two, but somehow Severn clung onto both.
He narrowly missed a high-rise apartment block by inches, then tucked his right wing in, banking around another sharp-edged building before soaring on to where the houses became smaller, scattered among greenery. He spied a field among the streets and tilted toward it, but the wings were ungainly, or his control of them was, and he already knew the landing was going to be a disaster.
He rolled at the last moment, tucking Mikhail against this chest. There was nothing he could do about the angel’s limp wings—just hope they didn’t shatter.
His back hit the ground. He skidded instead of tumbled, and while the friction tore flesh from bone, Mikhail was safely tucked against his chest, his wings trailing behind them.
They came to rest in the long grass, Severn panting, his back and wings on fire from the impact.
Mikhail…
Severn probed at his neck, searching for a pulse, and found it beating strongly beneath his fingertips.
Alive.
They were both alive.
He gently rolled Mikhail to one side and, hissing, pulled his damaged demon wings out from under them both.
He staggered to his feet, dragging his bleeding wings behind him.
Wings.
He had wings again.
But gods, they were ablaze with pain and looked as though they’d been through a cheese grater. But fuck, he had wings…
They were back.
Or were they?
Demon wings on an angel body? That didn’t seem right.
He staggered in the grass and tried to look for shelter, somewhere they could get away from prying eyes. If anyone had seen them fall, they’d tell the correctioners, or worse, the angels.
Pain throbbed so hard and so heavy, he went down to his knees in the grass. His heart thumped too heavily in his ears, and his head pounded.
He glanced over at the unconscious guardian angel. The wound in his gut had sealed itself shut. He’d wake soon, and he’d see Severn, and then what? Would he kill him?
Severn bowed his head and breathed around the agony, focusing on that instead of the clusterfuck that was everything else. Slowly, carefully, he drew the battered wings in, panting at their ache, until they were pinched in enough to illusion away. Then, with the dregs of strength he had left, he crawled back to Mikhail’s side and collapsed beside him.
Let destiny make the next move, because he was too wrecked to go on.
A sprig of hay tickled his nose. More hay stabbed at sore skin. He blinked open gritty eyes and spied timber beams arched high above him. Why wasn’t he in the damp, dark, cold space he always woke in now? He raised a hand and rubbed his eyes.
Memories poured in; the edge, the blazing sunlight, and Remiel throwing Mikhail over the side. Black wings tumbling against blue skies.
He jolted upright with a gasp. Gods, he was alive. He was in an old barn, its rusted tin roof peppered with pinpricks of light, and Mikhail was perched on a stack of bales, his face unreadable, his wings hidden. No, not unreadable… utterly flat, which meant he was hiding everything going on inside his head right now.
At least Mikhail hadn’t killed him while he was out cold. Although, there was still time, and Severn was in no condition to defend himself.
His back burned where his landing had scraped off layers of skin. He winced around the pain and shifted awkwardly on the straw bed.
“You’re hurt.” Instead of sounding sympathetic, Mikhail’s words growled like an accusation.
He twisted his arm and frowned at the grated shirt and skin. “It’ll heal. Not as fast as you, but…” Severn trailed off as his gaze found its way to Mikhail’s bare middle, where Remiel’s blade had protruded. Just a thin, pale line marked Remiel’s attack.
The sight of Remiel shoving Mikhail over the edge would haunt him for the rest of his days—although he doubted there’d be many days left.
Word of his plunge from Aerie would soon reach the demons. Just one sighting of his dramatic rescue of Mikhail would be enough for them to mount a search, especially if they learned of his wings. The angels would similarly be looking for them.
Mikhail was watching in that unblinking way he did, trying to decide the best way to solve a problem—terminally. But he was alive. They were both alive. Which was more than Severn had predicted a few hours before.
“How long have we been here?” He draped his forearms over his knees.
“All night. I carried you in before sunset.”
Mikhail had carried him, and he’d missed every second of it?
“This situation