Chapter 5
His new lifestyle was an adjustment. Not only being awake but eating, moving, talking. Gunnar had gone from a half-life to living again, with hope dangled in front of his nose like a fucking carrot.
Gunnar smirked as he worked through his morning exercise routine, beginning the moment the lights flicked on. He’d never needed more than four hours of sleep a night, so he spent a lot of time in the dark, wondering if nightly torpor was a thing. Since it wasn’t, he spent more time than he liked thinking about this damn woman.
Sure, he’d saved her life, but the lengths she’d gone to to repay that debt? It didn’t make a lick of sense to Gunnar. He was locked away, nothing she needed to waste her time on. Yet here they were, a human girl fighting with everything she had so he might see the sun again.
The first month was review, questions, answers, separating out the false records from Gunnar’s version of his life. On the second week, they were fifteen minutes late to their Tuesday meet. Esquire Doe grinned when she explained they’d been correcting the prison records. She’d gone through whatever record keeping the Citadel required to change a designation to a proper name.
He was Jonathan Gunnar now, which made him smirk given their earliest conversation. When he’d called her on it, she’d shrugged with a knowing smile and explained he had to have a first and last name on the paperwork. That was the first time she brought him food, a cupcake of all fucking things, to celebrate the success.
The archivist—Theo, Gunnar called him just to annoy the stoic bastard—seemed as dedicated to his case as Esquire Doe, though entirely for her benefit, not his. Warden Kushiel stayed close, escorting them in and out. Gunnar guessed he watched their sessions from behind the two-way glass.
Nine weeks in, Esquire Doe was getting antsy. She felt ready to file their motion with the Archival Tribunal. The archivist argued they should take more time. They’d only get one shot; they needed to make it count.
Gunnar wondered about their relationship. Older brother? Father? Mentor with a prodigious student?
. . . lover?
The last one seemed highly unlikely. Gunnar shouldn’t have cared. Who Esquire Doe had sex with should’ve been the furthest thing from his mind. He still felt a strange sort of satisfaction knowing the demigod didn’t have that kind of hold over her.
Good old Theo needed to return to the Citadel for a short time to settle a personal matter. “It will only be two weeks, Audrey,” he’d chided her.
That had been last Thursday.
Gunnar hopped to his feet, sweating as he shifted from pushups to jumping jacks. He took his shower days on visitation days. Seemed like the respectful thing to do. He finished his set, glancing at the mirror with a nod. Days marched on; he’d gained back more and more of his previous strength. He looked less like a warmed-over corpse at least, and the raw skin around his throat had healed clean.
Breakfast, a shower, and he’d timed it with ten minutes to spare before the guards showed up with his chains. As he latched them in place, he wondered what Esquire Doe might be like without her babysitter.
His senses were used to the trek now, and he didn’t flinch at the guards’ touch or the locks buttoning him down. Being chained to the chair wasn’t the best, but the archivist had negotiated down to arm and leg shackles with about six inches of give, citing good behavior. Now Gunnar could sit up straight, even lean back a bit.
Chained and alone, he drummed his fingers on the table. Glanced at the clock; he’d stopped denying after the first few meetings he looked forward to them. He had nothing else but his own mind forced awake for company. The guards never spoke beyond directions, and he saw no one else besides his counsel.
It helped too that whatever it was about Esquire Doe’s scent relaxed him. Helped the beast in his blood stay calm. He’d been crawling the walls those first months down in deep solitary before the torpor tripped on, ripped his skin wide open in a dozen places. Maybe it was more the tease of freedom than the woman, but he felt at ease after these sessions, even when the archivist and Esquire Doe argued like cats and dogs over a sticking point and she left furious or frustrated when their time was up.
Didn’t matter, she always smelled like sunshine underneath her emotions.
He checked the wall clock again, frowned a bit. The archivist wanted her to skip these two weeks when he was gone, didn’t care for her coming to a place like this alone. Gunnar agreed but kept out of the argument, and she’d convinced him she’d be fine. Gunnar had promised to be on his most respectful behavior. As much as the archivist disliked him on principle, he at least believed Gunnar had no intentions of hurting the woman trying to secure his freedom.
Said woman was fifteen minutes late. He didn’t like it. If she’d changed her mind about meeting him alone, Kushiel might not have bothered telling him, but they wouldn’t have dragged him from his cell. The warden was many things, but he wasn’t impractical. Any time Gunnar was outside full lockdown, there was a risk, however miniscule, he might find an out.
He hadn’t yet, and not for a lack of looking.
By twenty minutes, his instincts screamed. Gunnar couldn’t smell or hear shit beyond the damn room, but every inch of his skin crawled. Something wasn’t right. For the first time since he’d been brought here in chains, he gave his restraints serious attention, running through his knowledge of warding flaws and how to exploit them.
The door locks hissed and Gunnar froze. A near silent growl rumbled in his chest as her scent washed over him.
Fear, raw and primal, pouring from her skin in a fucking waterfall.
He jerked once against the chains, wanting to snap them apart, then closed his eyes and made himself settle. Esquire Doe was terrified; Gunnar wouldn’t make it worse.
