Wren stepped out of the bedroom, his feathers ruffled. “Many injuries. You can’t help them all. I’m going, too.”
Raphael frowned but nodded.
“Go,” Lark said. “I’ll meet you there. Devin is on his way and there is a team regrouping here at the house. They’ll guard Ginger and the twins, but I assure you, the attackers have been dealt with.”
“Thank you.” Raphael turned to his son.
Wren’s lips thinned. “No disrespect to Dev and the others, but this is exactly the kind of situation that worries me.”
Devin had the skills, but as Ginger’s father, he couldn’t be on the front lines. The position of a dedicated Guardian was volunteer and never solicited—the Guardian in question had to give up nearly everything else in his or her life to be effective.
“Wren,” Ginger yelled from the bedroom. “The sooner you go, the sooner you get back.”
Raphael opened the French doors and spotted Devin on the ground below. He turned back to his son and said, “I agree with you, but a dedicated Guardian is a tough find. It’s a lot to ask of anyone. Usually, we don’t ask. Such a service can only be offered.”
Wren spread his wings. “I understand, but…”
“When things calm down, I’ll ask Vin for a meeting. He made an offer to you once, I’ve heard.”
“He did, and I refused. Things were different, then. I regret it.”
“Things have changed, of course. We’ll talk to him, soon.”
…
Raphael maneuvered through a small gap in the canopy and landed on the dirt-packed “main street” of the colony, the village reminiscent of New England settlements in the days before cars and electricity, though Sanctuary had the benefit of both. Wren arrived a second later and they hurried down the road toward the waterfront pavilion. Guardians surrounded the structure and civilians crowded inside. Other Guardians, visible in the distance, stood sentinel where the forest met the border of the most distant buildings.
Lark emerged from the trees and fell into step behind Raphael and Wren, no hint of injury in his posture or fatigue in his razor-sharp alertness. Blood splatters stained the Guardian’s face and hands, but his black uniform hid the extent of the gore.
One of the three-story, multifamily residence buildings burned. Smoke hung thick in the air and Raphael’s eyes stung. Wren coughed and swept his wings in a hopeless attempt to clear some breathing room. A group of uninjured civilians pumped water from the lake onto the ruined structure and the neighboring building, The Ninth Circle tavern, to keep the blaze from spreading. On the hill beyond, high above the cemetery, smoke also rose from the town hall.
As much as he abhorred the violence wrought on the colonists, a swell of pride filled Raphael as Wren followed him into the midst of the injured in the pavilion. Never before had Raphael been in a situation where he and his son could work together to ease the wounded. He brushed his wing against Wren’s arm. “I’ll take the left, you take the right.”
Lark stayed between them as they split up, his task to keep them safe above all else, even at the expense of others, including the Guardians running this way and that with injuries of their own. Though he offered his arm to a civilian struggling to stand, his gaze remained on Raphael and Wren, his attention on their surroundings. The depth of his responsibility allowed him to trust no one, not even their injured friends. Raphael met that shrewd copper gaze and nodded, a silent thank-you. The demon certainly knew the extent of Raphael’s gratitude after all those years, but Raphael would never be so callous as to take the Guardian’s service for granted.
Wren moved to the side of an unconscious human female with gut-wrenching burns over her lower body. Her demon mate sobbed by her side, cradling her head, and slumped with relief as Wren lifted his wings, knelt, and placed his hands on the woman’s knees. Her burns faded to scars in the span of two seconds. Permanent scars, but a small price to pay for healing injuries she might not have recovered from even in a human hospital.
Wren moved on to the woman’s mate, who had wooden shrapnel sticking out of his shoulder and some minor burns on his hands. “What happened to you two?”
“We were in there,” the demon said, tilting his head toward the raging structure fire. “Grenade or something smashed through the window into our living room. We bolted, but weren’t fast enough to get all the way out.”
“Get comfortable.” Wren helped the demon get his belt off. The patient sat back against a corner post of the pavilion, his good arm around his mate, and slid the leather belt behind his fangs to bite down on. Wren pulled bits of wood and metal out of his shoulder—one piece stuck out front and back. The demon growled and sweat beaded on his forehead, but Wren covered the wounds with his fingers and the patient fell into a deep sleep.
Raphael tended to a series of wounds, ranging from a broken ankle to a large piece of glass imbedded in a teen’s thigh. The repeated use of his healing ability left him tired. His blood-covered arms shook. He leaned against the wall as Wren walked over, his face pale, blood on his hands and wings. The pavilion had gone quiet, all the wounded now healed and sleeping.
“Let’s go home, son.”
They took flight, though Raphael’s wings felt like lead. The attack was over. His family was safe. No casualties. However, Raphael couldn’t relax, not for a moment. Considering the level of organization of the attack and the value of their feathers on the human market—he shuddered—how long would it be before the next strike?
Chapter Seven
Jett flexed his fingers, using all his willpower to sit still as Lexine drove. He sat in the backseat next to Bryce, and Vin had taken the front passenger seat. Lexine exceeded the speed limit, but an accident wouldn’t get them back any faster. Her hands trembled and her face—visible in the rearview mirror—remained ghostly pale. Jett forced a calm exterior to keep from rattling her or Bryce further.
She kept up the pace through an eternity of dread until they and the two other SUVs turned onto Sanctuary’s dirt access road. Miles of forest passed until they reached the colony’s border where the gate opened and a Guardian rushed into view. Lexine pulled to a stop and Vin jumped out.
Jett stayed with Bryce, but opened his door to listen.
“Sir!” The black-clad Guardian reached Vin. “We’ve tried to reach you, but the cell site has been down. The power was cut with a small explosive. We’ve been attacked.”
“What happened?” Vin grasped the demon by the shoulder and moved to the side of the road into the shade of trees.
“In a nutshell, it was a well-organized plot, but we have the victory. No casualties or missing persons. We sustained a lot of infrastructure damage, however.”
“Any idea of their goal?”
“They wanted the archangel twins, sir. Lark caught and interrogated one of the attackers.”
Jett gripped the edge of his seat and a seam tore. Cursing, he got out of the vehicle. He tried not to shout, but failed. “The archangels, where are they? Are they all right?”
The Guardian arched an eyebrow and looked Jett over in a who-the-hell-are-you manner, but at Vin’s nod, he answered. “They’re all fine. The adults have tended to the colony’s wounded and are now back at the house, recovering from the energy expended on their healing abilities.”
“Good.” Jett doubted he’d remain sane if he’d come back to find them killed—for reasons he still didn’t understand, but couldn’t fight, either. Just the idea of them in danger made sweat break out on the back of his neck, even as he told himself he really shouldn’t give a shit.
The Guardian continued, “The humans came in two waves. The first came at the colony from three different directions and threw grenades all over the place. A fourth snuck in and made a run for the archangel house, but they didn’t get close. Lark is a vicious son of a bitch.”