Praise for the novels of
JENNIFER ARMINTROUT

Blood Ties Book One: The Turning

“Every character is drawn in vivid detail, driving the action from point to point in a way that never lets up.”

—The Eternal Night

“[Armintrout’s] use of description varies between chilling, beautiful, and disturbing…[a] unique take on vampires.”

—The Romance Readers Connection

Blood Ties Book Two: Possession

“Armintrout continues her Blood Ties series with style and verve, taking the reader to a completely convincing but alien world where anything can—and does—happen.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

[four-star review]

“The relationships between the characters are complicated and layered in ways that many authors don’t bother with.”

—Vampire Genre

Blood Ties Book Three: Ashes to Ashes

“Ashes to Ashes will stun readers with the twists and turns so artfully incorporated into this latest tale…. Not to be missed.”

—The Romance Readers Connection

“This series is one that only gets better.”

—Huntress Book Reviews

Blood Ties Book Four: All Souls’ Night

“The action will keep readers on the edge of their seats as the ongoing fight reaches its peak. Entertaining and often steamy romances run parallel to the supernatural action without dominating the pages. All Souls’ Night ends on a most unexpected, but thoroughly creative scene.”

—Darque Reviews

“Armintrout pulls out all the stops in her fourth and final Blood Ties book, skillfully setting up a climactic clash of good vs. evil. Along the way, familiar characters reappear and new ones are introduced, and all are uniformly detailed and interesting. As before, Carrie’s first-person viewpoint makes up the bulk of the narrative, adding much to a bloody good read.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

[four-star review]

JENNIFER ARMINTROUT
QUEENE OF LIGHT

A LIGHTWORLD/DARKWORLD NOVEL

To me, this book symbolizes a beautiful flower

that grew out of the rotting rib cage of a

murder victim abandoned in a shallow grave.

Thank you to everyone who made that weekend

such a horrible experience and forced me to

retreat into a fantasy world where a sewer

full of monsters offered more

hospitable company than yours.

Nice people and objects that made this book

possible were the Friday Night Mudslingers,

my supportive family, Diet Coke, and

Emmy Rossum’s Inside Out album.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Acknowledgments

One

In the Darkworld, the filth made it difficult to fly. Faery wings were far too gossamer and fragile to withstand the moisture that dripped from the murky blackness overhead or the clinging grime that coated everything, even sentient things, that dared cross over the Darkworld border.

Ayla knelt in the mire, searching the mucky concrete ground for signs of her quarry. She’d had no problem tracking the Werewolf this far. The foolish creature did not even realize it was being followed, and her wings, not delicately made but leathery flaps of nearly Human skin, thick boned and heavy against her back, had given her the speed to keep up with him as he rampaged through the depths of the Darkworld. But they had made her too conspicuous. As she tracked the Wolf, something tracked her.

She heard it, lurking behind her. Whatever followed had wings, feathered, if she guessed correctly from the rustling that echoed through the tunnel like tiny thunder. Perhaps it thought she wouldn’t hear it. Or couldn’t.

The chill that raced up her spine had little to do with the gusts of cold air that blew through the tunnels. She knew the beast that followed her. She’d heard it spoken of in hushed tones in the Assassins’ Guild training rooms. It was a Death Angel.

The stories were too numerous to sort fact from fiction. Some claimed an Angel had the powers of the Vanished Gods. Some dismissed them as no more powerful than a Faery or Elf. And some insisted that to look upon one was death to any creature, mortal or Fae. Once, not long after Ayla had begun her formal Guild training, an Assassin was lost. His body was recovered, impaled upon his own sword, wings ripped from his back. She’d seen him, though Garret, her mentor, had tried to shield her. The marks on the Faery’s ashen flesh indicated he had not been cut, but torn, as if by large, clawed hands. The killing blow had come as a mercy.

Whatever the Death Angels were, they did not look kindly upon other immortal creatures.

The blood pounded in her veins as she forced herself to focus on resuming the trail of her Wolf. Pursued or not, she had an assignment to carry out. Until the Death Angel struck, she would ignore his presence.

Closing her eyes, Ayla called up the training she’d received. She reached out with her sightless senses. She could not smell the Wolf, not above the stench of the sewer. She could not hear it. The irritated buzz of her antennae, an involuntary reaction to the tension vibrating through her body, coupled with the rustling of the Death Angel’s wings in the shadows behind her, drowned out all other noise. She reached her hands out, feeling blindly across the pocked concrete of the tunnel wall. Deep gouges scored the surface, filled with fading rage. Her fingers brushed the residual energy and her mind lit up with a flare of red. The Wolf had passed this way.

Rising to her feet slowly, she traced the walls with her hands. Here was a splash of blood, blossoming with a neon-bright flare of pain behind her closed eyelids. Innocent, simple blood. There would be a body.

In a crouch, she moved through the tunnel, her arms low to the ground, trailing through the congealed filth there. Something dripped farther down the tunnel. It was audible, like a drop falling from a spigot to a full bucket. There was water ahead. Dirty water, no doubt contaminated by waste from the Human world above, and the Wolf’s victim would be there, as well; the despair and fear of its last moments tainted the air.

She followed the trail of blood and pain, the water rising to her knees, then to her waist. Something brushed her bare skin below the leather of her vest, and her eyes flew open. Floating beside her, split neck to groin, the empty skin of a rat. The Wolf had come this way to feed.

Summoning energy from her chest, she directed it into a ball in her palm. The orb flared bright, and she tossed it above her head to illuminate the space. To her left, another tunnel led deeper into the Darkworld. Another opened ahead of her. In the yolk of the three tunnels, hundreds of eviscerated rats bobbed in the stinking tide.

Rats. My life is forfeit for the sake of rats.

Wading through the sewage, she made her way to a low ledge. Another body waited there. The Werewolf, already twisted and stiff in death, caught between his Wolf and Human states. The grinning rictus of his Human mouth below his half-transformed snout gave testimony to the poison that had killed him before she could, and would have killed the rats if he’d not gotten to them first.

It was said among the Assassins of the Lightworld that Death Angels wait in the shadows for the souls of mortal creatures. The one that had followed the Wolf’s trail behind her would not be pleased to find her there when he came to claim his prize.

She spun to face the Death Angel, caught sight of it in her rapidly fading light. Paper-white skin stretched over a hard, muscular body that could have been Human but for the claws at its hands and feet. It hung upside down, somehow gripping the smooth ceiling of the tunnel, its eyes sightless black mirrors that reflected her terrified face. It hissed, spreading its wings, and sprang for her.

Gulping as much of the fetid air as her lungs could hold, Ayla dove into the water. The echo of the creature’s body disturbing the surface rippled around her, urging her to swim faster, but her wings twisted in the currents, slowing her and sending shocks of pain through her bones. She propelled herself upward and broke into the air gasping.

In a moment, the creature had her, his claws twisting in her loosened braid. He jerked her head back, growling a warning in a harsh, guttural language. He disentangled his claws from her hair and gripped her shoulder in one massive fist, his other hand raised to strike.

The moment his palm fell on her bare shoulder, she saw the change come over him. Red tentacles of energy climbed like ivy over his fingers, gaining his wrist, twining around his thick, muscled forearm. His hand spasmed and flexed on her arm but he was unable to let go, tied to her by the insidious red veins.

That was another rumor she’d heard about Death Angels. Though they craved mortal souls, the touch of a creature with mortal blood was bitter poison.

With a gasp of disbelief and satisfaction, she raised her eyes to the face of the Death Angel. His eyes, occluded with blood, fixed on her as the veins crept up his neck, covering his face.

“I am half Human,” she said with a cruel laugh of relief. Whether the creature understood her or not, she did not care. He opened his mouth and screamed, his voice twisting from a fierce, spectral cry to a Human wail of pain and horror. Ayla’s heart thundered in her chest and she closed her eyes, dragging air into her painfully constricted lungs. In her mind she saw the tree of her life force, its roots anchoring her feet, its branches reaching into her arms and head. Great, round sparks of energy raced to the Angel’s touch, where her life force pulsed angry red. The pace of the moving energy quickened with her heartbeat, growing impossibly rapid, building and swelling within her until she could no longer withstand the assault. She wrenched her shoulder free and staggered back, slipping to her knees in the water, sputtering as the foulness invaded her mouth.

The Death Angel stood as if frozen in place, twisting in agony. The stark red faded into his preternaturally white skin. His bloody, empty eyes washed with white, then a dot of color pierced their center. Mortal eyes, mortal color. A mortal body. Ayla clambered to her feet and stared in shock, the rush of her blood and energy still filling her ears. All at once it stopped, and the Death Angel collapsed, disappearing below the water.

In the still of the tunnel, Ayla listened for any other presence. Only the gentle lapping of the water against the curved walls of the tunnel could be heard, no fearsome rustling of wings. Would another Death Angel come for him, now that he was to die a mortal death?

He burst up through the water with a pitiable cry, arms flailing. Ayla screamed, jumping immediately to an attack stance, twin blades drawn. She relaxed when the now-mortal creature dragged himself from the water with shaking arms to collapse on the ledge. His chest heaved with each jerky breath of his newborn lungs, and his limbs trembled with exhaustion. He was no immediate threat.

Curiosity overcame Ayla’s training, which dictated she should kill the Darkling where he lay. How many Assassins had the chance to survey their prey this closely? How many had the chance to destroy a Death Angel? Her weapons still at the ready, still poised to carry her into legend with the kill, she moved closer.

The Angel lay on his back, his ebony feathered wings folded beneath him. His hair, impossibly long, lay matted and wet on the cement, dipping into the water. The fierce muscle structure that had made him so strong remained, but his body twitched, sapped of strength.

It seemed wrong, cowardly to kill him in such a state.

An Assassin knows no honor. An Assassin knows no pity. An Assassin is no judge to bestow mercy, but the executioner of those who have already been sentenced, those Darklings who shun the truth of Light. The geis, seared into her brain through hours of endless repetition, burned her anew, and she lifted her knives to deliver the killing blow. His eyes slid open, flickered over her hands and the weapons she held.

With a deep breath and a whispered prayer, Ayla closed her eyes. “Badb, Macha, Nemain, guide my hand that you might collect your trophy sooner than later.”

He made no noise as her daggers fell. If he had, perhaps she would have been able to finish the job. But when she opened her eyes, saw the flashing blades poised to pierce his throat and sever his spine, saw his face impassive…

Her hands opened and the knives clattered to the ledge. She did not retrieve them. Let him have something to defend himself from the creatures that would come for him, the ones who would not kill him as quickly as she would have, if she had been mindful of the geis. She had never broken an oath in her life, but no power on Earth or in the long dissipated Astral Realms could turn her head to look on him again or stop her as she waded into the tunnel that had brought her there.

