37. Give Us Another Chance
Aleiraah
A strange sight yet again takes me by surprise involving Ispahan.
"You no-good posse of pretty boys need to fuck off right now! Or I'll bury you where you stand!" Ispahan yells channeling an eight foot angry minotaur while his guards try to hold him back.
The cords in his neck bulge under the strain, his face an angry shade of red. He waves his fist at the motley crew of males currently feigning nonchalance while carefully scanning their surroundings.
"Return Aleiraah to us and we'll be gone, Nephilim." Rinn says in a voice edged with steel making my heart slam against my ribs.
I glance at Ispahan, who looks ready to burst several blood vessels as he shrugs off the soldiers restraining him.
Warmth stirs in my chest, seeing another ally fighting in my corner. A month ago, I'd never have imagined this.
"Calm down, Han." Zenith marches to his side calling out in a measured voice, eyeing my seven sins with an unreadable look.
That's when seven pairs of eyes lock onto me.
The intense hunger and longing in their gaze knocks the breath from my lungs. The sheer burning weight of their undivided attention compels me to instinctively take a step back. They catch the movement like predators scenting weakness and surge closer to the towering gates as one.
"Aleiraah..." Their voices weave together into a single, resonant chord—my name thrumming through the air like a spell being cast.
Fuck!
To fix my faux pas, I stride forward confidently with my chin up and stand beside Zenith and Ispahan. "What're you all doing here?"
"Who's he?" Archer growls, tipping his chin at Zenith.
The nerve!
"My lover. Any objections?" I taunt to provoke them and expose their charade.
His pale blue eyes darken in obvious anger, a vein pops on his forehead. I brace but Zien asks in a vulnerable whisper, "Are you feeding enough, Love?"
Frowning at him I try to gauge if the vampire's mocking me but there's only sincere curiosity. It's such a polar opposite of the derision and contempt from that night that I'm not sure how to react.
"Why do you care? I thought I'd made things clear in Duat. I want nothing more to do with any of you. I even filed for a separation so we can all be rid of each other!"
"You mean this?" Azael opens his huge palm to show the separation scroll with the seal from the Council. In a blink it catches fire, burning to ash with a subdued version of his angel fire.
"What do you—? How can you even—?" I sputter, fuming at the sheer audacity. He doesn't care that he destroyed a formal edict from the undisputed governing body in Mytherra?
Azael just cocks his eyebrow, amusement dancing in his sapphire blue eyes.
That's when I take in their appearance. They're immortal again.
Azael's wings are hidden as usual. He no longer looks emaciated. None of them do, with their healthy complexions and musculature restored. A far cry from the broken shells I last saw writhing on the Hall of Truth's floor.
Baz's long hair is gathered in his usual man-bun at the back of his head.
Rinn's horns curve away from his temples toward the back of his head, his silver piercings glinting in the sun.
Silas's shoulder length hair hangs in glossy waves but he looks weary, worry lines framing his mouth.
Archie's dark blond stubble is dense, like he hasn't shaved in a couple of days.
Alistair's moss-green eyes sparkle with hope, the quiet defeat from before absent. Zien appears unnaturally pale. Dark shadows pool beneath his blood red eyes indicating he hasn’t fed recently.
I hold their gaze as their expressions border on smug with the separation decree destroyed. Soon enough, a fevered look overtakes the smugness, searing me with the heat of a thousand suns. But there's an underlying flicker of desperation too.
Fingers curled tightly around the bars of the gate, Silas speaks with a raw conviction that sets my pulse racing. "You'll never be rid of us, Kitten."
The guards shift uneasily and Zenith quickly looks around suggesting in a calm tone, "I think it's best if we had this conversation in private."
"Zenny, what—" Ispahan whirls around looking at him accusingly, but Zenith insists with a subtle shake of his head, "Not here, Han. Too many eyes."
Ispahan studies his soldiers and the small group of people standing beyond the castle gates behind my unruly husbands. We seemed to have gathered an audience.
Fucking wonderful!
He nods reluctantly at Zenith, then puts his arm around my shoulders and steers me toward the castle amid irritated growls.
Zenith asks the obnoxious seven to follow, the gates opening and closing with a resounding CLANG!
Shortly, we settle into a circular visitors' chamber just beyond the throne room. Ispahan and Zenith flank me while the seven sit facing us across a round table. No refreshments are offered. They're not welcome enough for hospitality.