He took the time to pick apart the notes of her scent as she wandered toward the table, her feet dragging, steps timid. Anxiety, sour sweat. Exhaustion. Humiliation. Salt.
When she finally passed into his peripheral vision, he snarled out, “What the fuck happened?”
She flinched, full-body, clutching her bag tight to her chest.
Shit.
Gunnar exhaled hard through his nose. He forced his voice down to a low timbre, the best he could do for gentle. “Go on, sit down, alright?”
She nodded once as she stumbled toward the chair, and he took her in. She only had two dress suits, and she alternated between the taupe one he despised and a powder blue with brown pinstripes that was barely better. They might be used, but she took good care of them, always tidy in her appearance. Professional.
Today the striped fabric was ruffled, like she’d thrown the clothes on instead of putting herself together like she had every other time he’d seen her. He could tell she never wasted hours primping herself, but her normally neat bun sat loose at her nape, strands stuck to her sweaty skin.
She sunk into the chair, knees tight together, satchel clutched in her lap as a shield. Breathing in pained little puffs, bloodshot eyes unfocused on the bare tabletop between them. She might bolt from the room any second, he realized.
Gunnar licked his lips, her distress making his beast just this side of feral, if only because there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
“Audrey.”
She startled, blinking up at him with wide eyes. He’d never used her first name before. It hadn’t felt right, like something he didn’t deserve. Hearing him say it seemed to bring her back to the present, and she released her white-knuckle grip on her bag to wipe her face, those delicate fingers trembling.
She swallowed a few times, dry and scraping, before she whispered, “I made a mistake.”
Gunnar rolled his neck, wishing for the collar so he could grind his throat against the metal until he bled. His molars ached. “How’s that?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head as tears spilled down her cheeks.
The salt stung his nose, might as well have been rubbing it into an open wound.
“A new . . . new bakery, on my walk here.”
He frowned, annoyed at the idea of her walking into the prison alone from wherever she lived, suddenly aware he had no idea where she lived, how long of a walk it was . . . Not that any of it was his business. “Yeah?”
“They opened today. I went . . . I stopped early, so I wouldn’t be late. They . . . it was busy. The owner, she’s very . . .” Audrey hiccupped. “Nice. She’s nice.”
She stared at the table until Gunnar hummed.
“Little cakes, but they’re tall and skinny, and they look like flowers.” She almost smiled. “I didn’t know sh-she used silver.” Her expression crumbled around a little sob. “A silver t-toothpick to hold the layers so the flower didn’t fall down.”
Contraband. They’d snagged her for smuggling contraband, even though anyone with two brain cells to rub together could recognize the innocent mistake. Gunnar’s heartbeat drummed in his ears, taking in her rumpled appearance again. He knew what went on in those back rooms.
“They hurt you?” He bit out the words, barely keeping the snap out of his voice.
“No,” she whispered.
Good. Maybe he’d make it through the day without trying to kill the guards. His knuckles ached from how hard he gripped his chair arms.
“Audrey,” he said, using every ounce of willpower to keep his voice low and level. “You need to send a message to Theo and get him back here.”
The smallest smile touched her lips. “He hates when you call him that.”
“Oh, I am aware.” Gunnar offered her a smirk, levity fading fast as it came. “Go home and let him know what happened. Don’t come back here without him.”
She frowned. “But we . . .”
“It’ll keep. Whatever you think you need me for, it can wait until he’s back.”
He knew she wanted to fight him; some of that fire was back in her eyes, but then she only sagged deeper into the chair. “Okay.”
“Good girl.” The words jumped from his mouth, and he decided not to dwell on it. “Go get some rest.”
“Okay.” She stood on coltish legs, her steps unsure, and he fucking hated it.
Audrey hesitated when she passed by him, a hand catching his sleeve and gripping it tight. He inhaled and held his breath, relieved to catch the sunshine under the mess of her emotions. She’d be okay. She was stronger than letting this shit scare her off.
“I’m sorry.”
He scoffed, leaning away as she let his sleeve go. “Don’t you ever fucking apologize, not to me.”
Another nod, and then she walked on, buzzing at the door com to let them know she was done. The locks and door opened, shut, and locked again, and he was left there alone for the next half hour, his nose saturated with her fear.
Color him surprised when the warden himself came in with the guards. As they unchained Gunnar from the floor and table, he canted his head at the angel, Audrey’s words rattling around in his brain, all that shit about rising and falling.
He wondered just how low a beacon of justice could sink.
Warden Kushiel watched him in return, expression impassive. His scent wasn’t smug like Gunnar expected. If anything, he smelled . . . inevitable. Unsurprised and unmoved.
“I’ll remember this,” Gunnar drawled. The guards tensed when he spoke, used to his obedient silence, but neither of the half-giants would overstep while their boss looked on.
Kushiel shrugged, today’s suit navy with an ivory tie and shirt. “And what is ‘this’ precisely? The dangers to a human girl wandering so far out of their depth? I should hope so.”
The warden nodded toward the guards, and Gunnar went back to his cell without further resistance. He didn’t sleep, couldn’t find enough calm.
On Thursday, the guards brought him from his cell again. Audrey’s archivist waited for him alone.
