Around them, the air pulsed with hidden knowledge.

“The door is the same,” Kiama said. “Our entry team did some damage to it as we had to force it open, but that’s now been repaired.”

Ah, there was the answer to the pop of sound she’d heard on their entry. “Was this the room where Charisemnon did his experiments?”

Kiama shook her head. “We believe it was more of a holding chamber, a gallery where he could watch the progress of the disease.” She pointed to several dark circles in the walls and ceiling. “Cameras. He might’ve preferred to live like the kings of old, but Archangel Charisemnon knew the value of technology.”

This, Sharine wouldn’t have expected. The Charisemnon she’d met had been scathing about the modern world and its conveniences. Just another example of his hypocrisy and lies.

“We worried about Sarouk and our other vampire warriors,” Kiama said. “It was possible there might’ve been something in the air that could’ve infected them, but nobody has shown any effects. We had no reason to worry about angelic infection then.” A glance at Sharine. “Are airborne contagions a viable risk?”

“Given that Charisemnon chose to use insects to carry disease, and experimented with making the reborn even more virulent,” Sharine said, “I don’t believe he possessed the ability to launch an airborne attack. At least not a fatal one.”

She hadn’t forgotten the Falling—but there, the deaths had resulted from angels falling into the streets in the path of traffic, and other such accidents. Whatever Charisemnon had done had only pushed them into unconsciousness, not death—and she’d heard Illium say that Charisemnon had suffered terrible consequences as a result.

From what she knew of Charisemnon and what she’d learned of late, she didn’t believe he would’ve taken the risk of becoming so debilitated a second time around. Especially since his goal had been to kill Titus—for only an archangel could kill another archangel. Hence the insects, and his use of Lijuan’s reborn as a poisonous base on which to build.

“Was Charisemnon showing signs of disease when he fought Titus?” she asked, to be certain.

Kiama’s face was a picture of disgust. “I was never close to him, but the sire has said his breath smelled of decay, as if he was rotting from within.”

“But he was able to fight?”

“Yes.” Kiama’s jaw worked as she lifted a finger to her cheek. “He managed to harm the sire, shatter his arm, damage part of his face.”

A burn inside Sharine’s blood at the thought of Titus being injured by someone so unworthy. “Then I don’t believe he’d been working on an airborne disease—I’m told he was bedridden and covered with sores after the Falling. And that was to create mere moments of unconsciousness; an airborne disease might well have ended him.”

Kiama’s expression altered to watchful scrutiny. “You have better sources than many spymasters I think.”

What she had was an archangel who treated her with the same respect he gave his mother, and a son, as well as a protégé who knew their liege begrudged her no information. She also had Caliane. Her friend, too, told Sharine anything she wished to know, for Sharine had held faith with Caliane longer than these young ones could imagine. “I’m old, child, and I value my loves and friendships.”

Perhaps one day, this young and angry warrior, too, would call Sharine friend, but for now, the divide of years stood between them. How very strange when Kiama was likely not that much younger than Titus. There was no distance with Titus, no sense of a chasm formed by age.

Now, Kiama gave a slow nod. “I hope you are right in your supposition of Archangel Charisemnon’s capabilities, Lady Sharine. Else we are all doomed.” She stepped to an area to the left. “The dead vampire here, he looked as if he’d been attacking himself. Biting at his own arms, chunks of flesh missing.”

Shifting on her heel, she pointed in another direction. “Another one was completely naked and had rolled herself up into a ball under the table. It was as if each was part of a different experiment, but why then they’d be thrown in here together, we can’t answer except that perhaps Archangel Charisemnon was forced to rush at the end.”

“What of evidence that an angel might’ve been infected?” she asked, remembering what Titus had told the Cadre.

“If you’ll follow me.” Kiama showed her to a door on the other side, made sure it shut behind them, then led her down the wide hallway to the left.

Stopping at the first door, she opened it to reveal a large empty room. “The furniture within had been badly damaged and the lock was warped. It was as if someone or something had broken out. The sire found a trail of . . . I’m not sure how to describe it.”

