Titus hissed out a breath. “How many?”

“Ten. I took a squadron with me and we were able to clear the cellar. But, sire, the creatures appeared to have sent one of their kind out as bait. I believe they wanted us to spot it, their intent to launch a deadly ambush.”

11

I didn’t know the reborn were so intelligent,” Sharine said, stunned at the idea the flesh-eating beings were able to think and plan to such a high degree.

“Only in Africa,” Titus ground out. “Lijuan and Charisemnon were in the process of creating a new, more vicious strain. A feral intelligence is part of it—and it appears some groups of reborn may possess more than others.”

His next words were directed at his troop trainer. “Do I need to go out there and sear the landscape?” Titus asked the woman whose features struck Sharine as oddly familiar.

Had Sharine painted her? She couldn’t recall. But the flame of hair, the shape of the eyes, the dual-colored wings, she’d seen those before. It was on the tip of her tongue.

“No, the sludge was contained in the cellar, so we used fire to destroy it.”

“Then take this time to rest.” Titus slapped the woman on the shoulder. “I’ve just had a report from Ozias that she’s seeing more daylight movement from the reborn. We might soon be fighting every hour of the day.”

A bow of her head before Tanae took off . . . and it was then, in the flash of wings gray and white, that Sharine found her answer. “Galen,” she murmured, her eyes filling with the image of an angelic warrior with choppily cut red hair and eyes of peridot green, his wings gray with white striations visible only in flight.

“Tanae and my second Tzadiq’s son,” Titus told her. “Galen was a commander in my forces before that pup Raphael stole him away.” No humor in those words, but his grim expression had nothing to do with Galen’s defection.

“This is what we’re facing,” he said almost to himself. “An endless surge of infection, mutation, and death. Charisemnon and Lijuan released something monstrous into our world.”

In that moment, he was Titus, Archangel of Africa and member of the Cadre, responsibility a weight on his wide shoulders. “If the creatures are becoming more intelligent—”

A hard shake of his head. “You think we could communicate with them?” Deep lines bracketing his mouth, he said, “We tried. I have no desire to exterminate people if they simply have the bad luck to be infected with a disease.” His muscles bunched taut under his skin as he folded his arms. “But the reborn’s intelligence isn’t even that of a hunting leopard. The leopard lies in wait for prey, pouncing and taking down its meal.”

As if aware its larger feline brethren were under discussion, a cat with a dark yellow-orange coat and black spots, its ears pointed, padded over to rub its head against Titus’s boot. Hunkering down, his pants stretching over his thighs, he scratched the cat behind the ears.

“But the leopard hunts to eat,” he continued, “and to protect its territory. The reborn? Their sole purpose is to spread death—in no world can the reborn exist with any other species; the creatures maul and murder any living being that crosses their path, including animals.” He looked up, his onyx eyes holding her prisoner. “The reborn are filled with the murderous desire of their original creator.”

Lijuan, Archangel of the Dead . . . and a woman who’d sought to subjugate the entire world.

Rising to his feet in a flowing movement, Titus said, “Let’s eat so I can get back to my duties.” His voice was of an archangel giving an order.

Sharine had been in sympathy with him until then, but now her fingers twitched once more for her blade. Surely she began to understand why New York Tower’s internal walls had holes that could only be explained by knives slamming into them. It must be most satisfying for Elena to throw such blades at Raphael’s head when he acted the fool.

But Raphael would never dare speak to Elena so preemptively—he respected her as a fellow warrior. Titus, meanwhile, considered Sharine a broken bird he had to babysit. “I wouldn’t want to keep you,” she said in a voice that dripped with honey. “Please, take what you need and feel free to fly.”

The look he gave her was a scowl mixed with pure befuddlement. An extraordinary expression to witness on the rough-hewn handsomeness of his face, but it quickly gave way to a calming smile. “You must be tired by the journey.” Soothing words, the natural volume of his voice irritatingly modulated. “Come, a little food will be exactly what you need.”

He was treating her like a fractious horse. She’d give him calm in a minute.

Spine taut, she waved off his offers of help and seated herself at the table, her wings falling gracefully to either side of the specially designed chairback. The table in front of them was set with sumptuous dishes—far too complicated a meal for a citadel that was fighting a deadly battle—and it just lit a fire under her already simmering temper.