He cried out then, when she was out of sight, but it was not to her. Probably to his One God, begging for help. But there had never been a God or Goddess in the Underground. Ayla knew she alone heard his prayer, and it haunted her all the way to the Lightworld.

Two

Malachi never understood why they fell. Mortals were so bland and pink and fleshy. So uninteresting when compared to the glory of Heaven. Why fall, just to become one of them and whither and die, growing old with each breath?

As he did now.

After the foolish Humans had split the veil with their love of chants and regressions and crystal energies, after Hell and Heaven flooded onto Earth like a great, hopeless tidal wave, after the mortals had banished the creatures they once revered to the Underground, then he understood why an Angel might be tempted to fall. Unending existence became torture when separated from the Creator. Resentment of the Humans they were meant to protect crept into them, infecting them like parasites, coiling and twisting into their minds, the way it had during the first great fall. It thrived here in the Dark, beneath the Humans. Men had once raised their eyes to the heavens. Now, they needed only to look through a sewer grate to find the dying remains of God.

Malachi cried out again, though he knew the Lord could not hear him. It seemed almost comical now, to his bitter, Human mind, that in the confusion the Almighty could have slipped away and been lost. But the connection he’d felt, the connection any of them had felt, had vanished into thin air the same day the Afterworld merged with the world of the mortals.

They’d carried on without him. After all, they were merely servants. They had no free will. If any other course of action had crossed their mind, they would have fallen instantly. But it had not, and would not. They collected the souls of the departed, storing them in the Aether Globe until God returned to claim them. One by one, they began to fall, more as of late. Malachi had puzzled over that, continued to. His fall had been accidental, but there was no reward he could imagine that would tempt him to this pain voluntarily. Blood rushed beneath his skin. Bones and muscle ached. He had never ached before. Without wanting to and with no way to stop it he died more every moment.

Time. He’d never had a concept of it before. With nothing but eternity to measure it by, it had never meant anything at all.

Somewhere in the tunnels, they moved toward him. He expected them. He’d seen so many fall, during the first war over Lucifer’s petty jealousy and since, he knew what he would endure. Soon enough, he heard the rustle of wings in the darkness, and then the darkness was no more. When the Angelic Host assembled, it was a sight to dazzle a mortal’s eyes. They gazed at him dispassionately. He thought he knew what they felt and realized they felt nothing. Now that he was Human, or something like it, he knew true emotion. It hurt. He envied them.

Warm, golden light surrounded him, and he climbed to his knees, looking to the source. Above him, the circle of light receded to a single point of sheer brilliance. He lowered his gaze, closed his eyes, but the light had already marked his vision. Red spots swam behind his eyelids.

“Broken One,” a voice intoned sternly, and then, softer, “Malachi.”

When he opened his eyes, he saw two pale feet before him, bare as they peeked from below a robe of pure golden light. Azrael, Angel of Death. Fitting it would be him.

Malachi reached with trembling hands to lift the hem of the Archangel’s garment. He kissed it, balled it in his fists. It felt like cloth under his fingers, though he knew it was an illusion, immaterial, and he wouldn’t have been able to touch it in his old form.

“Rise, Malachi,” Azrael commanded, and Malachi did. Still, he could not look at the face of this creature he’d so recently been. He could not see that face, so beautiful and genderless, full of understanding and compassion, but no mercy. Never mercy.

“You have fallen.” The voice was the same. Comforting without promising.

“It was an accident.” The words seemed so inadequate in the face of the charge. “I would never have fallen through choice.”

Azrael reached for him, lifting his hands, and Malachi did look at his face then. The Archangel’s face displayed only mild interest as he unwound a flame-red strand from Malachi’s fingers. “You touched a mortal.”

“I did not know it was mortal. It had the appearance of an immortal from the Lightworld. I thought to kill it.” He flinched at his own explanation. There was no reason to have touched her, no directive from the Creator to kill the ones that were not like them. He had made the choice to fall, and for such a foolish whim.

“The affairs of the denizens of this Underground, mortal or immortal, are not our concern.” Azrael’s sad, kind smile reflected the truth. “You have chosen. And you have fallen.”

The faces of the Host assembled around them faded. The light grew dimmer. Azrael stepped back.

“No!” Malachi looked desperately at each one, sickened to know it was the last time and certain there was some way to make them understand. “It was not my choice. I had no will of my own! Even now, my will is that of the Creator!”

The light around him flared again, and he fell to his knees, knowing what would come. Flashing whips of gold lashed his wings, his back. He’d watched this so many times, wondering why they all cried out as their wings were pierced and torn, certain that mortal pain could not be so unbearable. He’d been wrong. The agony of it stole the breath from his lungs. His fragile mortal hands clenched against the rough stone beneath him, splintering his fingernails and tearing them loose from his flesh. He screamed, not to pray to his absent God, but to release the fearful pressure in his chest, to lessen some of the pain.

And then, the spectral lashes were gone. Alone in the darkness, Malachi collapsed, unable to support his body enough to prevent crushing his ruined wings. He turned his hot face to press his cheek to the cool ledge. Sticky red oozed slowly across the stone, feathering into the thirsty pores to create a dark, wet stain.

This would kill him. The pain, the blood, the desperation. No being, mortal or immortal, could withstand such suffering. He closed his eyes, resigned and a bit relieved to know it would not be long now. He waited hopefully for the flutter of wings and the Angel who would return him to Aether. It seemed ages passed, and still they did not come. The searing pain dulled to an agonizing throb, and the wetness at his back congealed. He wondered if it was a sign of imminent death. Many of the souls he’d claimed had been victims of gruesome violence. They had not bled in torrents as he had. But it seemed to take so long.

At every noise, be it a drip of water or the click of vermin’s claws against the ledge beside him, he startled, sure it was time. His hopes soared, then crashed, and with each repetition the anticipation and disappointment magnified. He remained alone, stranded in his mortal prison, stranded on an island in a seemingly endless sea of filth. If he had the strength, he could find his way to Aether, the place in the Darkworld that the Death Angels had claimed as their fortress. But the halls would be empty to him. Another Angel would not show him their face until the moment of his death. And he did not have the strength. He would wait, for help or for death, it did not matter which.

Finally something did come along. Slogging through the fetid water, whistling a simple tune that echoed almost sinisterly off the stark walls. A light shone, not the holy white of death. Yellow, mechanical, dirty and dank as everything in this Underground. It bobbed with the movement of its bearer, and as it moved closer, Malachi saw the shape of a man, painfully thin, hair curled from the damp, wearing an odd contraption to keep the water from his garments. He waded to the ledge, took off his strange hat with the light atop it and held it away when Malachi lifted his arm to shade his eyes.

“Holy shit.” The man sniffed, wiped his nose on his forearm. He looked up and down the tunnel, as if guilty of some crime he’d not yet committed. “What the hell are you?”

Too fatigued, too ambivalent to bother answering, Malachi looked away.

“Right. Okay.” The hat clattered against the ledge, and the man muttered as he seemed to be looking for something. Malachi did not care, as long as he left him to die in peace, and soon.

The sting of something piercing his arm caught him by surprise. He looked from the syringe in the man’s hand to the slightly apologetic expression on his face.

“Listen, buddy, this is really for the best,” he said, wiping the needle on his shirt before returning it to a pocket. Malachi’s vision faded. His stomach churned. And then he knew no more.

Three

The training room of the Assassins’ Guild was deserted. No one would come to practice or spar at this hour, which was exactly why Ayla had retreated there. The night guard, a retired Assassin, grumbled when she’d roused him to open the door, but she’d not apologized. She needed time to meditate on her failure in the Darkworld, time to formulate the answers to the questions she knew she would face. A more intelligent Assassin would think of a quick lie to cover such shame, but Ayla had no talent for lies. She became tangled in and tripped over even the most simple falsehoods.

No, she would probe the root of what had gone wrong, find that answer for herself before Garret or, Gods help her, the Guild Master, sought it and she looked a fool.

Or an incompetent Assassin, which she assured herself she was not. Beneath the high cement pillars of the training room she moved across the rough floor, wielding a simple wooden staff as she moved through her forms. She would start with the easiest weapons and move to the most demanding, working all night if she had to in order to punish herself for her ineptitude and prove she was better than the weakness she’d displayed in dealing with the Darkling.

The Darkling. How was it that now, when he was almost certainly dead, victim of some insidious predator of the Darkworld, he haunted her? Her shoulder still ached from his punishing hold. She would find a healer in the morning, not Guild employed so there would be no questions. She would find time to slip away to the Strip before she was required to report to the Guild Master.

She closed her eyes, spinning the staff from hand to hand, reveling in the bite of it against her palms. It had been five years since she’d entered Guild training and first used the clumsy, cumbersome weapon. Her hands had blistered and bled, but she’d endured. Now, her calluses had faded, pampered by the leather grips of her more elegant daggers.

She was pampered. That was the root of the problem. She’d lost touch with what it was like to be an Assassin for the Queene of the Faery Quarter. Perhaps she should use a staff more often, to toughen herself up.

No, it was not just her fighting. It was her lack of opportunity to fight. Every morning she would wait hopefully on her bunk until Garret came, somber-faced and shaking his head. The Queene did not fancy Humans, he’d explained once, and Ayla should not expect many assignments to pass her way. It was whispered that Cedric, the Guild Master, was one of Mabb’s many consorts and would bend to her every whim, even if that whim prejudiced him against the Assassins in his charge.

It was with the Guild Master’s smug face in mind that Ayla whirled through the bow staff forms. But as always, she could not remain angry at him. Her rage was irrational, turning instead to Garret, her mentor. He should defend her. He should demand that his sister lift the ban against Ayla, however it may have come to pass, and procure her better and more frequent assignments. It was his responsibility, after all, and she was his only charge.

No, Garret was far more content to let Mabb do as she pleased, coddling her and venerating her as if she were a Goddess rather than a mere ruler. As he wished to coddle Ayla, turning her from a hardened Assassin into a soft and willing mate. Judging from the way she’d faltered tonight, his strategy was effective.

As if called by her venomous thoughts, Garret strode through the arched double doors. The night watchman called something after him, certainly not complimentary, but it was swallowed up by the clanging shut of the doors and Garret’s heavy boots thudding across the floors. For a moment, Ayla expected anger and had to rearrange his sharp features in her mind to resemble the anguish painted on his face.

“When did you return? I have been ill with worry!” His robes flapped behind him as he hurried to her side.

In the guise of fixing her braid, Ayla quickly unbound her hair, letting it fall over the mark on her crushed shoulder like a flame-colored veil. “I have only just returned.”

It was then he became angry, his brow creasing below the antennae that flattened against his dark curls like the ears of a maddened cat. “And you did not come straight to me? You have been gone two days longer than the assignment called for—”

“I was to abandon the trail?” she interjected, setting one end of the staff against the ground as she drew herself up straighter.

