Page 3

T he weight of dawn’s impending presence bore down on the granite walls of the den’s great room. Despite the angels’ underground haven being nestled cozily beneath New Hampshire’s White Mountains, the rocks cocooning their home always managed to alert its residents to the rising sun. Or, at least, they’d used to back when each of the sentinels was more attuned to their metals at that hour, instead of their mates.

Iron smoothed out the first of several architectural drawings along the farmhouse table—a table that had been the centerpiece to so many battle plans and breakfasts—and, with his palms pressed to the paper, closed his eyes and just let the energy of the mountain ground him for a moment. Mages knew he needed whatever magic was available to get his head on straight after the night he’d had.

The granite and shale he and his brothers had long ago carved their home into had always been a source of comfort and security, and yeah, he’d go so far as to say solidarity as well. While all the mortals were barely rubbing the morning crust out of their eyes, Iron and the other angels were being softly sung to by the burgeoning and resonating warmth of sun on stones. The metallic powers each of them commanded were literally rocked awake each morning by the minerals’ subtle infusions of magic into their celestial makeup. For some reason he’d never been able to parse out, the morning sun always seemed to take a liking to his small, stranded family and showed its favor accordingly.

It was a lovely gesture. Truly. Except when you’d been fortunate enough to find your soul bond and regain full use of your long-lost celestial powers as a result. Once that happened, all of that becoming-one-with-the-dawn crap? About as obsolete as a mortal’s appendix. For everyone except him. Half the time, the other angels skipped out on sunrises altogether in favor of more leisurely ways to spend their morning.

After last night, could he blame them?

Then those jade eyes, which had yet to grant him a moment’s peace in the two hours he’d tried and failed to find sleep again, swam to the forefront of his mind and all but dolphin kicked away any hopes he’d had of trying to be productive.

She was in New Hampshire. Fucking New Hampshire. In the eons he’d spent waddling around the mortal plane he’d been stuck on, all this time, she was here. Here . Not even near him so much as right under his goddamn nose. Hell, she could have brushed his shoulder walking past him on the sidewalk or been working at the front desk of the barbershop he went to once a month for a beard trim and that hot lather lineup his barber, Charlie, was so good at.

Before the dreams, he could have been staring into her face every day for who knew how long and not even known it.

Iron exhaled every last bit of air from his lungs and forced the tension in his muscles to get gone. A few more slow inhales, followed by agonizingly long exhales, was a trick Rhode had taught him. Breath work, he’d called it. Well, whatever it was, it sure as shit didn’t fix his problems, but it definitely helped shift perspective on his priorities a bit. When he opened his eyes again, the array of building sketches, utility layouts, and property zoning maps pulled him back to the present.

Rhode and Neela’s homestead. With any luck, the ground would thaw out shortly and they’d be able to make headway on some of the foundational work. Fine by him. The sooner, the better in his book. When Rhode first floated the idea of building the property, Iron had not only thrown himself into the project but practically elbowed anyone else out of the way who offered to help him.

Of all the other sentinels, he was the most analytical, so the solitude and schematics soothed him, and it gave him a refreshing purpose that didn’t involve smashing his knuckles into charmer cheekbones. Besides, when the den would grow quiet and his brothers tended to their soul bonds behind closed doors, the building project was the only thing that managed to keep Iron’s head on even remotely straight while the rest of his sour senses were doing their damnedest to spin wildly out of control.

But as Iron slid over a few of the stainless steel demitasse cups he’d grabbed from the kitchen and plunked them down on the corners of the sheets so the drawings would lay flat, his knuckles bumped against something else. Glass, not metal.

A hazy veil swept over his vision. Odd. He didn’t even remember carrying the shard around with him anymore. For so long, the small test tube containing the long bony bit had sat nestled within his flannel shirt pocket, warming his skin through the fabric with the smooth reminder of the other weight bearing down upon him: returning home.

But it wasn’t in his pocket this time. When the hell had he taken it out?

The vial spun a lazy dance as it rolled, its stoppered end arcing cleanly across the proposed electrical map while its bulbous tip stayed still, like a drawing compass determined to chart out Iron’s options for him. As if he didn’t already have a fucking clue that the severed shard from the Empyrean relic, which they’d managed to swipe from Cyro, had about as much magic in it as the proverbial white tip of a birthday-party-circuit magician’s wand.

Iron and the other sentinels had learned that the bone-like bit broken off from the relic, the rest of which was still in Cyro’s possession, was so prized by the demon ruler because the relic was also a fragment, one carved from the Empyrean’s gates and thus believed to still hold the celestial power of the Empyrean. A power that Cyro had attempted to corrupt so he might finally enter Heaven’s highest realm and lay waste to the light that had resulted in him—the first charmer—and all other full-blooded charmers after him being relegated to the darkness.

Iron’s interest in the relic had taken on a similar obsession, though for entirely different reasons. If he could harness the relic’s dormant celestial power, maybe, just maybe, he could find a way for him and his brothers to finally make it back home.