Because she was Audrey now, he realized, more than just his little lawyer trying to repay a debt. He wanted to protect her, was wild with the urge, same as when he found her bleeding out in that alleyway.
They didn’t speak until he’d been secured and the guards left, locks in place. They were always observed, of course, but the illusion felt like dignity if Gunnar let it.
“She alright?”
“She will be.”
“Got word to you Tuesday?”
“Yes, she requested a looking glass summons. For her to bother, I knew it must have been important. I arrived by the evening, and she’s been staying in my housing this week.” For all his outward calm and neutral expression, the man fumed under his skin, scent raw with a fury he hid very, very well. “She argued, of course, but I insisted. The compromise is that she’ll go home tomorrow.”
“She tell you anything else?”
The archivist folded his hands neatly in front of him. “Only how fortunate she was that Warden Kushiel arrived in time to stop the cavity search, citing it as excessive for what was clearly a misunderstanding by one not well-versed in prison policy.”
Gunnar felt equal parts relived they hadn’t fully violated her and furious all over at the idea of those assholes stripping her naked in a windowless, dark room.
“What a fucking savior.”
“Indeed.” There was a dangerous glint in the archivist’s gaze, and it felt strange to find himself so perfectly aligned with one who’d been begrudgingly dragged along for this entire mess. “Things will likely get worse before this is over.”
“Then we’ll be careful as we need.”
“I’m glad we have an understanding.”
“That we do, Theo.”
“Tread lightly, Mr. Gunnar,” he replied, but Gunnar detected the faintest hint of amusement under all that mutual anger painting his scent.
As the archivist moved to stand, Gunnar cleared his throat. There might not be another moment alone, and he’d found he didn’t like when Audrey smelled frustrated, disappointed, or even sad regarding his lack of belief that he’d make this parole.
“Answer me something,” Gunnar said, unsure exactly where to start. He licked his lips a few times when the archivist motioned for him to go ahead, his scent curious now. “Why now?”
“I assume you’re asking why the change in the Vilestars Accord was a success?”
Gunnar shifted in his chains; he didn’t much care for hope, fickle bitch it was, but still asked, “They secretly find some cure for vileblood up at your fancy Citadel?”
The man chuckled. Gunnar kind of hated the sympathetic shift in his posture. “Not a cure, no. As I’m sure you’re aware, your blood isn’t an infection or a disease, but a curse contrived by two powerful, clever, and extremely thorough Aperiens. That said, there seems to be less potency in the effects of vileblood the further removed your kind becomes from their source.”
“Diluted now, all these generations, huh?”
He nodded. “While your kind are still overly prone to blood madness, Esquire Doe’s research showed a decline in violent acts by vilebloods. In addition, the vileblood population is at an all-time low, continuing to decline.”
Gunnar chuckled. “Right, with all of us locked up, can’t exactly make more evil babies. And I’ve killed more than my fair share of my ‘brothers’ in the pens.”
“On necessity, I’m sure.”
He answered with a lazy shrug. “Prone to violence ain’t a lie.”
The archivist gave him a single nod, ceding the point. “Esquire Doe presented a well-founded case, with extensive statistical evidence. She appealed to those on the Citadel who had always opposed a genocidal approach to the Vilestars and their descendants. Right after the war, your kind were a plague, Mr. Gunnar. No offense intended.”
“None taken.”
“And as I’m sure you can imagine, killing babes in their cradles, even to save innocents down the road, wasn’t a good look for those who were supposed to be the heroes. The Vilestars Accord sought an alternative. The Accorded Territories fell in line, and for a century, no one checked to make sure implementation kept up with moral posturing.
“But Esquire Doe is not wrong in the facts. It has been long enough to reconsider. If the cost of saving humanity is losing our humanity, are we truly the victors? And who better than a human to call out the higher beings on their failings?” The archivist chuckled, the sound humorless. “But I don’t doubt for a second Lucifer and Lamashtu sought to ensure exactly such a legacy if their primary goal of annihilation failed.” He waved a hand. “And the Citadel could use some good PR, anyway. There are many who don’t agree with our stance of neutrality and inaction.”
“Guess she found the right man for the job then, huh, Theo?”
“I volunteered,” the archivist said, his silvery gaze boring down on Gunnar with the weight of his existence, and then he smiled that half-smile. “And if you’re freed, prove her right, Gunnar. Reward such unwavering faith. Because for all the gods who walk, few have it their power to offer what you can give Audrey.”
Gunnar didn’t have shit to say to that, which worked out just fine because Theo saw himself out.
On Tuesday, Audrey came with the archivist, put together as she’d ever been. She sat down across from him, took out a small box from her satchel, colorful cardboard folded like origami. Gunnar canted his head as she reached out and tugged at the right place. The box collapsed outward.
Inside waited a cake shaped like an open cornflower, no bigger around than his fist. Unlike the one she’d described to him the week before, this cake didn’t need anything propping it up, its petals flatted against the parchment paper. It smelled like mint, orange, and buttercream.
When he cocked a brow at her, Audrey lifted her chin, her scent bright and sweet and utterly smug.