“You were to follow the instructions I gave you!” He grabbed her by the arms, dangerously close to the place where the Darkling had left his mark.

She did not fear him, though she feared his discovery of her bruises and the questions they would provoke. Glaring at him with her coldest expression, the one she’d practiced on countless victims as they’d begged her for mercy, she bit out, “I must finish my exercises.”

His expression softened and he released her. She knew it pained him to show anger. It made him unattractive. “I apologize. I am merely fatigued. Mabb sent a squadron out to search for you, but they were unable to penetrate the Darkworld border. I feared you were lost.”

She turned away, dragging the staff to the weapons rack. Mabb’s troops could have easily breached the border of the Darkworld. Unlike the heavily guarded entrances to the Lightworld, the tunnels leading into their enemies’ territory were defenseless. But she would not risk threatening the denizens of the Darkworld with her troops, possibly starting a war. Certainly not over Ayla, who Mabb strongly disliked.

Ayla reached for a broadsword, though her muscles screamed from overuse and her brain begged for sleep. More training, more time to think, that was what she needed.

“Ayla, please,” Garret soothed, his footsteps indicating his approach. “You are tired. We can train tomorrow, but now I would like you to sleep. Stay with me tonight. I can take you to Sanctuary in the morning.”

Sanctuary. The word held such a sweet promise of rest and spiritual calm. She could meditate at Sanctuary, bathe in the pools, be renewed.

Be free of the memory of the Darkling.

The very thought of him steeled her resolve to keep working. “I will go to Sanctuary in the morning. Alone.” As I will sleep alone tonight, she added silently.

Garret gave a heavy sigh. “As you wish it.”

She watched him as he left, his slender form disguised by his voluminous Guild robes. His wings lay at his back, transparent as water, swirled with gossamer color like oil polluting a puddle. He was much admired by the ladies at Court, as Ayla had seen on the occasions when she’d gone to the Palace to make her reports. To have the attention of the Queene’s brother was an envious thing, and Ayla appreciated her position even if she would not accept his love. It was no secret that her Human father had won her place in the Guild in a gambling house on the Strip, but that Garret had chosen to tutor her, that was a touch of luck she could never count on again. She was grateful to him. Most students and mentors were assigned unless prior arrangements were made, and Ayla had been in no position to buy a better one.

“But when I saw you in the assembly,” Garret often told her, “I knew I had to be near you, if only as your mentor.”

She did owe him her gratitude, but she found it difficult to parlay that debt into a lifetime bound to him. And she knew what was whispered about her. That she was proud, that she did not know how unrealistic her expectations were. It was not as if one could aspire higher than an heir to the kingdom. That the kingdom, indeed, their entire plane of being, no longer existed did not matter. Nor did their immortality. Mabb could rule for eternity, so long as she was not harmed. It seemed unlikely that the Queene would fall to injury or illness with her retinue of guards and healers. Still, for a half-breed like Ayla, a match with Garret was more than she should ever have hoped for, and she knew it.

So did Garret, and that was some of the problem.

Why could she not simply accept his affections for her own gain? She did not like living in the barracks, constantly guarding her possessions from the Pixies and Tricksters that shared the quarters. Of course, she would not have to worry about her meager possessions if she went to live with Garret in his home outside the Palace. She would have possessions worth guarding. A fine rug instead of the coarse, cold cement of the tunnels beneath her feet. Food and rich wine that she didn’t have to fight for, stolen from the Human world above, where things were clean and worth stealing. There weren’t many luxuries Underground, but Garret would give her anything he could, simply because he wished to.

She worked through defense with the broadsword, waiting until she was certain Garret had left the Guild compound. It was nearly morning by the time she stumbled from the training room. Soon, it would be the Human noon hour, and the sun that Ayla had never seen would be directly over the surface of the Earth, spilling light into the grates and gutters, illuminating the Underground with secondhand dawn.

Ayla had not been born yet when the Humans had destroyed the Astral and Etheric planes. Garret had been there, and like all of the Fae who had fought in the wars against the Humans, remembered it well, though nearly three hundred years had passed. He sang songs of it at times, strumming his harp with a look of regret so keen it seemed woven into the enchantment of the music itself. There had been a spiritual war amongst the Humans, one side wielding their sacrificial God like a sword against “nonbelievers.” Like a pendulum swinging, Human society embraced this way of life, then rejected it. It was during the last shift that the boundaries between what they believed to be real and the lands of their dreams and nightmares were severed.

Garret spoke with disgust about the behavior of the Humans who’d claimed their practices were a revival of the old ways, marketing crystals and oracles and glossy books claiming to hold the secrets to powerful magics. “Some claimed to be Druids,” he’d scoffed once, when he’d used his pipe a bit too much. “Druids. I walked with Amergin. He gave me this harp. The fools, if they had any idea of what it meant to be a true Druid…ah, but half of them don’t even eat animals. They believe it is too cruel.”

But it hadn’t mattered. With the followers of the One God calling on him in prayer for even the most mundane situations and the pretenders invoking spirits and attempting to force their consciousness onto the Astral plane, the veil rent. The Gods “Seemed to disappear as mist into the air,” as Garret described it, and the creatures the Humans had long thought of as myth had spilled onto Earth with no hope of ever leaving. They were welcomed at first, celebrated even. But when they did not show themselves to be the helpful sprites consumed with admiration for the Human race that the mortals expected, they turned on them.

It was said the war began when the Fae races drove the Humans Underground, though the story that existed outside the Lightworld was that the Humans had fled below the Earth of their own volition. They abandoned their world for the caverns they had hewn from the dirt, tunnels for sanitation and great vehicles that shook the ground as they traveled on rails. The Humans drilled passages to connect them and create the great cities of the Underground.

As more Humans fled the world above, a mortal rose as leader among his people. Uttering his name was forbidden in the Lightworld, but Ayla had not always lived there. In her childhood on the Strip, the neutral zone between the borders of Dark and Light, she’d heard him spoken of. Madaku Jah, the Prophet. Or the Traitor, depending who told the tales. No matter if he was reviled or praised, he’d raised an army against the creatures above them and forced them into the very Underground they’d made the mortals endure.

Now, the tides shifted again. Only a fool would ignore the signs. Another battle brewed, but this one was not against the Humans, the common enemy of the Light and Dark worlds. This war would be fought in the Underground. The grim thought haunted Ayla as she shuffled to the barracks, her body on the verge of collapse.

Inside, only the Pixies had begun to rouse. They always rose early, desperate for what little sunlight they could get.

One of them stopped her with a wide grin. “Ayla, you look terrible. Come with us to Sanctuary.”

“Of course I look terrible. I have been training all night. Now I need rest, while I can still have it.”

“Suit yourself.” The Pixie flashed another winning smile. Any creature with a drop of mortal blood would look terrible in comparison to the Fae races, preternaturally young and strong. And they had gotten rest. They had not been plagued with thoughts of a newly mortal creature lying helpless in the Darkworld.

Neither had she, she scolded herself. There was no reason to think on the creature. Not to pity him. That had been her first mistake. Not to revel in her victory, obviously. All she needed to think of was a good enough reason for her failure.

So, why then, did she fight for sleep on her hard bunk, ignoring the sounds of the other Assassins as they rose, unable to chase away the memory of the Darkling’s voice and anguished face?

Four

Malachi opened his eyes to a strange, mechanical whirring and a pressing weight on his back as he lay on his stomach. He remembered the man in the tunnel, the one who had stabbed him and drugged him, the shock and horror as he realized he would be defenseless against whatever would come.

Panic seized him, and it was an emotion he did not like. In fact, he did not like any of the emotions he had experienced thus far. He jerked up, bracing his hands beneath him, the bite of cold metal meeting his hands where his flesh had not warmed it.

“Don’t move, I’m almost done.” The command was most calm, considering the man had abducted him.

Malachi swallowed, his newly mortal throat as dry as parchment. “I am thirsty.”

“Sorry, nothing to drink during surgery. It’s unsanitary,” the man responded. A flare of something passed Malachi’s face, and when he peered over the rolled edge of the table he saw the withering remains of those addictive tubes of paper the mortals in the Underground despaired of finding regularly enough to feed their habit.

Mortals lived in the Underground for two reasons. They sympathized with the denizens of the Underground, or they had been banished from the Human world for practicing magics. But the man’s reason for being there did not concern Malachi so much as what he was doing. “Surgery? I do not understand.”

“Of course you don’t.” Another burst of whirring, accompanied by an acrid scent that Malachi recognized as burned flesh, punctuated the man’s words. “Your kind are ethereal. You never need patching up, or at least you’re not supposed to. But you, my friend…you were in bad shape when I found you.”

Though the man’s words were strange, his meaning was clear. Malachi cursed him silently and rested against the table once more. “You should have left me to die.”

“It was tempting. I haven’t ever gotten my hands on a pair of these beauties. Promise me if you kick off before I do, you won’t mind me keeping them?” Another burst of whirring, then, “Okay, all done.”

The man jumped down from the table—it must have been his knee causing the pressure, Malachi decided—and helped him to sit up. Malachi teetered under the weight of his wings. They’d been too heavy from the moment he’d turned mortal, but they were lopsided and unwieldy now. “What have you done to me?”

“Saved your life. And your wings.” The man touched one of them, and Malachi hissed involuntarily at the pain. “Well, they’re gonna be tender for a while.”

“Who are you? Why are you doing this?” Malachi moved to stand, but his weakened limbs would not support him. Light danced before his eyes, leaving the room darker with each starburst, and he fell onto the table again, bending the tips of his wings beneath him.

“No, no, don’t go passing out. You’re too big for me to catch if you fall.” The man steadied him, then held out one blood-crusted hand. “Name’s Keller. And I’m doing this because I hate to see perfectly healthy folk go down for things that are easily fixed. You would have bled to death out there. Don’t let me tell you how to live, but I’d much rather live a life that’s worth something than die alone in the Sewer District. Place is a hellhole.”

“Where am I?” His vision cleared, Malachi surveyed the room. Pipes made a grid of the low ceiling, and the Human had used them to hang too-bright electric lights that gave off a terrible fizzing sound. He’d covered the walls in a wide, wire mesh fence, forming crude walls around their space. Everywhere were boxes and steel cabinets, and tables strewn with mechanical parts and tools.

“You’re in my shop,” Keller said with forced pride. “In the Sewer District. But hey, the rent’s cheap, and at least I found a dry place. You wouldn’t believe some of the hovels around here—they have to sleep in hammocks to stay out of the muck.”

Malachi said nothing. He’d seen many homes in the Darkworld. Creatures mortal and immortal fought to survive in the harshest half of the Underground, and their ingenuity knew no bounds. Keller’s humble shop seemed a palace in comparison to some Darkworld dwellings, and his numerous boxes indicated he had some way of earning material possessions.