But that hope had been ignited months ago and had since been burning way too hot for far too long. If this tiny sliver of the Empyrean’s gates had any juice in it left to give, it certainly wasn’t interested in letting Iron know about it. No matter that he’d pored over every tome in their library, all written in various languages, or gassed himself to exhaustion trying any combination of magic and angel fire he could come up with. In the end, the tiny needle-like vestige did what it always did for him: hit him with its infamous sorry-not-sorry pearlescent wink before rolling over to give him the cold shoulder.

This time, however, Iron met the shard with a glare, though it was more at his annoyance for not grabbing his overshirt before he left his suite. Therefore, the shard had to hitch a ride in his fist instead of his flannel.

Because, of fucking course, Iron wasn’t about to be without the thing, goddammit, no matter how annoying it was. The very paralyzing thought of it somehow burping up answers when he was showering or it finally hope-casting its secrets at the exact moment he wasn’t around to hear them kept him awake at night. So, yeah, no wonder the damn thing was rolling around under his nose. He’d freaking put it there.

With thumb and middle finger cocked and ready, Iron hefted any amount of deftness he might have had against the mocking little mystery and let loose his annoyance, flicking the thing into its spin cycle. On gentle, of course. Contrary to his brother Chrome’s loudmouthed opinion, Iron wasn’t so moody as to send a relic of Heaven shattering across the dining room floor, no matter how hard he wanted to. He wasn’t that stupid.

“You still fondling that thing?” Titan’s question preceded his commanding presence into the great room, followed closely by the air and faintly smug swagger of any male who’d enjoyed the company of his soul bond for far too many fortunate hours. Which begged the question Iron in no way needed to ask but would anyway because he didn’t want his pissy mood pissing off others . . .

“Where’s Rose?”

The sentinels’ second-in-command grabbed a mug of coffee and joined Iron on the bench seat across from him. Despite the male’s meaty fists cupping the sides of that fifteen-ouncer and creeping up over the rim to conceal the liquid within, they couldn’t stop the pungently artificial perfume from wafting through the air and sawing off what remained of Iron’s regularly trimmed nose hairs.

Peppermint mocha creamer. Motherfucker. Et tu, Titan? Damn.

“Still sleeping.” Titan took a bracing sip, careful not to let—Jesus Christ, was that whipped cream?—too much of the drink decorate the hair on his upper lip.

“No one’s going to kill you for liking that crap, you know. There’s no need to hide the bottle of creamer in the back of the fridge. Just don’t park it next to the steaks or anything. Wouldn’t want the cows knowing what you turned their milk into.”

A smooth smile carved out a knowing look of compassion on Titan’s face, one that said, in no uncertain terms, I’m whipped, and I like it . “It’s dairy-free.”

“Of course it is,” Iron muttered.

“And Rose likes it. I’ve gotta say, it’s not so terrible on occasion. The whipped cream is fun, too.”

“Agree to disagree, my brother. I prefer to eat my ice cream, not drink it.” Then he scratched the back of his neck, because his nerve endings just loved small talk. “But, yeah, I get it. Make her happy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of doing anything otherwise.” Titan’s smile slipped, and his tone glided into the one he often donned when he preferred to use his words as weapons.

Shit. Here it comes.

“It’ll happen for you as well, if that’s what’s been bothering you lately. Your soul bond, your other half, I know they’re out there for you. I refuse to believe the prime mages have granted us all this joy, even among the sorrow we’ve seen, yet would not?—”

Iron’s hand flew up. “Save the pretty speech, all right? It’s too early in the morning for pity.”

“It’s not pity. It’s encouragement and hope.” Then Titan leaned in closer. “Look, I know it’s on your mind. We all do.”

Aaand that’s just great. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“You don’t have a fucking clue what’s on my mind,” Iron gritted out, no longer giving a shit about breaking the seal on his soul’s secret anger.

Titan wanted to talk? Wanted him to open up and spill shit like his back was flat on some therapist’s couch and his heels were kicked back instead of making headway? Fine, he had no problem playing along.

“Or have you all forgotten that we had a home once, and newsflash, this ain’t it?” Iron spread his arms wide to encompass all the granite around them that had begun to grow colder with each passing minute. “I’ve got all the goddamn pieces to get us back to the Empyrean, back to where we had duty and a purpose, back to where we fucking belonged. And for the life of me, I can’t get any of these pieces to fit where they should.” Hot rage singed his throat as he let the words that had been haunting him these past few months fly free. “You and the others have a choice, Titan. You have Rose. Tung has Tammy. Everyone has a reason to make a considered choice, and it’s the giant elephant in the fucking room that no one wants to talk about.”

It was Iron’s turn to lean closer, and it was a testament to Titan’s long-held calm honed on the battlefield that the angel didn’t flinch.

“Are you staying or going? That’s the million-dollar question none of you want to acknowledge is hanging over your heads. If I crack this relic and she gives up her secrets of how to finally get home, then you all have a choice to make. But as long as I stay stuck on this puzzle, you and the others get to live out your happy mortal dreams with your soul bonds, while I just stay stuck. Never mind the fact that Cyro’s behind-the-scenes scheming is the ass ache none of us need, but as long as that bastard stays quiet, you can all pretend that life with your woman in your arms is how it always will be. Well, I don’t have that luxury,” he said, jamming a finger into his chest. “I can’t pretend that I’m not losing my fucking mind watching you all act like the wonderful bubbles you float around in aren’t about to burst at any moment.”

