Kazimir
Iawoke to the peculiar sensation of not knowing whether it was morning or night.
The blackout curtains had let through a slender blade of gold, cutting across the floor and glancing off the edge of the bed.
Beside me, Devon was buried half under the duvet, a tangle of white-blonde hair and long limbs, her face pressed so deeply into the pillow that only the upturned slope of one cheek was visible.
For a moment, I simply lay there, cataloguing the changes.
The room smelled different—less of my own chill, more of her: rainwater, ozone, and the faintest charge of something supernatural, as if the air itself now bent to her presence.
I expected to see her wings—a pair of them, in yesterday’s memory, vast as banners, gleaming purple and edged with gold.
But there was no sign, not so much as a feather or a swelling at the shoulder blade.
I reached out gently and traced the length of her spine down through the sheet.
The skin was smooth, unbroken, though I could feel the heat and pulse of the force sleeping just beneath.
She stirred, burrowing deeper, then let out a low, satisfied groan. “Is it morning?” She mumbled, her voice muffled by linen and exhaustion.
“Yes,” I said. “Or dusk, same difference.”
She rolled onto her back, blinking up at the ceiling. Her eyes were clear and untroubled, no longer haunted by the storm of pain that had seized her the night before. She ran her hands over her torso as if surprised to find herself intact.
I propped myself on an elbow. “You are healed,” I said.
She grinned, then made a motion as if to stretch wings that were no longer visible. “Am I? I feel like I got hit by a truck. Twice.”
“Good,” I said, and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “That is how you know you are alive.”
She snorted. “I guess that makes me very, very alive.”
I rose and pulled on a shirt, then offered her one of my own to wear. She slipped it on; the hem hanging nearly to her knees, then followed me out of the bedroom and into the corridor, padding barefoot over the rugs.
The house was quiet—unnaturally so, given the usual bustle of Tilden and the kitchen staff.
I’d asked for privacy this morning, and my instructions had been followed with military precision.
In the dining room, the table was set for two, the windows open just enough to let in the dusty pink of early evening.
Devon wandered to the sideboard, lifting lids and peeking beneath at the offerings: piles of pancakes, fruit sliced into diamonds, and an array of smoked meats that would have sated an army.
She fixed herself a plate with a deliberation I found both endearing and alien; it was sort of fascinating to watch an angel eat breakfast.
I poured coffee for us both, then sat at the head of the table. Devon slid into the chair to my right, tucking one foot under her.
For a while, we ate in silence, the clatter of fork and spoon loud in the hush. Every so often, she’d glance over, as if expecting me to interrogate her about what happened last night. When she finally spoke, it was with her mouth full of toast.
“So I guess I need to think about logistics. Of my wings, I mean.”
I wiped my lips and set down my cup. “They are fully retracted now, it seems, yes?”
She nodded. “Yep. So, to anyone who didn’t know any better, I’m just an ordinary woman. But, should I need to quickly have use of them…”
I was thoughtful. “I could see that being a problem. We will just need to have garments tailored to accommodate your wings. If you wish. I will see to it today.”
She looked at me with a bemused twist of her mouth. “You mean like…wing slits? Velcro panels?”
“Hidden closures,” I said, deadpan. “You will be able to unfurl them instantly if needed. It is not as silly as it sounds; it is the best protection should an enemy grab you. You will also have battle armor made that accommodates your wings, of course.”
She was mid-swallow on a drink of coffee and nearly choked. “You’re serious.”
“Of course. I would not have my mate vulnerable because of clothing choices.”
She shook her head, amused. “I keep forgetting you’ve thought of everything.”
I sipped my coffee, then let the silence stretch, measuring her mood.
She was more herself today; the panic and trauma burned off in the crucible of last night’s pain.
But she was also…stronger, somehow. The light I’d glimpsed in her before, that faint celestial spark, had been amplified into a presence I could feel from across the table.
“Devon,” I said, “now that you remember who you are, what else have you remembered? About your powers. Or your training.”
She considered, then straightened in her chair, posture shifting from relaxed to soldier in a single heartbeat.