“I outfitted you with some lightweight aluminum I won in a card game. I heard it came from an airplane.” Keller tapped one of the sore spots on Malachi’s wing, and the resultant clang distracted Malachi from the pain. When the man faced him, Malachi saw one arm was completely missing from the elbow. In its place, an intricate system of metal and wires imitated the severed body part. In fact, the man’s head seemed to be fitted with metal, as well, a long, curved piece of shiny steel that scooped around his ear. Keller scratched at the metal fragment in his skull with the false hand, and sparks jumped from the contact. “So, now you know why I’m not living the life fantastic up on the surface.”

“Yes.” There was nothing else to say. The man was clearly a Bio-mech, a creature who believed the Human body an appliance with replaceable components that could outlast the ravages of time. It was not as the Lord intended, as evidenced by the high number of souls the Death Angels claimed from experiments gone awry.

“Yeah, well, I saved your life, so go to hell,” Keller snapped, and only then did Malachi realize he’d been staring.

“I did not ask for your pity. I prayed for death, and this is how I am repaid?” Malachi shook his head. The motion seemed oddly natural. “I am not meant to be here.”

“I can always put you back.” Keller sounded…insulted? Malachi had such a difficult time putting the word to the tone of voice.

“You are not pleased.” He could not summon up more empathy for the man’s reaction. Malachi’s only concern was for his mortal body, and the death that had been stolen from him.

“I’m a little pissed, yeah. I did save your life.” Keller turned to one of his worktables, moving some equipment there. “That’s worth something, whether you believe it or not.” After a long pause, he tossed something heavy onto the table with a clatter. “What were you doing in that tunnel?”

Malachi did not wish to discuss the details of the past hours with this man. It horrified him enough to know it himself. But the thought of not speaking made the ache of sorrow expand in his chest, and the only relief came from releasing the words he did not want to say. “I have fallen.”

“Didn’t the fall happen a long time ago? Like, in bible times?” Despite his questions, the Human seemed genuinely impressed.

“The first time. But Angels continue to fall.” Malachi closed his eyes. “It was an accident.”

Keller’s voice came from a great distance. “Well, ain’t that a bitch. One minute you’re immortal and the next you’re…not.”

When Malachi opened his eyes, the room spun. He listed to the side, felt as though he might slip from the table. With a shout of alarm, Keller raced to his side. “Lie down, lie down,” the Human ordered. He peered into Malachi’s face with an expression of worry. “I’ve got to get you something to eat. Then we’re going to the Strip.”

“Why?” The word sounded hollow from Malachi’s parched lips.

“Because you need a healer.” Keller moved away, and Malachi could not follow him with his eyes. They were too sore, too set on closing.

“Here, eat this.” The Human shoved a chunk of bread into Malachi’s hands. “It isn’t much, but I don’t keep supplies on hand for entertaining company.”

Malachi struggled to lean up on his elbows. The experience of eating was strange. The coarse, grainy bread made his mouth drier. It tasted horrible, but he could not stop stuffing more and more of it into his mouth, desperate to fill the aching void inside him. He gagged, and Keller rushed to his side. “Whoa, slow down. Here, drink this.”

Taking the cup offered him, Malachi swallowed the bread and gulped the water. Now, instead of empty, he felt uncomfortably tight, and he wished the Human had never offered him food.

Keller took the cup from him. “See, that’s good clean water. You’re lucky you found someone who’s got connections.”

“I am still thirsty.” Malachi reached for the cup, and Keller held it away.

“Not right now. Sometimes, when people are starving, they consume so much so fast that they…” He waved a hand. “Well, you’ll just cause yourself more trouble than you’re in now.”

Searing pain ripped down Malachi’s torso, as if he’d been run through with a sword. “Where is…where is the healer?”

“On the Strip.” Keller eyed him as though measuring him. “But you’ll need some clothes.”

“I do not wear clothes.” As an Angel, any garments he had needed had manifested from pure energy. Material objects, especially coarse fabrics, were too unpleasant to tolerate.

“Yeah, well, you look a little more Human than you used to.” Keller went to one of the cabinets and pulled out a box. “I won some clothes off a guy on a bar bet. He was shorter than you. Smaller all around. But there aren’t too many Humans your size.”

“Give me what you must, then take me to the healer.” If he survived the journey, he would devise another way to die.

“So, how did this happen to you? I mean, how does one accidentally fall? It seems like something you’d have to do intentionally.” Keller’s voice was muffled by the box he’d buried his head in. Occasionally he cursed and tossed something over his shoulder.

The memories were clouded, but something flickered through Malachi’s mind. A blaze of orange. Had there been flames? No. It had been…a Faery.

Rage burned his veins. Now this was an emotion he could grow to enjoy. It pulled the past few hours into sharp focus, gave him purpose. He could not seek death. Not when he could feel this anger grow in him, fuel him to seek out the Faery who had stolen his immortality and get the revenge due him. If mortals felt this exhilaration every time someone wronged them, perhaps he did envy them a bit after all.

“Hey, buddy?” Keller had been staring at him, Malachi had no idea how long.

But he did know what he would do next. “Take me to the healer.”

Five

The Queene did not leave her chambers until long after sunup. It annoyed Garret to know the reason for his sister’s laziness. It was either Cedric, Master of the Assassins’ Guild, or Tristan, his Second-in-Command. It could even be Robin Goodfellow, that low-class Trickster, just because he amused her.

Disgusting, the way Mabb carried on. In her hunger for an heir, it seemed she would bed any attractive Fae that could charm her with pretty words. It was ridiculous, really, for an immortal ruler to worry about her lineage. Especially when she had a younger, more qualified brother who would gladly assume the throne should something happen to end her reign.

Gods forbid.

He waited in her personal drawing room, easily one of the most extravagantly decorated rooms in the Palace. No bare cement for Queene Mabb. She had real wood panels shielding her eyes from the rough sight, and thick grass grew to cushion her delicate footsteps. The furniture had been fashioned of real wood, intricately carved, and somehow she found fresh flowers to garland the round doors. The entire Palace was a wonder to behold, but only in Mabb’s private rooms was there such sumptuous detail. Garret thought of his own dwelling outside the Palace, one room, large for the Underground but still minute compared to the Palace. And why was this not his? Because he had been born second.

He was welcome to live in the Palace, of course, if he wished to be subject to his sister’s scrutiny. She had a keen insight and wielded it against her brother like a sword, but could she turn it on herself? Of course not, Garret thought bitterly, watching maids scurry to and fro with bowls of hot water and towels for her morning beauty rituals. The water had come from Sanctuary, no doubt, for Mabb found it inconvenient to leave the Palace and demanded the springs brought to her.

“Don’t you make that face at us, Garret.” Scota, a pretty maid with butterfly wings the color of saffron, clucked her tongue disapprovingly at him. Her tone was reproachful, but her dark eyes sparkled with mirth. “Your sister works hard and deserves a bit of pampering.”

“Oh, I agree on that score. My only doubt lies in who exactly she has been working hard.” He gave the maid a drowsy smile, knowing the effect it had on the low-class females of the Palace. Scota had lovely fair skin and yards of curling dark hair, but he would never consider someone of her station for more than a bit of sport. Still, it did not hurt to leave his options open, especially when he had not enjoyed such diversions with Ayla yet.

Scota blushed prettily and dipped her head, but Garret’s mind now centered firmly on his student. Ayla. Low-class if ever an urchin was born. Half-Human, and how that tormented his dear, dear sister. But there was a wild sort of elegance to her, the way she moved as though she were meant to be a dancer, the way her hair snapped like red ribbons all around her. Of common birth, yes, but not so fragile as his dear, worthless sister. Ayla would give him heirs, and his sister would despair.

But it wasn’t all to torment his sister. His affection for Ayla ran deep and true. Of all the Faeries at Court he could take as consort, it suited him that the only one he wanted was the one who would not have him. Oh, she would, and soon. He sensed her will bending like a reed under a stiff wind. Still, his prey would succumb only after a long and satisfying hunt.

Another maid exited the Queene’s bedchambers and bobbed a small bow to him. “She will see you now, Your Grace.”

“So soon?” He snapped, knowing this quivering servant was not to blame for the delay and not caring. Forcing down his anger, he fixed his most charming smile and strode into the Queene’s bedchamber.

If the sitting room was extravagant, the Queene’s bedchamber surpassed it. The floor here was marble, polished to a deep green shine. No other place in the Underground could boast such splendor. Mabb’s bed sat on a dais, and curtains of sheer gauze were pulled back, displaying the mountains of rich fabric pillows and bolsters Mabb nested amongst. The tall, carved posts reached almost to the ceiling, where, in a marvel of Underground ingenuity, an illusion of the sky had been fashioned to disguise the broken tiles and pipes that had been there before. Mabb detested anything mortal, but she condescended to allow electricity for this one purpose, to keep a facsimile sun glowing down on her in the day and thousands of tiny, fake stars twinkling above her at night.

In the middle of all the disgusting excess, Mabb stood before a floor-length mirror held by one of her maids while two others fussed over her appearance. Like a beautiful statue, she stood straight and tall, her pale skin appearing even paler above the lavender gossamer of her gown. As always, her wings were bound and covered. Garret was not certain he had ever seen her wings, even when they were children. Mabb was such a beauty, there could be no part of her that was less than fair, and perhaps that was why she kept them covered.

One of the maids adjusted Mabb’s sleeve and Garret spied a pattern of flowers comprised of amethyst and peridot. The stones practically sang their outrage at being used for no real purpose other than to decorate a spoiled Queene’s garments.

Mabb’s gaze met her brother’s in the mirror, and her expression brightened by cool degrees. She waved away the servant fussing over her hair, so ice-blond as to appear white, and jerked her sleeve from the other maid. They did not need a verbal cue to dismiss them, and they scurried from the room as Mabb turned to her brother. “Garret. When I heard you waited for an audience this morning you could not imagine my deep pleasure.”

“I am sure I cannot.” He had come to her prepared to charm, but now he could only snipe at her like a petulant child. “I am sorry, I did not sleep well.”

“Did the patrols not return your errant student?” She punctuated the sentence by flicking a piece of nonexistent lint from her shoulder. “No matter, I am sure she will come back on her own.”

“She did come back, no thanks to the patrols. But it was an upsetting experience I do not wish to repeat.” He eyed the elaborate writing desk in the corner, piled high with sheaves of parchment bearing the Guild symbol and hoped Mabb’s gaze would follow.

“Garret, would you really hold her back from her ambition for your own comfort?” A mothering tone colored Mabb’s words.