"How have you been, my Delight?" Alistair murmurs, voice low, gaze tracing my face as if trying to memorize every detail.
"Fine." I respond coldly.
He nods, his eyes flicking to Ispahan and Zenith who are sitting beside me like silent sentries.
He opens his mouth to probably ask them to leave, but I nip such demands in the bud right away. "They stay. They're aware of the clusterfuck that's become my life. No pun intended, of course."
Silas and Rinn look like they want to rip something apart with bare hands but Baz puts a hand on their shoulders, effectively stopping them from getting thrown out. The clenched jaws and glares thrown our way don't go unnoticed.
The silence stretches as Alistair swallows thickly, then continues in a quiet voice laced with subtle tension. "What happened in Duat changed us in ways that we could never imagine. When I say we, I speak for all of us." He pauses, holding my gaze like he's trying to anchor himself.
Then, carefully, he recounts what followed after I left—how Anubis kept my secrets, never betraying my plans fully. Alistair's voice falters slightly as he continues, describing how they banded together to search for me after returning to Mytherra.
I remain silent, my face not giving anything away.
I fail to understand why they're still pursuing me.
I thought after the punishments doled out by Duat, they'd leave me alone and go their merry way.
I even expected them to hate me for all the things I'd said.
Yet I only sense unwavering devotion, bordering on obsession that honestly confuses the hell out of me.
They're always possessive and loving before, but something feral has pervaded their emotions.
"There're things we saw, experienced, that altered our perceptions.
Of ourselves and...of you, irrevocably. We're forced to witness the events from the night of the Veilmoon as an observer and that...
broke something within." Alistair's eyes glisten with unshed tears but he maintains his steady gaze.
"We went into your bedroom, Aleiraah. After you left. And the guilt hit me hard. It felt like someone had ripped out my heart and sliced my insides into ribbons." He closes his eyes for a moment, tears spilling down his cheeks.
I still don't say a thing, letting him get it all out, so there's no room for rehashing all this.
"We acted like uncaring beasts. Ravaging you––our only love––in a way that can never be undone. Our cruelty surpassed our thread of humanity. We kept going down a dark path. We did and said things to hurt you. The rational side that would've made us think twice was missing. Suppressed.”
I scoff in disdain and he rushes to explain.
"It's not an excuse, Aleiraah, but we believe the Veilmoon affected us.
Yes, there was provocation"—he glances at Rinn and Azael who stare at me solemnly— "but something altered within us when the Veilmoon bled into the sky.
And you were brutalized—a casualty of pack mentality.
" Alistair runs his hand through his light brown hair.
His gaze reflecting a deep sadness, voice gruff with regret.
I look away for a moment, his words stirring the memory of the prophecy again.
When I'd gone for a late morning stroll in the farmer's market a few months ago…
Gnomes are hawking fruits and herbs as I make my way through the bust streets. Pixies are stacking frostpears and moonberries, and a few give chase to runaway tangleberries crawling back to the nearby bushes. Those berries used to creep me out as a kid—Mother thought it's hilarious.
Faes are selling bright flowering plants next to bear shifters gruffly trading jars full of home-grown golden honey. While perusing a jar of lavender infused dark honey I feel a tap on my elbow.
I spin around, surprised that someone other than my husbands has managed to sneak up on me. Only to find an old woman with a wrinkly face and gap-toothed smile. Covered head to toe in a dark green robe she’s hunched over a sturdy wooden staff.
"Alms, my dear?" She asks in a reed thin voice.
A pair of serene milky blue eyes peer through the hood covering most of her face. There’s something about her that I can’t quite put my finger on. But I take a few coins out of my silver pouch, handing them to her.
"Can I buy you some honey?" I ask politely.
With grandmotherly affection she says, "Aren't you sweet! Tell you what dear, you buy me a jar of honey and I shall gift you a prophecy."
"There's no need for that." I turn toward the honey jars but she grabs my hand with her gnarly fingers, covered in paper thin skin. I try to withdraw my hand but she grips me with surprising strength making alarm course through my veins.
Suddenly, a gust of wind blows out of nowhere, lifting her hood and the single eye in the middle of her forehead opens.
I step back in surprise. A cyclops? What's a cyclops doing here?
They're not social creatures, strolling around a farmer's market of all places. Her prophecy mongering makes sense though since the cyclopes are staunch believers in fate and predictions.