well, I saved your life, so go to hell,” Keller snapped, and only then did Malachi realize he’d been staring.
“I did not ask for your pity. I prayed for death, and this is how I am repaid?” Malachi shook his head. The motion seemed oddly natural. “I am not meant to be here.”
“I can always put you back.” Keller sounded…insulted? Malachi had such a difficult time putting the word to the tone of voice.
“You are not pleased.” He could not summon up more empathy for the man’s reaction. Malachi’s only concern was for his mortal body, and the death that had been stolen from him.
“I’m a little pissed, yeah. I did save your life.” Keller turned to one of his worktables, moving some equipment there. “That’s worth something, whether you believe it or not.” After a long pause, he tossed something heavy onto the table with a clatter. “What were you doing in that tunnel?”
Malachi did not wish to discuss the details of the past hours with this man. It horrified him enough to know it himself. But the thought of not speaking made the ache of sorrow expand in his chest, and the only relief came from releasing the words he did not want to say. “I have fallen.”
“Didn’t the fall happen a long time ago? Like, in bible times?” Despite his questions, the Human seemed genuinely impressed.
“The first time. But Angels continue to fall.” Malachi closed his eyes. “It was an accident.”
Keller’s voice came from a great distance. “Well, ain’t that a bitch. One minute you’re immortal and the next you’re…not.”
When Malachi opened his eyes, the room spun. He listed to the side, felt as though he might slip from the table. With a shout of alarm, Keller raced to his side. “Lie down, lie down,” the Human ordered. He peered into Malachi’s face with an expression of worry. “I’ve got to get you something to eat. Then we’re going to the Strip.”
“Why?” The word sounded hollow from Malachi’s parched lips.
“Because you need a healer.” Keller moved away, and Malachi could not follow him with his eyes. They were too sore, too set on closing.
“Here, eat this.” The Human shoved a chunk of bread into Malachi’s hands. “It isn’t much, but I don’t keep supplies on hand for entertaining company.”
Malachi struggled to lean up on his elbows. The experience of eating was strange. The coarse, grainy bread made his mouth drier. It tasted horrible, but he could not stop stuffing more and more of it into his mouth, desperate to fill the aching void inside him. He gagged, and Keller rushed to his side. “Whoa, slow down. Here, drink this.”
Taking the cup offered him, Malachi swallowed the bread and gulped the water. Now, instead of empty, he felt uncomfortably tight, and he wished the Human had never offered him food.
Keller took the cup from him. “See, that’s good clean water. You’re lucky you found someone who’s got connections.”
“I am still thirsty.” Malachi reached for the cup, and Keller held it away.
“Not right now. Sometimes, when people are starving, they consume so much so fast that they…” He waved a hand. “Well, you’ll just cause yourself more trouble than you’re in now.”
Searing pain ripped down Malachi’s torso, as if he’d been run through with a sword. “Where is…where is the healer?”
“On the Strip.” Keller eyed him as though measuring him. “But you’ll need some clothes.”
“I do not wear clothes.” As an Angel, any garments he had needed had manifested from pure energy. Material objects, especially coarse fabrics, were too unpleasant to tolerate.
“Yeah, well, you look a little more Human than you used to.” Keller went to one of the cabinets and pulled out a box. “I won some clothes off a guy on a bar bet. He was shorter than you. Smaller all around. But there aren’t too many Humans your size.”
“Give me what you must, then take me to the healer.” If he survived the journey, he would devise another way to die.
“So, how did this happen to you? I mean, how does one accidentally fall? It seems like something you’d have to do intentionally.” Keller’s voice was muffled by the box he’d buried his head in. Occasionally he cursed and tossed something over his shoulder.
The memories were clouded, but something flickered through Malachi’s mind. A blaze of orange. Had there been flames? No. It had been…a Faery.
Rage burned his veins. Now this was an emotion he could grow to enjoy. It pulled the past few hours into sharp focus, gave him purpose. He could not seek death. Not when he could feel this anger grow in him, fuel him to seek out the Faery who had stolen his immortality and get the revenge due him. If mortals felt this exhilaration every time someone wronged them, perhaps he did envy them a bit after all.
“Hey, buddy?” Keller had been staring at him, Malachi had no idea how long.
But he did know what he would do next. “Take me to the healer.”
Five
The Queene did not leave her chambers until long after sunup. It annoyed Garret to know the reason for his sister’s laziness. It was either Cedric, Master of the Assassins’ Guild, or Tristan, his Second-in-Command. It could even be Robin Goodfellow, that low-class Trickster, just because he amused her.
Disgusting, the way Mabb carried on. In her hunger for an heir, it seemed she would bed any attractive Fae that could charm her with pretty words. It was ridiculous, really, for an immortal ruler to worry about her lineage. Especially when she had a younger, more qualified brother who would gladly assume the throne should something happen to end her reign.
Gods forbid.
He waited in her personal drawing room, easily one of the most extravagantly decorated rooms in the Palace. No bare cement for Queene Mabb. She had real wood panels shielding her eyes from the rough sight, and thick grass grew to cushion her delicate footsteps. The furniture had been fashioned of real wood, intricately carved, and somehow she found fresh flowers to garland the round doors. The entire Palace was a wonder to behold, but only in Mabb’s private rooms was there such sumptuous detail. Garret thought of his own dwelling outside the Palace, one room, large for the Underground but still minute compared to the Palace. And why was this not his? Because he had been born second.
He was welcome to live in the Palace, of course, if he wished to be subject to his sister’s scrutiny. She had a keen insight and wielded it against her brother like a sword, but could she turn it on herself? Of course not, Garret thought bitterly, watching maids scurry to and fro with bowls of hot water and towels for her morning beauty rituals. The water had come from Sanctuary, no doubt, for Mabb found it inconvenient to leave the Palace and demanded the springs brought to her.
“Don’t you make that face at us, Garret.” Scota, a pretty maid with butterfly wings the color of saffron, clucked her tongue disapprovingly at him. Her tone was reproachful, but her dark eyes sparkled with mirth. “Your sister works hard and deserves a bit of pampering.”
“Oh, I agree on that score. My only doubt lies in who exactly she has been working hard.” He gave the maid a drowsy smile, knowing the effect it had on the low-class females of the Palace. Scota had lovely fair skin and yards of curling dark hair, but he would never consider someone of her station for more than a bit of sport. Still, it did not hurt to leave his options open, especially when he had not enjoyed such diversions with Ayla yet.
Scota blushed prettily and dipped her head, but Garret’s mind now centered firmly on his student. Ayla. Low-class if ever an urchin was born. Half-Human, and how that tormented his dear, dear sister. But there was a wild sort of elegance to her, the way she moved as though she were meant to be a dancer, the way her hair snapped like red ribbons all around her. Of common birth, yes, but not so fragile as his dear, worthless sister.