It was meant to grate on him, Garret knew, not guide him. “We have discussed this before. When she is my mate—”

“She has not yet accepted you as her mate, has she? Nor have you declared her.” Mabb waved a dismissive hand. “If you have only come here to argue with me—”

“I have not come here to argue. I have come to request your permission, as head of the royal family, to name Ayla my mate.” If he could have frozen the moment in time, he would have chosen this one, when his sister’s icy facade showed rare cracks, her mouth gaping open with shock and outrage.

Mabb sputtered a few times before she spoke coherently. She pressed one long-fingered hand to her chest as if suffering mortal pangs. “She is a commoner.”

“There are no rules in creating a royal match apart from a mate not being mortal, and Ayla is not.” Garret had spent long hours poring over the Scroll of Succession and could quote whole passages against his sister if she brought the argument to such a point.

“She is half mortal!” Mabb raged, her face coloring an unhealthy pink. The slender antennae at the crown of her forehead buzzed and throbbed vibrant red, and she smoothed them down, her mortification at having lost her temper distracting her from her anger for the moment. “I am sorry, Garret, I forbid it.”

“Ah.” Garret shrugged, walking a wide circle around his sister. “Well, no matter. I will take it before the council. They have grown tired of your excesses, Mabb. They will read the laws of succession and find no fault with my match. They would not, even if I proposed mating with a Troll, such is their desire to rule against your wishes. Would you like that? A half Troll waiting for the throne of the Lightworld?”

Mabb whirled to face him, her fists clenched tight at her sides. “You would not dare! We are the only ones left of Mother’s line! Only a Queene can ascend to the throne, and you would put that…that common whore in my place?”

Overcome by his rage, Garret slapped her. A bright red hand print glowed on her alabaster cheek, and flames of anger flared in her eyes. “How dare you strike me!”

“How dare you drive me to these ends!” He turned away before he would strike her again, for if he started to hit her now he might never stop. “Do you think I enjoy threatening you? Do you think I like speaking with any of the council? The only reason they would grant me this is because they wish to see our line disestablished! They want to rule the Lightworld, they want to rule the whole Underground. They will side with me only because it makes you appear weak. But if you do not acquiesce, if you do not allow me to have Ayla, you will bring it upon yourself!”

In the silence, so crashing after his outburst, Garret listened to his sister’s muffled weeping. It sent a dagger through his heart. Curse her for making him so vulnerable with such poor playacting. But he knew his role well, and knew he would not achieve his ends if he did not participate in her disgusting performance. She had sunk to her knees on the cold, stone floor and he went to her, kneeling beside her to put his arms around her, ever the strong, supportive brother. “There now, I did not mean to be angry with you.”

“I have done everything in my power to keep her from you,” Mabb wept against his shoulder. “So many times I have sent her on assignments knowing in my heart the task would be the death of her, and still she lives to take you from me. To take the throne from me.”

It was not true, but Garret would not tell her so. Those assignments had gone to more qualified Assassins, and it was the Guild Master who had done it. Not out of malice for his Queene or from any pressing by Garret, but because the Assassins were his charge. It was his duty to keep them from harm, and he would not send an Assassin on a mission if he knew them to be unprepared for it. On Garret’s end, he had kept Ayla woefully unqualified for the most dangerous assignments, but what he had failed to teach her she had learned on her own from watching the other students. That was, perhaps, her only flaw. She was a bit too intelligent. It was another quality he tried to tamp down in her. No sense in letting a common half-breed think above her natural capacity.

“Mabb, I will never be able to take the throne from you. You would have to die first, and that is something I would prevent with every last part of myself. I merely desire some of the happiness that has eluded me. Remember how Mother and Father were, how they loved each other?” Another lie. Their parents had barely spoken to each other. But in the centuries since their death, Mabb had romanticized the Sidhe Court. It helped that the rending of the veil had destroyed any evidence of the bitter feud between the former Queene and King. Without anyone to correct her, Mabb had lost herself in the love story she had constructed for their parents, the grand tales she told of events at Court that had never happened. Her subjects were just as desperate as she, and if they could not have happiness in the present, they were content to rewrite history.

She sniffled against his sleeve and gripped his arm, pulling it tighter around her. “Yes, I do. And I wish you all the happiness in the world. But you know me to be a selfish creature. I want to keep you for my own happiness.”

“You will never lose me.” That was a sad truth. No matter how he might try to escape her control, only death would free Garret from his sister. He cursed the immortality of the Fae. “I will always be here for you.”

“I will let you have your silly half-breed.” Mabb sat up, wiping her eyes. “But not tonight.”

“Why not?” Garret demanded, then forced a more neutral tone. If he angered her it would undo all the painstaking work he had just done. “You understand I am eager to tell her the joyous news.”

Turned to stone once again, Mabb glided across the room to the writing desk. She withdrew a sheet of parchment, sealed by her own hand and addressed to Ayla. “She has an assignment.”

“Then I shall deliver it to her.” He turned to go, eager to see what fresh torment his sister had laid upon his student—no, he thought, my mate, and that cheered him some—and how he might manage to avoid it.

“Deliver it to her, and then return to me.” Mabb settled onto her bed, though she had only just risen from it. “And send in my healers. This argument has taken a grave toll on me. I so detest this family strife.”

“I will return to you,” he promised warily. “But I will take Ayla as my mate tonight. I have waited long enough.”

Mabb laughed at this, a sound like crystals singing. “You assume she will have you.”

“She will.” Of that, he was more than certain. He hadn’t spent the past five years grooming her to be his only to allow her to refuse him.

He tucked the assignment into his robes and left his sister to play the part of the invalid. In the antechamber he dispensed curt orders for Mabb’s healers and ladies-in-waiting, then fled the stifling order of the Palace altogether. No space in the Underground was big enough for him now that his heart soared with joy for the victory he had won. By morning, Ayla would be his mate, declared before the council and consummated in his bed. The anticipation spurred his steps faster on his way to the Assassins’ Guild.

Six

Though Ayla did not get much sleep, what she did manage was deep, and she felt rested enough when she rose from her narrow bunk. It was far too late in the day for a trip to Sanctuary. If she went now, she would miss the chance to report before the Guild Master and pay for it later. She bathed in the cistern and scrubbed the blood and grime from her pants and vest. Sanctuary could wait, but her report could not.

Or her conversation with Garret. She’d decided on her course of action regarding her failure in the Darkworld, without the guidance of prayer. She would tell him the truth, or at least the brand she found it easiest to sell to him. She had been weak, foolish and not intending harm. He might rage a bit, but in the end he would forgive her and smooth things over both with the Guild Master and the Queene. It was not the most honorable way, asking Garret to excuse foibles she was certain she did not have, but perhaps her lie was for the best. It afforded her a fresh start. The promise she’d broken to the Guild and to herself would mend in time, through her actions and personal discipline.

This was the thought she intentionally circled through her mind as she headed to the Great Hall.

The Great Hall of the Assassins’ Guild was crowded for this afternoon’s assembly. Beneath the high-reaching cement columns that used to arch over the heads of Human travelers hurrying to their trains, Faeries, Elves, Orcs and Dwarves milled in their own clusters. Some sat on the rows of benches in the center of the room, waiting for their turn to report. Others were Guild Members and courtiers who had nothing to report but liked to listen to the grisly recounts to be “in the know.” The best gossip came from the Guilds, or so Ayla had heard. Mabb had increased the number of assignments in the past days to combat the growing threat of the Darkworld forces infiltrating the Lightworld. There were rumors already of Darkworld Assassins stealing across the border and striking lone sentries. Retaliatory strikes were called for, though the Assassins often grumbled that the cycle would never cease. Ayla did not listen to such criticisms. Her place was to follow the Queene’s orders, not question them.

Pushing through the larger-than-usual throng, Ayla caught sight of Garret’s dark head. He spoke with another mentor, and appeared to be in high spirits. The Faery smiled and bowed to Garret, and he clapped him on the back with a wide grin. Ayla wondered what could have caused such joy in her mentor, then she spied the folded parchment in his hand and the Queene’s seal upon it.

An assignment! Ayla’s heart swelled. From Garret’s apparent elation, it was an important one, as well. And why shouldn’t he be pleased that his student finally received her due? The mentor who had been speaking with Garret noticed Ayla. He motioned toward her, catching Garret’s attention. When he turned and spied her there, his smile grew even larger, if possible. “Ayla, I have wonderful news.”

As he approached and the mentor withdrew, Ayla’s mind wandered back to the reason she’d sought him out in the first place, and her heart sank. For a moment she wondered if she should take the new assignment and confess after, but no, she would then have to recant her report to the Guild Master and her credibility would be lessened. Before he could speak again, she blurted, “I did not fulfill my last assignment.”

“What?” Garret grasped her arms, his face twisted in shock and anger. He collected himself and glanced over at a group of Faeries that stood near them, then guided her firmly to an alcove at the back of the hall. Though Ayla noticed no one watching their retreat, Garret kept a distracted eye on the assembly. “Ayla, you told me—”

“I know what I told you!” She lowered her voice, ashamed at herself for having raised it to her mentor. “There was another creature who got to him first. A Death Angel. I fled.”

Garret sighed heavily, smoothing his antennae back. “Ayla, I have trained you far better than that. Were you wounded? Are you certain it was a Death Angel?”

She thought of the bruises marring her shoulder and thanked the Gods for the darkness of the alcove. “No, I was not wounded. And I know what I saw. It was a Death Angel.”

Garret’s face paled, white as Ayla imagined the moon would be. “Gods. Then the stories are true?”

She could do little more than nod in answer. This was a turn she did not imagine events to take. It had never occurred to her she might be the first Lightworlder to catch a glimpse of such a creature and live.

“You’ll have to report this at once.” Garret’s face lit up, then fell again. “You didn’t kill it?”

“I…I did something to him. I do not believe I killed him outright.” Her guilty mind assailed her with the image of the Darkling lying on the ledge where she’d left him. “But he will not survive.”

“I will take this information to Cedric privately. Do not make a report today.” Garret reached for her, running his hands down her arms affectionately. “It would have been better if you were injured. But I do not think Cedric will rule that you’ve broken the geis, given the circumstances.”

As he turned to leave her, she called after him. “You said you had news?”

“Yes.” He tapped the parchment against his palm, seemingly unaware of it even being there. “But first I must speak with Cedric. Go to Sanctuary, use the time to calm yourself, then come to my home tonight. We will discuss it there.”

With that, he strode away from her, leaving her disappointed and alone.

Seven

The true foulness of the Darkworld had never seemed so raw to Malachi as it did when he left the Bio-mech’s workshop. When Keller swung open the thick, metal door and stepped down into the nearly waist-deep sewage, Malachi’s mortal throat had closed on a gag.