Then Titus spoke. “I fear my cook was so excited by the prospect of a formal meal after weeks of simply feeding everyone as fast as possible that it appears he let it go to his head.” Loud, warm laughter, flowing over her like water. “Ah well, we shall eat richly this morn and so will anyone else in the citadel who manages to grab a plateful of this feast.”

Temper dying under the warmth of the comment, Sharine held out her plate when he lifted a spoon as if to serve her from a dish. He put a huge portion on her plate. “I’m not an elephant,” she muttered, and was suddenly acutely aware of her obvious irritation—it really wasn’t like her to be so ungracious, but something about Titus kept setting her off.

“Fine.” He picked up his plate. “We’ll exchange plates. I’d have staff here for they are eager to serve you, but I thought we should talk in private this morn. I can remedy that with a single shout.”

Glaring at him, she took his plate while handing him hers. Then she rose to her feet and lifted the lid off a vegetable dish. “As neither of us has lost both arms, I think we’re capable of serving ourselves and each other.” She placed a serving on his plate as well as her own. “Illium told me you were wounded in the battle against Charisemnon. You’ve healed?”

“Of course I have,” he grumbled, but allowed her to put more food on his plate. “I’m an archangel.”

Sharine’s plate was more than full enough, but since Titus was over twice her size and was expending enormous amounts of energy on a daily basis, she dished him out more before taking her seat. They began to eat in silence, though she was aware of Titus sending her wary looks.

It pleased her.

No one was ever wary of the Hummingbird. She was meant to be lightness and gentleness and kindness and no threat at all. All that was part of her nature, it was true. But Sharine was part of the Hummingbird, too, and a long time ago, Sharine had been far more than an artist with her head in the clouds.

It had been so very long ago, eons before Titus had existed even as a mote in the universe, but the memories had begun to awaken with her return to the real world. She remembered things others had long forgotten or never known . . . except for Caliane.

“Do you remember Akhia-Solay?” Caliane had asked her in one of their final conversations before her friend left to fight Lijuan. “I wonder if he’ll wake this Cascade.”

Sharine hadn’t had any personal memories of the Sleeping Ancient then, the veil yet fading, but it had come to her as she flew across the African landscape, the long flight nudging loose memories of other such flights.

Once, after Raan and long, long before Aegaeon—so long that Akhia-Solay was a myth to even most angels—Sharine had flown with a general as his army’s battle historian, the artist who made frantic sketches to add to angelkind’s histories. She’d also—she glanced down at her hand, caught in the fragments of memory. At some point, she’d faced an enemy combatant . . . and she’d . . .

“You’re displeased with the meal?” Titus’s big voice snapped her back to the present, the past fading back where it belonged but for the echoes of knowledge it left behind.

“What?” Looking down at her plate, she saw that she’d stopped eating. “No, not at all. It’s all delicious. I must compliment your chef.”

“Cook,” Titus corrected. “He is adamant that he will quit on the spot if anyone dares call him a chef.”

“I’ll take care not to anger him.” She paid attention to what she was eating, savoring the tastes and textures and scents. Food was another thing she’d allowed to fade from her life in her time in the fog. She’d eaten, but had tasted none of it, her mind distanced.

Only after she’d cleared her plate did she look at Titus again. He was smiling at her. That smile was . . . devastating. No wonder many of her warriors sighed when talking about him. Though he seemed to take only women as lovers, that didn’t stop all and sundry from pining after him. Truly, the adulation went some way toward explaining his high opinion of himself.

“Here.” He held out a dish she’d particularly enjoyed.

She hadn’t realized he’d been paying close attention. “Thank you,” she said, a touch of heat under her skin. “I’m full for now.”

Putting down the dish, Titus leaned back in his chair and ran both hands over his head. He seemed about to say something, when a warrior with dust-covered wings that might’ve been white when clean dropped down outside the doors and yelled, “Sire! Massive reborn nest sighted just beyond the new barriers! They’re awake and climbing!”

Titus moved so fast she’d have thought it impossible for such a big man if she hadn’t seen it happen. He was outside and taking off before she’d even gotten out of her chair. Heart thunder, she raced after him to see multiple squadrons take to the sky, all of them arrowing southward. Heavy-duty vehicles painted in camouflage colors screeched out of the courtyard at the same time.