After a long moment’s thought, she said, “It wasn’t blood, but there was blood mixed in with what appeared to be liquefied decomposing flesh. It had a greenish edge, and we thought the streaks on the stone of this hallway could’ve been from wings dragging on the ground, especially after we found a feather petrified in the substance. And these”—pointing at gouges in the floor—“appear to be claw marks.”

She then indicated a spot on the wall only a few inches from the ground. “We also discovered smeared handprints at this level made in the same liquid, as if the individual was dragging themselves along the ground. Later we found multiple bodies beyond the walls of the stronghold, including several dead angels, so we hoped that whoever or whatever had escaped was dead.”

A single angel, Sharine thought, could’ve easily slipped out in the time between Charisemnon’s departure with the majority of his forces, and the arrival of Titus’s. Especially if that angel was heading outward, past the cities, to more rural areas. Even more so if that angel had experience with remaining unseen.

The latter wasn’t always a skill possessed by courtiers, who were all about flash and show. But given Kiama’s story about her parents, Charisemnon’s court hadn’t been filled only with the useless. Titus had also identified the reborn angel as Skarde, a man rumored to be a skilled intelligence agent.

Skarde had been betrayed by his hunger for flesh, but if the angel who’d escaped this room had been someone other than Skarde, but of the same ilk . . . Well, a spy with a functioning mind could hide for a long time in the expansive landscape of Africa.

Shoving that fear aside, she said, “Did you find anything that looks like a laboratory?” She wasn’t truly expecting such a place—whatever it was that Charisemnon had done, it’d come from him, from the same thing that made him an archangel.

He’d birthed poisons in his blood.

“No,” Kiama confirmed. “But I can show you to his personal quarters.”

Those quarters proved opulent and overtly sensual to an extent far beyond her personal tastes, with too much red and gold, too much texture, just generally too much, but that didn’t stop the rooms from being surprisingly beautiful. But no . . . it wasn’t a surprise.

Sharine frowned, paging back through the book of memory. Michaela had long been called the muse of artists, but Charisemnon had been known for being a patron of the arts. “Once, long, long ago,” she murmured almost to herself, “Charisemnon offered me a palace in his lands where I could live and work. No strings except that he wished to be known as having the Hummingbird as a guest in his lands.”

She’d forgotten that until this very instant when she stood on a thick velvety rug of black with a design picked out in ruby red. “I hadn’t been to this land for far too long, so came to see if I wished to accept the offer and we met for a private dinner. He was a different man then.” The person he’d been before he decided to join Lijuan on a path to death and pain and murder.

“I can’t imagine you sitting across from him,” Kiama said, her voice taut with a thrumming anger. “My mind simply refuses.”

Sharine hoped this warrior would one day find peace, but it wouldn’t be today, in the space of her enemy. “Did you and the rest of Titus’s people do an intensive search of this part of the stronghold?”

Shaking her head, Kiama said, “We didn’t think it necessary. We were looking only for living creatures—of any size—rather than documents or notes.”

The pages of her memory book continued to flip. Charisemnon had sent her a letter with his invitation. “You have a beautiful hand,” she’d said to him when they met.

He’d smiled at her, a handsome man with silken hair the shade of mahogany and skin of dark gold, his lips lush and perfect in their shape. “Words and ink, they hold our history even as we grow old and the memories become lost in the tangles of our mind.”

Such a man would keep records.

With that in mind, she left Kiama to keep watch, then began to methodically search each and every place where an archangel sure of his privacy would hoard important documents. She didn’t think he’d have thought to hide them—first of all, he’d been confident in his power, and secondly, he’d had no reason to hide anything from the people in his court.

They’d seen what he could do and had chosen to stay with him.

Books lined the walls of the large study beyond the bedroom and living areas. A lot of knowledge; you’d have thought some of it would’ve given him pause as he began his association with Lijuan and with death, but, in the end, people chose their identity, and Charisemnon had chosen a life of darkness.

A metal ladder was built into the frame of the bookshelves on both the left and the right of the room. They proved to move smoothly along the rails when she tested them.

She’d check each and every one of the books on the shelves if necessary, but first, she went to Charisemnon’s desk. In the top drawer was a leather-bound notebook. Something about it struck her as familiar and she looked over to the shelves—to realize that this room held the history of Charisemnon, the memory journals he’d kept year after year, decade after decade, century after century.