“Listen, I know it doesn’t seem real sanitary, but that’s the price I pay for such roomy digs. Get your ass down here before something comes along and swallows me whole.” Keller reached his hand up, and Malachi had little to do but accept it.

“Is that a danger?” The water was slightly less than cold as he eased into it. Cold would have been somehow better, cleaner. Something brushed Malachi’s leg, and he repressed a shudder.

Keller studied him with interest, his grizzled face working toward a smile. “With you around? Never. You’re my insurance policy. Not a lot of Darklings are gonna mess with a guy who’s traveling next to the Angel of Death.”

“I am not the Angel of Death. I am merely—was merely—his servant.” The man had begun to slog ahead of him, and Malachi struggled to keep up. It was a difficult thing to walk through water. His muscles ached after only a few steps. “I am pleased to provide you protection. You have been kind to me. I know Humans enjoy hearing that their actions are approved of.”

“Yeah, we’re real suckers for heartfelt expressions of gratitude.” They had come to a fork in the tunnels. Keller flipped the light on his strange hat off and held a finger to his lips. “Okay, we’ve gotta go quiet through this part. I think we’ll have less trouble down that way.” He gestured to where the tunnel branched to the left. Water lay deep, and there seemed no end to it.

The other tunnel sloped upward quickly. Malachi could make out dry ground only a few feet from them. “Why not that way? You wear a contraption to keep you dry. I have nothing. I would prefer to take the drier path.”

“For one, this is not a contraption. These are waders. They just look strange because I won them off a Rock Troll who wasn’t all that good at cards. Two, that way looks easier, but trust me, it’s not.” Keller scratched the plate behind his ear with his metal fingers, the sparks fizzing out before they reached the water. “Easier in the Darkworld means more dangerous. There’ll be a tax, for one thing.”

“A tax?” Malachi had traversed these tunnels usually invisible to the denizens of the Darkworld. He had never been charged a tax. Then, the creatures he had been visible to may not have been brave enough to charge him.

“Yeah, a tax. For going the easy route. Hell, even some of the not-so-easy routes are taxed. If it’s a mortal, they usually want money or smokes. If it’s a Bio-mech, like me, they want scrap metal or spare body parts.” Keller held up his mechanical arm. “But God help you if you meet up with an Elf or a Succubus. What they want…” He punctuated his sentence with a shudder.

“Elf?” Malachi had not paid much attention to the species of the Darkworld he’d not had to collect. “I have never heard of Elf.”

“Elves. Outcast Fae. They were dark-sided long before they wound up down here. Nasty blue skin and yellow eyes.” Keller made a face. “They don’t like anyone. Barely get along with each other.”

“This world is…” Malachi struggled for the word in the Human language. The gift of tongues continued to slowly wear away. “Strange.”

“Strange to you? Imagine if you lived up there, where I’m from originally.” Keller gestured to the ceiling of the tunnel. “And it’s not like you haven’t been here for a while.”

“Too long.” When had time become an issue to him? They slogged on, the water growing deeper, almost to the top of the Bio-mech’s wading contraption. The tunnel around them changed shape, growing wider, and they followed it until Malachi saw a high ledge of dry ground beside their heads. “What is this place?”

“A subway?” Keller shrugged and leaned against the wall, reaching into his waders for the cigarettes he seemed to rely on more than food or drink. “I guess trains used to run under here before they cluttered up the Aboveground. That was before I was born. Are you doing a history on the Humans or what?”

“You are Human,” Malachi snapped back. “And I am merely trying to acclimate myself to this existence.”

“Correction, pal. I was Human. Now I can’t show my face up there.” The blue smoke from the Bio-mech’s cigarette spiraled through a dim shaft of light from an overhead vent, and Keller’s gaze followed it. “I could wear a hat. Gloves. Fuck them, they’d still get me.” He chuckled, a bitter sound. “Did you ever have to go up there?”

“No.” Only now it occurred to Malachi to question that. “I suppose we should have.”

“Uh, yeah. There are quite a few more mortals up there than down here.” He took another long draw off his cigarette. “Did any of you go up there?”

“No.” Another “why” he would not have worried about before.

“Don’t you think that’s kind of…” Keller gestured with his metal hand. “Unfair?”

Malachi shook his head, and the movement felt strangely natural. “I do not decide what is fair or unfair. I merely carried out the will of God.”

“And His will is to abandon those poor bastards up there?” The Bio-mech took another long draw off his cigarette. “Good thing I came down here, then.”

“That is not what I meant. You have twisted my words.” Malachi’s hands fisted at his sides, hands that would never have thought of committing senseless violence before. But this mortal and his confusing questions sent sparks of doubt through his brain. His immortality may have been ripped from him, but he would not allow this perversion of God’s work to take his last certainty from him.

“It’s a logical argument, though, right? I mean, if you guys aren’t up there doing what you do, who is? Does God have some other Angels making the rounds?”

“No. Only Death Angels collect souls.” So, why did no Death Angel go above, where the bulk of the mortals in existence lived? What happened to those souls?

Keller looked pleased with himself. Pleased at having infuriated him? “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Malachi slogged away, his confusion and rage giving fuel to his sore legs.

“Hey, you can’t do that,” Keller called after him.

Malachi did not look back. “Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t. See, if you go that way—”

“I will become lost without you? I will fall prey to some creature lurking in the depths?” He struggled through the water, which inhibited his movements like a length of rope around his thighs.

“Kind of,” Keller called, but his voice held a troubling lack of concern. “But by all means, prove me wrong.”

Malachi took two more steps, though tentatively. Humans had a way of speaking words that were entirely different from the meaning they wished to convey. Another few steps, and his confidence returned. Nothing loomed in the shadows ahead, nothing brushed past his legs below the surface. It was not so treacherous as the Human warned.

And then the ground slipped from under his feet, and Malachi’s world reduced to water. His eyes shut under their own power, stranding him in darkness. The filth clogged his nose, rushed into his ears. He could not breathe, nor could he hear above the rhythm of his flailing limbs as they cut though the water. Forcing open his eyes he spied silver-green orbs rising to the surface that seemed impossibly far above him. The air from his lungs, stolen by the water and carried away.

I will die here. The panic clawed in his chest. His lungs cried out for breath, watery or not, to ease the burning ache in them. He opened his mouth, choking in surprise when something clutched at the uncomfortable collar of his shirt, then at his neck, catching hair and some feathers bent from the currents. His head broke the surface and he gagged, coughing a geyser of filthy water from his lungs.

“Easy, easy,” Keller repeated, grasping him under an arm with his metal one. The Human used his organic limb to pull them through the water, until Malachi got his footing and leaned against him for support. “I told you not to go that way.”

“Yes, you are very wise.” Why did he feel foolish? It was not as though the Human had given him explicit reasons why he should not have gone that way. If he had said, “Please, do not go that way or you will slip beneath the water and drown,” certainly that would have been a more effective warning. He opened his mouth to tell him so when the Bio-mech pointed to steps rising from the water at the level of their heads.

“We’re going up those,” Keller said, holding his arms out from his sides as he sloshed through the water. “They go all the way up to the top, so good news, you won’t have to fly me up there.”

“I could not fly now. Not with wet wings,” Malachi admitted grudgingly. “If I can fly at all.”

“I don’t see why you couldn’t. I did a bang-up job on those puppies,” the Human puffed as he gained dry ground. “Oh, damn it. Now look, I had to swim after you and now my smokes are all wet.”

“Your legs will be wet, as well,” Malachi pointed out, trying to be helpful. It appeared the Human wasn’t interested in his brand of help, from the way he swore and kicked the waterproof contraption aside.

The area they’d ascended to was drier, though their feet and clothing left splashes that soaked into the concrete. The walls of this tunnel were decorated in stark tiles that might have been white beneath the forests of mildew growing on them. From beneath a dying mold colony, a warped paper image of a Human woman holding a piece of Human technology to her ear with a wide grin declared “per minute,” the rest of the words swallowed by the layer of filth. Another set of stairs led up.

“Does that go to the surface?” How deep could the Humans have dug? Malachi had forgotten how long it had been since the rift spilled his kind onto Earth. Time had been circular to him as an immortal, an infinite loop. It must have been hundreds of years now.

“No, but we do get a little closer,” Keller called, disappearing behind a column with his wading device folded over one arm. “In fact, we cross that bridge up there, take a turn and we’re in a tunnel with surface vents.”

“What are you doing? I thought I required the services of a healer.” A drop of cold water dripped from one of the slimy stalactites hanging from the ceiling, and Malachi dodged it. “This place is foul and smells of decay.”

“Then you should be right at home,” Keller said with a small laugh. “I’m looking for a place to hide my waders. I don’t want someone swiping them, but they’re too heavy to carry.”

“Hurry up, then.” He wandered around some of the large, square columns with their crowns of mold, but he went cautiously, still shaken by his near drowning. “Tell me more of where we will go.”

Keller gave a sigh with much suffering melded into it. “The Strip is a neutral zone between the Lightworld and the Darkworld. Stop me if I’m going too fast for you. It’s a place where people from either side can go to do whatever seedy business they’ve got there, and a lot of unaligned types hole up there if they’ve been banished and don’t have ties to either world. Lots of Gypsies and Bio-mechs stay there.”

“Why not you?”

Keller heaved another sigh, this time too dramatic to believe. Why anyone would wish to make themselves appear so miserable, Malachi did not know. “Because I take a side. I don’t like living down here. So I’ve got two choices. Do what I’m supposed to do as a loyal Human and stay the fuck out of it—which involves paying the god-awful high rent to live on the Strip—or pick a side keen on ending this whole mess. The Darkworld doesn’t want to destroy the Human race—”

“And the Lightworld does.” Malachi knew this well enough, from overhearing countless Darkworld assassination plots.

“And the rent is cheaper,” Keller said. Whatever this rent was, mortals placed much importance on it. Then, the Bio-mech grinned and said, “Well, more like free.”

“So, this Strip, I will not be harmed there?” Malachi asked, watching as Keller knelt and positioned the waders behind a loose tile.

He laughed and stood, wiping his hands against each other as though he could clean the dirt and mold from them. “I never said you wouldn’t be harmed. But you won’t be persecuted for being a Darkworlder, either.”

There was nothing but death and violence in the Underground. This Malachi knew well enough. But when he had been immortal and invisible to nearly all creatures, he had not given danger much thought. He did not think he even knew what a dangerous creature would look like. He had been concerned only with the mortals, and no matter their species they had never been a threat to him.

Was this how it would always be then? To fear that every step would bring him closer to his death? To lurk about in the dark as Keller did, mumbling and consuming the addictive smoke in an effort to simply keep from becoming insane?

“Hey, you coming?” Keller’s voice echoed through the space, and Malachi startled. He had not been paying attention, and the Bio-mech had moved ahead without him.

