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Chapter 8
There weren’t a lot of things in the world that gave Bronze any true semblance of serenity. In his experience, cheerful clouds and happy birds on branches always preceded an ass-kicker of a storm. Even the quiet hush of crowds in stadiums was really just another omen to what was coming: a brutal tackle, a homerun, a kick to the shins when the refs weren’t looking. There was always some sort of tell that shit was about to get real big real fast.
The knock-him-to-his-knees smile that stretched across Clara’s face after he accepted the oddest proposal of his life would forever sit at the top of that list. Stange how an almost sort of desperate gratitude seemed to shine up at him from those wide eyes, a reaction that had seemed so far outside what he would consider the normal realm of appreciation given her rescue. He’d saved her life, sure, but who wouldn’t have, given the circumstances? When she’d smiled up at him in that moment, though, something in her pained expression and eager eyes gutted him.
“Dammit,” he muttered as he swiped a hand down his tired face. No matter how earnestly he’d tried to garner a few hours of shut-eye, Bronze hadn’t managed to escape the female’s gaze as it wormed its way into his dreams. A gaze alight with eyes so soothing, they’d begun to remind him of gingerbread, of all things. Not the stale shit from the box mortals made houses out of, but the kind swirled together with real earthy blackstrap molasses and kissed with the spicy warmth of Chinese ginger.
A strangely comforting confection for a male who’d never had much of a sweet tooth.
Top it all off with a crown of hair that swirled around her like the most decadent white frosting and Bronze could hardly figure out whether to get out of the way of what was about to tackle him or take the hit and pick the pieces up later.
Luckily, he’d always been good at two things: taking punches and solving puzzles. That female, Clara, would have him checking both boxes before the upcoming days were through, he had no doubt of it.
After her big reveal and Bronze’s even bigger response, much to everyone’s surprise, Rhode had thankfully taken over the speaking parts and declared that it would be best for everyone to get whatever hours of sleep they could before Bronze escorted Clara back to her home midmorning.
And that was how Bronze found himself in the great hall of the den, running on little more than adrenaline and two sixteen-ouncers of French press coffee, with every ax, sword, spear, dagger, and firearm he could carry spread out on the farmhouse table. He’d even asked his brother Titan whether he could borrow one of the dude’s mini crossbows before the angel, who was infuriatingly too smart for his own damn good, pointed out that it might be unwise to carry the small arsenal Bronze had been intending to tow with him. After all, the trip was about a two-hour walk, according to Clara, and Mr. Second-in-Command Boy Wonder had oh-so helpfully made Bronze aware that carrying all his shit, including Clara, while flying would likely be a no-go.
Ass.
So hoof it they would, unfortunately, but Bronze would be damned if he didn’t have a special dagger with her father’s name on it tucked right along his ribs. Mages, he’d never wanted to measure the depth of a man’s chest by how far his blade sank in or test the tensile strength of his garrote, which he casually tucked into his pack next to some spare socks, more than when Clara had described the sort of ass boil dear old daddy had shaped up to be.
As Bronze organized his weapons for maximum storage efficiency and began zipping them into his pack and stowing them into the various holsters he wore, he couldn’t help but think how surreal Clara’s story still seemed, despite all the truths that had smacked him upside the head. Sure, he was a fallen angel, and by mortal standards, that came with its own sort of paranormal spooks, but oddly enough, the fact that she was a lycan, and lycan royalty no less, was the most normal part about her, if he could even risk using such a word to describe the woman. In his eons-long lifetime of dealing with mages, messengers, demon-manipulated mortals, and goddesses-turned-monsters, little about the various species he’d met surprised him anymore.
What had surprised him was Clara’s speech, her manner of dress, and how she described her world, which he clearly knew bupkis about. And he, an immortal angel! Knower of old shit and mountains of magic! The enormity of scale with which she spoke of the lycans had been the most alarming, and not just because it stung his ego every time he came up short with the requisite knowledge. Rival kingdoms, monarchies, warlords, strongholds? These were concepts that, while still understandable by modern standards, certainly took on an air of the past. After all, what use was a warlord when a national government and united military holdings made those aggressive commanders all but obsolete? Even if one such commander did have a healthy arsenal at his beck and call, it was kind of hard to show up with the threat of laying down the pew-pew against the powerful holdings Clara described her father possessing.
And speaking of which, in the past century, Bronze could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard the words stronghold and keep in relation to a living, breathing building at the center of a community. If her father was truly as influential as she claimed, why go the fortified-castle route instead of a normal building with a shit ton of alarms, armed security guards, and quick and convenient access to more of the same should things get out of hand?
It all made about as much sense as vegan meatballs.
Footsteps echoed up from the nearby staircase that led down to the armory, and Tungsten and Iron surfaced. They both took in Bronze’s stuffed-to-the-gill rucksack as it swallowed up the last of his weapons.
Tungsten folded his arms and was the first to comment, but if Bronze knew either of them, Iron would be the one to get in the final jab. “That’s quite a lot of artillery.”
“A manageable amount,” Bronze added.
Iron stepped forward and tucked the hilt of a dagger that had come loose more firmly into Bronze’s back holster. “Considering you have no idea what you’re walking into, I’d be more concerned with the artillery you can’t see.”
Ah, there it was. Right on cue.
“I’m as prepared as I can be. Why?” Bronze’s head snapped up, and he threw as much charm as possible into the grin that had earned him more punches than pleasantries among his brothers. “Annoyed that Army green isn’t your color? Not everyone can pull off my particular shade of auburn. Hey, while I’m gone, I better not find out you’ve been rifling through my hair products again.”
But while Bronze waited for the volleying jibe that Iron always threw his way, none arrived. Instead, mirrored stern expressions from both of them pinned Bronze’s boots to the floor. His brother, one of the largest, grumpiest uglies this side of the mortal realm, simply stared back at him with unwavering calm. Unshakable as always, the guy was like the unflappable and majestic tip of an age-old iceberg. Problem was, only a select few knew what had been brewing below the surface all those years, and every now and then, Bronze was not-so-subtly reminded of the male’s limits and what Iron was truly capable of.
Some wars went on for years, others eternities. Behind Iron’s rugged beard and tense mismatched eyes, a battle still waged, and hell if Bronze knew when the final body would hit the ground or whose it would be.
Bronze quickly cleared his throat and changed the topic. “Rhode seems to believe that Clara honestly holds the relic around her neck as a symbol of her monarchy and nothing more.”
Tungsten lifted a skeptical brow but never unfolded his arms. “Truly?”
“Yeah. When he asked about any other articles like it, she said she didn’t know of any, nor did she think that what she wore around her neck had any special properties beyond being a cherished gift her people believe was bestowed upon them long ago from their deity. The Moon Mother, Clara calls her.”
“What about these other lycan territories? Didn’t she mention this warlord she’s supposed to marry as occupying the west? West of what, exactly? Are we talking the West Coast?” Iron asked.
Bronze shook his head. “No clue, but I’ll find out more on the way. Rhode was also careful to question her without mentioning Cyro or his charmers specifically. It’s clear the female, sorry, princess, has no knowledge beyond what she shared. I mean, she could hardly figure out how to work the overhead lights in her room, which is another piece of the puzzle I’m adding to the list of weird shit that doesn’t make any fucking sense.”
“Like how the hell there exists an entire lycan kingdom, presumably with full-blown royals, and not a single one of us has gotten wind of it in all the years since we’ve landed here?”
Yeah, that too.
