, carpets missing, smears on the walls.

“We washed those walls.” Kiama pointed at the stains. “But there’s no way to get rid of the stains without getting to work with steel brushes, and we had more looming problems. We just hauled out anything that was encrusted, threw out any carpets or hangings that were filthy with bodily fluids or ale or who knows what else. The sire incinerated all that with his power, and we left the rest for later.”

“The chances that it was blood or other fluids of life that stained the walls?” If so, that blood couldn’t all have been left by mortal hands. Some stains were too high up. Vampires were capable of climbing smooth walls, but she saw no telltale marks on these walls.

That left angels.

34

Kiama’s forehead furrowed as she looked up at the stains. “I can’t say. Whatever it was on the walls was very dry by the time we came here—it could’ve been anything, even food that had been thrown at the wall and left to rot.” She made a face. “Archangel Charisemnon was fastidious about cleanliness when I left his court, but I don’t know if he held to such things by the time of battle.”

Sharine continued on through the space, taking in the artwork—paintings, rugs, sculptures, and more—much of which had survived the violence that appeared to have taken place here. Most of it was local to the territory and it made her wonder if this was the public hall.

Not many archangels allowed their populace open access to them, considering it a waste of time and resources, but Farah had mentioned that Charisemnon opened his doors on a regular basis. “Did Charisemnon continue his tradition of open houses while here at the border?”

“Until the very eve of battle.” Kiama curled her lip. “According to Ozias, the sire’s spymaster, it was more an exercise in vanity than a matter of allowing his people magnanimous access.”

As Charisemnon wouldn’t have done anything private in such a communal space, Sharine didn’t linger.

After exiting the public hall through doors at the back, she found herself with multiple options. Across from her was an archway that led to another courtyard open to the sky, beyond which lay another ornate building. To the left and right flowed staircases. “What would you recommend?” she asked her escort.

“Across the courtyard, then inside,” Kiama said at once. “Ozias’s spies confirmed that to be the archangel’s private area. From what we’ve been able to gather from those of his court that survived, he became increasingly paranoid about allowing anyone but his most trusted people inside in the months leading up to war. It’s also where we found the bodies.”

Abdomen tight, Sharine stepped out into the courtyard littered with dry leaves. When she looked up out of habit, she felt her heart catch at the searing beauty above. The sky was clear but for gossamer clouds of decoration. It filled her heart with hope; this beauty would exist no matter what they did or didn’t do on this earth.

“Why was he not content with this?” Kiama gestured at the sky, and at the stronghold silent and abandoned around them. “Why did he always want more? They call Titus the warrior archangel but in all my time in his court, he never picked the fight—always the aggression came from this side.”

With those words, Kiama stepped forward to cross the courtyard. “I’ll go first, Lady Sharine.”

Sharine didn’t argue. The other woman was the expert here—and Sharine had the power to back her up should danger come out of the darkness. But all that emerged from within the next building was a musty odor that had an undertone of rot.

Kiama coughed into the curve of her elbow to clear her throat. “Unfortunately,” she said afterward, “the only way to maintain security with our limited numbers was to shut things up after the basic clean.”

“I don’t like what I smell below the decay.” Sharine forced herself to take a deep breath in an effort to work out what it was that made her neck prickle and long-forgotten memories struggle to rise to the surface.

She’d scented something like this before.

Pinprick flashes of memory. The clash of swords. Wings crumpled and falling. Fangs in a pale face. Mortal bodies frozen in fear. “A mortal, caught in the crossfire of an archangelic battle—his leg was amputated. He became sick with gangrene.” Vivid memories now, of the crawl of green on his leg, the putrid odor. “Sickness, it is the taint of sickness that colors the air.”

“Why were you with the mortal?” Kiama asked without altering her intense focus on their surroundings.

“I—” Sharine frowned, followed back the thread. “I was a war artist . . . and I thought it was important to make note not just of immortal losses, but also of the other costs of war.” She shook her head. “I was naïve, I think, to believe most immortals would care for a dying mortal.”

Yet Sharine was glad to have done it, her fingers curling in as she remembered holding the feverish man’s hand so he wouldn’t be alone as he slipped away into the finality of death. Going where Raan and her parents had already gone. A place from which there were no return travelers.

“Here, this is where we found the dead.” Kiama stopped at an archway framed in a glittering array of semiprecious gemstones that shimmered and flashed in the sunlight coming from the high windows at either end of the entrance hall.

Beyond it stood a set of heavy double doors.

“There are no functioning windows inside,” the warrior informed her, “but this switch will bring light.” She flicked it with her elbow before using her body to shove open one of the doors.

Sharine could swear she heard a soft pop of sound, a seal breaking.

Chest tight, she walked inside to discover another large gathering area, but the chaos here was magnitudes worse. No rugs softened their footsteps and the walls were almost equally as bare. Scorch marks covered the floor.