Iron stood from the table and dragged his tense hands over his beard, stopping just short of yanking the thing off his face entirely. “I’ve . . . I’ve seen someone.” And goddamn, did he hate the ring of torture and tension enveloping his words.

Titan straightened his shoulders but wisely stayed put. “You have?”

“Yeah. Been dreaming about her. For months. Never saw much of her face or heard her voice, though. Not until last night.”

A knot of concern wrinkled Titan’s brow. “What happened? Where? What’s her name? Who is she?”

“All excellent questions, and hell if I know the answer to any of them. The only thing I do know is when I’m so dead tired after racking my brain all day trying to figure out the key to getting this relic’s magic to fire up, she’s there at the end of it to rattle my brain even further.” Then Iron scoffed and shook his head. “It’s almost like she wants me to be exhausted, to ensure I’m so tired that I won’t ever have the energy to find a way back home.”

The silence between them stretched on, until he was pretty sure Titan kept quiet on purpose to draw out the tension of Iron’s shitty circumstances into a rope just long enough to fit snugly around Iron’s thick neck.

But Titan didn’t pull that rope. Instead, he looked into his coffee cup for answers, pensive but for the briefly stricken expression that skittered across his features. Finally, he spoke, his words thick with a subtle sadness. “Why do you think you don’t have a choice, brother?”

Iron didn’t miss the fact that the angel dodged the original subject by firing it back at him or how the second-in-command’s features smoothly slipped into a mask of indifference.

So he did know what was coming. Interesting.

Iron lifted his head to the arched ceiling, scanning the granite for the specific specs of mica that, sometimes, if he squinted hard enough, resembled a constellation or two. His only access to any sort of night sky when he was forced to remain belowground and recharge his angel fire. Unlike the others. “Because something tells me these dreams, this fantasy woman, aren’t just dreams but visions—visions that are leading me toward figuring out how to get this relic to finally release its magic.” Iron started to pace in stride to the hammering of his heart as he finally let his crackpot theory run wild. “What if I’m meant to find her and, in doing so, at last discover how to return to the Empyrean and stop Cyro for good? What if I regain my full powers? What if I force you all to choose between the lives you’ve fought so long for versus the lives you live now? Who the hell am I to force any one of you to make that decision? But this woman . . .”

“What about her?” Titan asked baldly.

The abruptness, both of the tone and the question, drew Iron to a halt. Just laid the brakes on whatever force was pushing him to crave the restless sleep that had begun to rub him raw for a reason he’d been too afraid to analyze.

“I think she’s hurting,” he confessed softly.

At that, Titan sat up straighter. “Hurting?”

“I don’t know the how or why of it, but whenever I dream of her, I also dream of . . . sadness. Suffering, maybe. The encounters we’ve had of late, if you can even call them that, have changed. Her spirit or aura or whatever the hell it is that visits me each night has gotten increasingly . . . yeah, I’m going to say strained, if that’s even possible. Over the months she’s held my mind captive, she’s been becoming more and more skittish, darting away from me when I reach for her, even though she must know I’m no threat by now. I wasn’t certain of it at first, but after last night, when I heard her speak for the first time, her words were hurled at me with such defiance, such fear masked with ferocity, that once I found out she was from New Hampshire, I swear I thought it was just more of that typical New England grit.

“But what if I was wrong? What if she acted that way as a form of defense because she was feeling attacked and is no stranger to suffering? What if I’m the cause of it somehow? What if she’s been right here all along and I could have helped her, but I didn’t, and she’s still out there somewhere hurting? Or what if I find her but then dragging her into my life only ruins all of yours? Or, worse, hers?”

The three shots of espresso Iron downed earlier had finally offered up their concentrated caffeine, effectively shooting his already panicked mind into overdrive.

Titan rose from his seat but still stayed clear of the path Iron was doing a damn good job of wearing into the granite floor. “Easy, now. You’re getting yourself worked up. There’s no use agonizing over hypotheticals here. You’re a data man. Work with the facts. Let’s start there.”

“Facts,” Iron parroted, only mildly less flustered. “Facts. Okay.”

“Yes, facts. I’ll ask you one factual question. Only you can answer it, and it’s a yes or no choice. Super simple. You ready?”

Iron finally put the brakes on his pacing and fisted his hands at his sides. “Shoot.”

Titan nodded knowingly. “If you could stop her pain, would you?”

“What the hell kind of a question is that?”

“I’ll ask it again. If you believe this woman is in pain and it was within your power to stop it, would you?”

“Yes. Always. A thousand times over. Without question. I wouldn’t let her suffer.”

“Good. Now, question two.” Titan flicked his gaze toward the test tube containing the severed shard of the Empyrean’s relic.

A shard that was now glowing with a jumpstart of celestial magic Iron had been trying to unlock for months.

A shard that was pointing directly toward Iron’s chest, where the core of his tethered angel fire lived.

An overwhelming panic seized Iron’s lungs as Titan’s final question solidified his resolve. “What the hell are you still doing here?”