“I was trained for battle,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Angels don’t get wings unless they earn them.
My duties were varied. I was a guardian angel but did not have a specific charge.
I protected humankind; saved them from evil attacks.
This means I trained for frontline combat.
I can fly faster than most angels, withstand fire, and heal pretty much anything but decapitation. I’m good with a blade.”
I let a slow smile cross my lips. “Impressive.”
She nodded, counting on her fingers. “I know how to use a bow, and I can speak every human language if I focus on it. I can also see in complete darkness and have an affinity for sensing lies.”
“Anything else?”
She paused, as if remembering a dream. “I can sometimes influence people. Not like mind control, but more like…amplifying a feeling. Or muting it.”
I laughed, genuine and bright. “You have just described compulsion, the most coveted of all supernatural powers.”
She beamed. “Is that good?”
“It is essential and a vampiric trait only the most powerful of us command,” I said. “You will need to be ready with all of your skills for what is coming.”
Her face sobered. “Yes. Sariel is powerful. We always trained to fight evil forces from hell. They are what torment and bring trouble to humans. And it was only when help was sought that we intervened. That’s happening less and less these days.”
“Well, sadly Sariel seems to care less about humankind and more about covering his angel ass. You are a loose end my dear; one he seems desperate to tie off. He is on his way, if he is not already here. He is coming for you.”
She folded her hands in her lap, then looked up at me with that new, fierce resolve. “We’re going to fight him, aren’t we?”
I reached across the table and took her hands in mine. “We are. But not alone. Never alone.”
She squeezed back, her skin warm and vital. “What’s the plan?”
“We will meet with my family today,” I said. “My sons, my daughter. They need to see you for themselves to know who you are. Then, together, we will strategize. I have friends in every supernatural faction. We will call in every favor, every debt owed. And when Sariel arrives, we will be ready.”
She let out a long breath. “That’s a lot of firepower for one fallen angel.”
I shook my head, smiling at her innocence. “You are more than that, Devon. You are the mate of the King of Kings. The entire supernatural world will rally to you if I ask. But more than that, you are their hope—the first angel to choose her own fate in a thousand years.”
She leaned back, as if letting the words soak in. Then she laughed, happy and unguarded. “No pressure, right?”
I grinned, my thumb brushing over the back of her hand. “None at all.”
She reached for her coffee again, her other hand never leaving mine. “Will they like me?” she asked, almost shy.
“They will love you,” I said. “Or they will learn to.”
She smiled, then set her cup down and looked at me with a directness that should have been impossible for one so new to this world. “I’m ready,” she said. “For all of it.”
I believed her.
The family room had been used more in the past few months than it had in the past fifty years.
Tilden had seen to every detail: the tea service was set on the mahogany table, and three fresh arrangements of black and red roses perfumed the air.
Even the hearth had been swept and kindled, as if a fire were needed in late summer.
I watched from the far end, hands folded behind my back. The portraits lining the walls were heavy with old eyes. I could feel my ancestors watching, judging. Let them judge. None of them had ever hosted an angel.
Devon sat at my right, perched on a velvet sofa.
She wore the navy dress I’d selected; the color deepening the unusual silver cast of her skin.
If she was nervous, she hid it behind a mask of interest; her gaze flitted from painting to rug to the oddities on the shelves, cataloguing everything.
I admired her posture: back straight, hands relaxed, feet flat to the floor as if ready to spring into flight at a moment’s notice.
Only the small twist of her mouth betrayed the tension building beneath.
A faint tremor in the floor announced Maksym and Taras before they even crossed the threshold.
My eldest entered first, trailed by his twin.
Maksym’s suit was black, perfectly tailored, the lapels edged with crimson thread—an unsubtle reminder of his rank in the Las Vegas court.
He bowed his head once, the gesture as practiced as it was insincere.
Taras flanked him, a step behind and to the left, his movements precise and economic.
The twin’s eyes scanned the perimeter, clocking exits and sight lines, then assessed Devon with a cool, impersonal efficiency.