Page 41 of Angel's Enemy Omega
Nur is no vergis angel—he’stall and strong, demanding and disagreeable. Yet in Arsene’s hands he feels fragile, a thin flame wavering in the abyss. Relief over his vitality makes Arsene’s head spin. But it also takes him back to that horrible moment, the instant he made the worst possible choice. Nur’s resignation hurts worse than anger. He wishes Nur would tear into him, rail against him, be furious. Acceptance means he expected no better.
No better for himself.
No better from Arsene.
He aches to lift Nur off his feet and press him into the nearest flat surface, fill him until he cries out with pleasure, erasing the terrible sounds of the fight from Arsene’s mind.
How can he be worthy of any mate if he lets his fear and shame rule him?
He leaves Nur’s tent reeling with uncertainty. The truth is heshouldthink of Nur like a tool. But he doesn’t.
He goes back the next night, and the next, and the next. Each time he gives, and in return he takes the precious feeling of Nur’s body whole under his hands. Nur doesn’t offer anything else; Arsene doesn’t ask.
The caravan is mere days from the border of the Deadlands. They’ll have no choice but to cross the road that leads from Hell to the Seraphim Wall. From there, it’s north to the ruined city, where the humans will scavenge what they can from it before the final leg of their journey.
“Why have you decided to cross the plains now?” he asks Irvin one night, when he and the doctor linger together at the fire.
After the chimera, Irvin frequently comes to sit with Arsene, maybe feeling indebted to him for saving his child. The thought makes Arsene uncomfortable. He was only doing his duty. But he can’t deny the company is nice—most of the time they sit in silence, and Arsene is glad not to have to compare their disparate lives. Though Irvin is several decades younger, humans are quick to mature in comparison to angels, which means the doctor is more even-keeled by far. But even with all his experience Arsene finds him to have an unaccountable optimism—perhaps brought on by a human’s short lifespan.
Irvin frowns thoughtfully at the flame. “Have you heard of the Great Reckoning?”
Arsene shakes his head.
“It’s the name we give to the shared vision that comes to those who see the future.”
“A vision of a reckoning?”
“The good kind,” Irvin assures him. “A healing is on its way. When it happens, the poison will slowly be sucked out of the world and we’ll be able to live freely outside cities like Fairhaven—we won’t need to rely on the seraphim glass to keep us safe. Folks like Myra say the healing has already started beyond the Deadlands. I can’t wait another generation or two for the healing to spread to Fairhaven—I want my young’uns to grow up in a clean land, not squabbling for space on the dirty banks of the Haven River.”
“And if you don’t make it?”
Irvin purses his mouth. “We’ll leave our bones on the trail, like those who came before.”
Arsene wipes his bowl clean with the last of the flatbread and considers this. Angels made their own migration not so long ago, fleeing the fallen glory of Old Yden to a new realm opened by the seraphim empaths. The fate of their people hung in the balance. Those once immortal sickened and died from corruption—or worse.
The humans of Fairhaven are protected behind the crystal dome that keeps the city air pure and clean—New Yden’s gift to them, in exchange for the sentinel serum. Once Arsene’s mission is complete there will be no more trade, of course. The powerful stuff hidden away in the ruined city would put today’s sentinel serum to shame. Once in possession of it, New Yden can freely close the gate to Fairhaven, cutting off the humans, the war—all of it.
Without the ongoing supply of seraphim crystal to keep the dome intact, Fairhaven will slowly crumble. What will that mean for people like Irvin?
Before he can form a response, he’s interrupted by a wave of intense distress. He swallows quickly, coughing. Fear spills down his nerves, followed by anger. He puts the bowl down and grabs the edges of the bench, gritting his teeth.
“Are you alright?” Irvin asks.
Arsene puts a hand out. “I’m fine. It’s nothing serious. Just…pardon me.”
He stumbles to his feet. It has to be the bond. But what’s wrong?
Nur set his tent up on the far side of camp, a not-so-subtle symbol of distance. Arsene hesitates when he reaches it. Entering Nur’s space for their nightly feeding is one thing. Butif Nur is in distress…maybe he’d better fetch someone else. He’s still uncertain of his welcome.
Another stab of pain threatens to double him over, and he bites down on a curse. It’s not physical pain, but a fear so intense it feels like he’s going to die. A thin cry comes from inside the tent. Arsene grabs the knife from his boot and yanks back the tent flap, heart pounding.
There’s no enemy. Just Nur twisted into his bedroll. Asleep, he fights an imaginary enemy in his nightmares. Relief punches the breath out of him. He sheathes the knife and grabs the narrow ankles that stick out of the bedroll, trying to calm Nur’s flailing.
“Nur, wake up,” he says softly.
Nur groans and tries to pull out of his grip. Arsene shuffles up the bedroll and shakes Nur’s shoulder gently.
“Hey. It’s just a dream.”