He followed, unwilling to be left alone in the Darkworld, which now seemed much more intimidating than it ever had before.

Eight

At the appointed hour, Ayla left Sanctuary for Garret’s home outside the Palace walls. The only place in the Underground with living trees, Sanctuary was the gem of the Lightworld. So much so that it was under constant guard, lest an unworthy Darkworlder stepped on its sacred soil. Submerged in the crystalline waters of Sanctuary’s springs, Ayla felt her Fae blood so deeply she could almost believe it was all that ran through her veins. That nothing so lowly as Human tainted her.

The effect did not last once she left the place. Her heart hung as heavy as the sword strapped to her back. She would not normally carry it, but Sar, a Pixie who slept at the end of the bed row, had been eyeing it a bit too covetously for her to be foolish enough to leave it. Besides, Garret might give her the assignment he’d received for her, and she might need it. It would give her a chance to evade his relentless questioning and wait until the situation with the Darkling faded from memory. If she told him, he would blame it on her Human blood, and shame her for it.

This doubt is Garret’s doing, an inner voice scolded her, and she pushed it aside. Garret did openly disdain her Human half, but with good reason. Weren’t Humans the enemy that had driven the Faeries to the Underground? Wasn’t it a Human who’d wielded his sword against the Harpy Queen, cursing the Darkworld to chaos? Ayla thanked the Gods it was not Mabb who’d fallen in the battle. The lawlessness of the Darkworld would have been unbearable for the Faeries, who thrived on ritual and courtly manners.

Ayla passed by the Palace doors. As always, the corridor before them was crowded with Lightworlders, all waiting in their makeshift living quarters for their appointment to see the Queene. It was a difficult thing, for someone outside the Court to gain audience. More difficult still for someone not living or working in one of the Guilds. It was nearly impossible for any creature outside the Palace walls to gain Mabb’s attention, and they traveled miles, sometimes for days through dangerous tunnels, to wait. Upon arrival, a guard would take their names and business, then mark out a plot of space with chalk on the breaking cement and ask the traveler to kindly wait for the next available audience. It was not as simple as it sounded. In her short five years living at Court, Ayla had seen countless pilgrims arrive begging a word with the Queene, yet none had ever been admitted. Some died waiting. More were born to take their place. When someone wished to speak with the Queene, they would wait forever.

Ayla kept her head high, her gaze straight ahead as she cut through the teeming throng. This was a journey Garret made every day, or so he’d told her. Ayla had heard rumors of secret passages from the Palace so that Mabb could travel unmolested to other areas of the Lightworld. It seemed unlikely that if such passages existed, Garret would be denied access to them, so Ayla did not believe his claim. No one would take such a depressing path if they were given another choice.

A baby cried somewhere, a babe no doubt not only born, but conceived in the line to see the Queene. Do not waste your lives waiting to venerate such an idle monarch, Ayla raged silently. Mabb cares only for your praise and your coin.

A hand closed around her ankle, nearly tripping her. She looked down, made the mistake of looking into the eyes of the unhappy wretch that had grabbed her.

“Please,” the Faery rasped through a mouth missing many teeth. This was not a true Fae, but she must have had some Fae blood, no matter how watered the bloodline might be, to be a citizen of the Lightworld. “You have the mark of a Guild member. Can you take me to see the Queene?”

A chorus of voices raised up around Ayla as Fae creatures swarmed her. “What does she look like?” “Is she in good health?” “Will she be receiving us soon?” Then the voices shattered into panic as Mabb’s guard cut a swath through them, clearing the way so that Ayla might escape.

How, she wondered, had Garret turned out so kind and generous when his sister was vain and spoiled? Were the roles of the Queene and the Male Heir so vastly different?

They must be, she decided as she passed through the Palace doors and into the common streets of the Lightworld. Stalls lined the tunnel leading to the Palace, all selling wares emblazoned with Mabb’s image or name. Tired from your long journey through the Lightworld? Use Queene Mabb’s Restorative Potion! Used signet rings! Gain an audience faster with documents stamped by Mabb’s own seal!

Garret did not crave the kind of fame that Mabb had encouraged. It was a shame that only a female heir could ascend to the throne. He would not have abided such folly.

But he had not lived a life with such restrictions as Mabb had, either. Mabb had not been free to pursue her own interests, as Garret had. And she had to keep her wings hidden, by some royal edict that her parents had passed long before they had died, long before the destruction of the Astral plane.

Turning from the main tunnel onto a slender byway, Ayla avoided further exposure to the Palace market. Garret made his home in a more quiet—and exclusive—part of the Lightworld, near enough to the Palace to be convenient, far enough to keep him away from the tourists and pilgrims. The tunnel widened slightly, ending in a long concrete staircase. Ayla opened her wings and drifted down, the weight of the sword dragging some of the grace from her flight. It was good to be in the open, away from the stifling rooms of the Palace. Though the training areas of the Guild had plenty of space for aerial sparring, there was nothing like being able to simply open your wings and fly without thinking of defensive combat.

She envied Garret his life outside the Palace. His existence did not hinge on the Queene’s whim. He did not even need to work for his wages, if he chose not to. Being the son of a Queene might not merit a crown, but it did earn a reasonable allowance from the Palace treasury. Ayla had asked Garret once why he continued to work at the Guild. His answer had been, “For you, Ayla. Always for you.” The answer had unnerved her, and she had not dared to ask it again.

At the bottom of the stairs was a tunnel, accessible through a hole with a ladder. Ayla folded her wings carefully and slipped into the hole, dropping down to land hard on both feet. A shock rippled up her ankles; she thought belatedly that she should have used the ladder. But it was good to be doing something physical, testing her body just a bit before going on whatever assignment Garret had for her.

Garret’s apartment was one of four in this small, square tunnel. There were two on either side, stacked atop each other. One end of the tunnel branched off on a path leading deeper into the Lightworld. The other ended in a wall of water-stained concrete, and climbing ivy grew there, carefully trimmed around a stained stone fountain that leaked a trickle of rusty water. It was one of the nicest dwelling areas Ayla had ever seen, though she hadn’t had much reason to explore the homes of the Lightworld.

Garret lived in one of the second-level apartments. There were no stairs. These were exclusively Faery dwellings. Ayla opened her wings and raised herself up, grasping the polished metal bar beside the door. She knocked, and when Garret opened the door to admit her, she used the bar to swing herself inside as she folded her wings.

Garret’s apartment was a wonder to her after sleeping in the barracks for so long. The space was L-shaped, the sleeping area hidden from the door by the bend. There was a low, flat table with cushions all around for entertaining—a luxury many Faeries could not afford—and a brick oven set into the wall for heating and cooking. Garret had well-stocked cupboards and a fine collection of wooden dishes, all of which seemed to be on display on the square table in the center of the room.

Ayla hesitated, one hand still on the door. “Am I…have I interrupted your supper?”

Garret smiled and held out his arms, and she allowed him to embrace her, but it turned out as awkward as it ever did. “No, this is for you, Ayla. I have something I wish to speak to you about. Sit down, please.”

He guided her to a cushion and took the sword from her, propping it against the wall by the door. He gestured to the table, laid out with fat, round loaves of bread, a bowl of sweet cream and strawberries, a very rare delicacy that grew only in the Upworld. “Please, help yourself.”

Sinking to her knees beside the table, she viewed the fare uneasily. “Garret, what is this about?”

“I have had a wonderful day, Ayla.” Instead of sitting across the table from her, Garret took a seat beside her, almost too close.

She inched away a bit, tearing off a chunk of bread to focus her attention on instead of Garret’s unusual nearness. “A good day? Then you must have heard better news than I gave you this morning.”

She chanced a look at his face then, and saw a shadow flicker across it. But he smiled, a bit forced, and held out one of the berries for her. “I must talk to Cedric about that, still. But you and I have much more pleasant business to discuss tonight. My sister, the Queene, has granted my petition.”

“Your petition?” She opened her mouth and let him slip the berry inside.

“Yes. I asked her permission to make you my mate.”

Her breath hitched. She choked on the berry.

Garret slapped her back until her spasms passed, and gave a dry chuckle. “That was not the reaction I had hoped for.”

“I am sorry.” Ayla fumbled for a cup on the table and sucked down the honeyed wine within. “You surprised me.”

“It should not come as so great a surprise, Ayla. You have known for some time how much I’ve wanted you.” His words ended on a desperate whisper, raw and a little frightening.

Ayla looked away from the intensity on his face, the pleading in his words. There had to be a way to remove herself from the situation with grace. But when she opened her mouth, the words, “But why?” came out, and she felt the current in the air change. She glanced up at him, at the antennae laying against his hair, fluttering in irritation. He could put on all the charm in the world now, and she would know it false. She had angered him.

The beginnings of many tentative smiles twitched his mouth as he tried to find sincerity. “There are many women at Court who would throw themselves on such a change, Ayla. To be mated to the Queene’s brother…it could one day mean a throne.”

It could, if the Queene were to die. And among their mortal race, death occurred only in battle. Or assassination. She pushed the evil thought aside. What she needed was time to think, to weigh the benefits against the risks in this battle. “I do not mean to offend. You’ve taken me by surprise.”

His demeanor softened in earnest then, and he rubbed a comforting—at least, it was meant to be comforting—hand down her arm. “What have I been thinking? Here you are, worried about your position in the Guild with your recent transgression looming over your head, and I make you a silly offer, thinking only of myself.”

Ayla swallowed. Had she been unsettled by the consequences of her experience with the Darkling, or by the experience itself?

Garret rambled on. “Only, think of what this means. Ayla, if you were my mate, you wouldn’t need to worry about your future in the Guild.” He paused to let the point sink in. “Your future would be secure.”

So, he was not above playing his wealth and status as an incentive. And why should he be? Ayla had lived at Court long enough to know that wealth purchased many opportunities. Were she to ally herself with Garret, despite her lack of passion for him, she would purchase a life away from the barracks, more leniency within the Guild. Perhaps, even greater favor with the Queene, though Garret already said his sister held her in high esteem. All of these things would make her way easier. Why choose the difficult road, when a clear path lay before her?

Garret pushed her braid from her shoulder, brushing elegant fingers across her skin. She shuddered, and hoped he would mistake it for more than it was. He did not disgust her, but he made her uneasy. It was not a thing she would overcome quickly. Guild training had taught her to disguise her emotions in battle, and she called on it now as he pressed his lips to her neck.

“Say yes,” he murmured against her skin, tracing the line of her Guild tattoo with his tongue. The pattern burned into her memory under his hot, wet mouth. She would never again need a mirror to recall what the mark looked like. “Say yes,” he urged, and his palm curved over the top of her thigh, stroking upward as though nothing separated his flesh from hers. Her body, not aware of the emotional distance between them, urged her closer, craving more touch to feed the aftershocks of touches already received.

Her rational mind broke in with a jolt of memory. The rolled parchment clutched in Garret’s hand. “I thought you were inviting me here to discuss my next assignment.”

He went still at her side and pulled back, his face serene, but his antennae betraying his agitation with a florid display. “Yes, well, had I not spoken with my sister on your account, there might not have been another assignment.”

As he rose, Ayla scooted around to watch him stalk to the chest at the end of his bed. In the Astral, Faeries had slept on mossy banks or in the crooks of trees. At least, that was what the stories spoke of. At the Guild, Ayla slept on dank blankets piled atop a wooden plank bunk. Garret had a real mattress, imported from the surface, with funny metal coils that made the whole contraption shift and bounce. That kind of comfort was hard to come by, and Ayla added it to her list of reasons to accept Garret’s proposal. But she did not answer him now, while he still silently fumed with agitation. “Was the Queene very upset with me?”

“More than you know,” he replied, but it seemed more for himself than for her. “I must meet with her again tomorrow morning. That will give us the night, if you’ll have it, and you’ll be able to set out on this in the morning.”

She took the parchment from him and unrolled it, though it did her no good. “What does it say?”

“It comes straight from Mabb’s hand. She requires the deaths of five Demons. It seems there has been some…encroaching of the Demon population on locations in the Lightworld, at the Southern borders where the Strip does not separate us from the Darkworld. She wants to send a message to the Demon king.” He paused. “If you’d rather not take the assignment…”

Not take the assignment! An assignment from Mabb’s own hand was a higher honor than Ayla had ever received.

“I’ll have a messenger bring over your things in the morning,” Garret continued. “We can sleep a bit late, perhaps visit Sanctuary. It would be appropriate, to begin our life together there.”

She forced herself not to cringe at his words. Instead she smiled. “I would not wish to keep Her Majesty waiting.”

He nodded. “Her Majesty. It is a post you might one day hold, Ayla. If you would accept me.”

“It would be far in the future, if the day even came. You know as well as I do that your sister is immortal. And to speak of her death, even in speculation, is treason.” Ayla looked furtively over her shoulder, as if one of the Queene’s spies would jump from the trunk at the foot of Garret’s bed and drag her to the dungeons.

Or perhaps Garret was one of Mabb’s spies, trying to trick her? No, that was ridiculous. Garret had never given her any cause to doubt his loyalty. Living at Court had allowed the seed of suspicion to grow into a sinister garden in her, and she cursed it.

Garret’s palm closed over the back of her neck, his tongue snaked over her earlobe. She pulled away. To distract herself from the throbbing in her veins, she congratulated herself on her foresight in bringing a weapon. She could start off for the Darkworld immediately.

“Ayla, I wish you would not go,” Garret tried, but he broke off, helplessly indulgent. It was a practiced expression, Ayla was sure, but it did not annoy her. So many at Court perfected their mannerisms in that way, and it was often difficult to drop them when outside of the Palace walls.

She pulled open the door and swung the strap of the scabbard over her chest, the weight of the weapon nearly knocking her over the threshold. “Demons are clumsy and easy to kill. I will not be away for long.”

“And when you return, you will give me your definite answer?” Garret’s voice took on a teasing edge. He’d already decided what her definite answer was.

Taking a deep breath, she swung out the door and opened her wings. Before descending to the ground below, she turned to him. “When I return, I will say yes.”

Nine

The Strip. An assault on the senses. A feast of sin and vice. A haven for the lowest souls—and the lower soulless—in the Underground. Malachi surveyed it all with pronounced distaste. His companion shouted over the group of mortals clamoring before a covered stand. Keller’s voice was heard, his request fulfilled and he handed Malachi a fragile paper cup that looked as though it had been used—and perhaps washed, though Malachi would not have expected so much from the establishment—before.

“Drink up, buddy, drink up,” Keller urged, raising his cup before quickly gulping down the foul-smelling liquid inside.

The vapors off the potion stung Malachi’s nose. He would not drink it under any circumstance. “I thought you brought me to see the healer, not to become intoxicated.”

“She’s a healer,” Keller said with a shrug. “Might as well let her heal us of liver damage, too. Get our money’s worth.”

Trade! That other bizarre force that consumed the mortals. How could he have forgotten. “I have no money,” Malachi said bluntly, offering the cup back to Keller. “Not to pay for this drink, not to pay for healing.”

“Drink’s on me,” Keller said, eyeing the cup. “Unless you don’t want it?”

Malachi gave up the malodorous liquid and watched with disdain as the Human consumed it in one swallow. Keller made a guttural noise, eyes going wide before squeezing shut tight. Then his body shook, like a man dying of exposure, before he let out a satisfied “Ah.”

“The healer doesn’t work like that,” he assured Malachi with a voice that sounded damaged by the strong drink. “Well, she might for me, but she won’t ask you for money. She likes the strange ones, and I bet she’s never seen one of you.”

“Angels fall often,” Malachi said simply. What could possibly tempt his brethren to willingly give up their immortality? The flesh of the dirty women, Human and unHuman, who displayed themselves provocatively on their walks up and down the Strip? Could a creature have inspired such lust in him before his fall?

Yes, his conscience whispered to him. One could have. And his rage swelled anew at the thought of sodden red hair flashing above the water, strange eyes flaring to take in the sight of him.

“Mortal blood,” he cursed under his breath. Yes, he did lust for her. Desire, so fierce it froze the breath in his newly Human lungs, overcame him at the thought of gripping her pale neck with his big hands and squeezing, squeezing until the fragile bones and fibers within snapped and the life gurgled from her body. Immortal or not, she had mortal blood. He could kill her. Would kill her. He would find a way.

Keller led on through the crowded tunnel, though the way parted easily for them with Malachi in tow. Curious whispers followed them, as well as stares and brazen hands reaching out to touch the curiosity that was Malachi.

“Have they never seen a creature with wings before?” Malachi grumbled, slapping aside a scaly, blue hand that had curled around his biceps.

Unperturbed by the attention, Keller plowed on through a group of pale Humans. “None like yours. I set you up with a sweet patch job. Hey, watch out for these guys, they’re Vampires.”

The creatures in question opened their mouths, baring gleaming, pointed teeth. One of them, a female with severely short-cut hair and a tight, leather bodice that pushed her breasts up nearly to her neck, stepped forward and placed a palm on Malachi’s chest, her touch icy and dry.

“Want to play with me, pretty birdie?” She laughed, showing dangerous, yellowed teeth. She leaned closer, her open mouth inches from his throat. “Come on now, you know you want to.”

“I recognize the death on you, unholy one,” he snarled, and the Vampire pulled back with a hiss, as though burned.

“He’s a Death Angel, don’t touch him!” she shrieked to her companions, and they laughed at her.

One, a male with a bald head marked with a tattooist’s blue ink, shoved her away from the group. “He’s a mortal, you stupid bitch.” This brought another round of laughter from them. “What’s he going to do to you? Besides serve as a good meal?”

“I’ll be no meal for you,” Malachi warned, ignoring Keller’s tug at his elbow.

“Let’s not get into a fight now, not with opponents who have mouths full of weapons,” the Bio-mech urged, trying to pull him away. “There needs to be something of you left by the time we get to the healer, or else it’s a wasted trip.”

The bald Vampire chuckled. “Listen to your coward friend. He knows what he’s talking about.”

A tall, thin male with lanky black hair hissed at Keller, and he jumped, pulling Malachi nearly off his feet in an attempt to get away.

“Were I not mortal,” Malachi began, then realized his mistake. Were he not mortal, he would not have had the free will to do these soulless creatures harm.

The Vampire knew it, too. He laughed and grabbed the female by the wrist. Sneering at Malachi he spat, “But you are. And I’ll make sure you know it next time we run into each other.”

“Yes, thank you,” Keller said, practically bowing in his gratitude to the creature. “Thanks for the warning. Mac, let’s get out of here.”

Keller did not speak again until they were a good distance from the creatures. “Do you intentionally try to get yourself killed or is it just a natural talent?”

“I do not like the undead.” And why should he? Their souls were destroyed the moment they chose the Earth over the promise of Heaven. Less a promise now than a far-off dream, but it was no excuse. Things without souls were unclean.

Keller turned and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. The Human’s face, usually a wry mask, took on a look of frightened seriousness. “Like them or not, you’re not indestructible anymore, man, and I never was. Do me a favor, the way I’m doing you a favor, and don’t get our asses nailed to the wall.”

They plunged on through the teeming masses, the jostles and jabs getting sharper, a small cluster of curious onlookers wending their way after them. Malachi did not like having so many eyes on him. “I grow tired of this place. Where is the healer?”

“Just up ahead,” Keller called over his shoulder. “That’s the healer’s sign.”

Above the heads of the creatures on the ground, Malachi saw a mass of half-painted metal bars supporting raw, wooden planks stained by drips of water. A second row of stalls and shops were accessible from the scaffold, though foot traffic was less heavy on the upper level than below.

“The shop with the blue hand. That’s her,” Keller said, grabbing the rail of the ladder leading to the second level. He shouldered his way onto the steep steps and didn’t wait for Malachi. There would have been no way to, without being crushed by the other creatures climbing to the top. Though the crowd was thinner above, it was squeezed into a smaller space and moved far too fast for anyone to pause.

Grasping the rail, Malachi rose a step at a time on shaking legs. Climbing was not like flying. It unnerved him, being so high up without the reassuring resistance of the wind beneath him. But that had all been an illusion, hadn’t it? He’d never sailed on the wind. His physical body had never been for him but an illusion for the souls he collected. He had moved through the air because he was meant to. He wondered if this mortal body could even fly.

The healer’s sign was a configuration of glowing blue, bent into the shape of hand. In the center, more radiant tubes, pink and yellow, formed an open eye that flickered as they approached. The door was a flimsy, black woven screen stretched across a metal frame with a wooden slat across the center. The smell of pungent smoke drifted out. Keller pulled the door open and ushered Malachi inside.

The room was dark, lit only by more glowing tubes, these black, giving off an eerie blue light. The walls were painted in blue, yellow, pink, the colors glowing as if illuminated like the sign outside. A row of chairs lined one wall, stopping at the mouth of a short hallway. There were doors, all closed, painted with the same strange symbols that decorated the entryway. In the center of the main room sat a wooden platform. An elderly woman with short white hair, dressed in a loose white garment, sat in the center of a glowing circle, her eyes closed. She did not acknowledge them as they entered.

“What do we do now?” Malachi asked, his voice seemingly too large for the room. It rang off the painted stone walls and echoed in the high-ceilinged space.

“Would you just—” Keller shushed him and flapped a hand. In a much quieter tone, he said, “Take a seat. When she’s ready for us, then she’ll say something.”

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