Chapter Twenty Two

I'm not sure what had happened before or after what I'm shown, but I do know that, when my dream first sparks to life, Bryon and Audiat are in a cave of some sort.

Audiat is slouched up against the back of the wall, her reddish brown wings both strapped up in brusquely patched splints. Bandages crisscross her body, and her outfit is torn to shreds. Though weariness droops her eyelids to a certain degree, she still studies Bryon with alien distrust.

Bryon, on the alternative, is making himself comfortable. With a tranquil glaze coating his bronze eyes, he unfastens the cloak at his neck, proceeding to bundle it and gently set it beside him.

"Nice cloak," Audiat comments, her words awkward in the long silence. "I'd like a cloak like that."

A smile quirks with Bryon's lips, as if he finds Audiat's fascination amusing. "Good luck finding another one. You can try it on, though, if you'd like."

She studies it thoughtfully, as if considering running her hands through the silky brown folds of fabric, but doesn't move from her defensive corner.

I cannot help but recall one of my previous dreams, one with Bryon's daring rescue as he swooped in and snatched Audiat from the angel trap. This does not look that long after – and it would explain Audiat's trust issues.

Bryon, ignoring Audiat once again, removes the battered remnants of a shirt by ripping it off entirely, tearing further through the holes bullets had punched into the back of it. He dangles that in front of his face for a moment, watching the bloody, botched clothing spiral lethargically before him, before throwing it aside as well without a second thought.

"I'll need another shirt." Bryon smiles again, his lips twisting in the wry grin I've seen on his face a few times in my days. "I guess I'll be going bare for a while. Pity, it gets cold this high in the mountains at night."

Audiat continues to say nothing, her hostility increasing, as if his skin provokes her, frightens her – as if she's learned to defend herself against stripping men.

Bryon, looking a little bored with the lack of response, shakes his head in dull pity. He then cranes his neck to the sky, and rolls his shoulder blades. For the first time, I see his back in the gentle cascade of moonlight tumbling from the narrow cave entrance, and my horror is reflected in the sharp inhale of Audiat as she, too, sees the bloody mess of a back Bryon hosts – bullet holes pepper him, more than I'd been lead to believe, oozing sticky red blood down his muscular back.

But, as Bryon flexes his shoulder blades and arches his spine backwards, one by one, the bullets fall out, clinking against the stone floor as they topple. He grunts with muffled anguish at each one, eyes squeezed shut, but he doesn't give any more indication he's in pain. After all, Audiat is positioned in such a way that she can't see the agony searing in his bright bronze eyes, can't see the pained grimace consuming his expression, can't even see the teeth slamming deep into his bottom lip and drawing blood.

"Damn!" he barks abruptly after the last one plinks out. Sucking up the blood along his lips and smoothing out his expression, he returns to his normal façade without difficulty, as if it is a practiced maneuver.

"What's wrong?" Audiat questions, alarm hitting her voice.

"There's one bullet," he murmurs without inflection, "lodged in neatly between my ribs. It's been there long enough that I can't get it out like I can the other ones. If it stays there, it'll be very difficult to remove."

"Oh." Audiat's voice is impassive. "And this is… normal?"

Bryon casts a munificent glance in her direction. "Not especially. Don't worry, I'm not going to die. I've got some sort of internal doctor specializing on that; someday, I'll know I'm dying, but now, I know I'm not. I need your help, though, with something you might find a little disgusting."

"Don't underestimate me." She tilts her head to one side. "What do you need me to do, Young?"

Bryon's eyes twinkle. "Call me Bryon. And I need you to get the bullet out before I heal completely. Dig into my flesh and pull it out."

Audiat is silent for a moment. Slowly, elegantly, she straightens from her position, and scoots over to Bryon. "You're right, that is a bit disgusting," she agrees with a brusque tone of voice. "…Which bullet hole is it?"

Bryon's broad, calloused hand covers the pale fingers gingerly probing his back, massive hand atop the slender. Gently, he guides her hand until her palm rests over a rather horrific wound in his side.

"That one," he informs, glancing back once at her. "Do realize that the wrong move, when you… ah, remove the bullet, can possibly cause me much more pain than the injury itself. You'll be inside of me, quite literally, and you can cause some damage once you're in there. Have you ever done this before?"

Audiat shakes her head with a hasty negative. "No. Had it done, but never done it myself."

"Alright." Bryon tenses, bracing himself for impact. His fingers curl in on themselves, braced against the skin of his palms. "Anytime now, and you can do your worst."

Audiat hesitates, and then slips her long fingers into Bryon's open wound. Her face pulls in sympathy as his entire body shudders with anguish and his head bucks back. Still, though, Bryon remains utterly motionless, despite his fingernails piercing the skin of his palm and the tortured gleam in his eyes.

"You aren't very good at this," Bryon grunts, his tone taut.

"Almost done," she whispers, pulling her fingers free a tad bit too early. I can see the silver gleam of the butt of the bullet peeking through the glistening red, but Audiat had failed to pull it from his side completely, though.

Bryon shudders violently, the aggressive movement shaking the bullet out. It joins its siblings littered on the stone floor with a clink. Sighing heavily, Bryon settles against the wall of the cave, his eyelids fluttering shut. A fountain of blood gushes from the wound Audiat had broadened, streaming down his side to pool at the floor.

"You're going to bleed out," Audiat comments dubiously. "You've only got a limited supply of blood."

Bryon's lips jerk back in a conciliatory manner, but his eyes do not open. "Actually, I've got all the blood in the world. I'll be fine by morning. But I still won't have a shirt."

"Are you some sort of bizarre Fallen angel?" Audiat whispers in puzzlement. She studies him with eyes filled with miscomprehension. "You've got an angel's size, an angel's strength, and, evidently, an angel's durability. But you've got – got – a gentle personality. No angels have that, no he-angels, at least. You're intelligent, another thing he-angels lack." She glances once at his bare back. "You don't even have the shadows of wings. So, what are you? Are you some demented sort Fallen angel?"

Bryon chuckles thunderously, settling himself against the stone. "You're clever. I like that. No, Audiat, I have never identified as an angel, nor do I ever plan to."

Audiat barely seems to have recognized his words. Her eyes are wide with horror, darting about, and her battered feathers are bristling. "There's someone out there."

One of his eyes peel open. "You'd better be pulling my leg."

"No." Her eyes intently study the miniscule opening. "I think it's the one group that trapped me earlier, the one that pelted you in the first place." She glances towards the battered shirt he'd discarded. "And I'd bet with all this blood, their hounds tracked us without a problem. We'll be holed up like a rabbit in the middle of a hunt."

"Not if I can help it." Shutting both eyes once more, Bryon shifts, hissing once in pain as he jars a wound. "Pass me my staff, please."

"You stay put." Bracing herself against the wall with one hand, Audiat stands, her legs wobbling unsteadily. "I'll handle it."

Though she carries on despite Bryon's protests, Audiat only makes it a few feet before she collapses with a high-pitched cry of pain, her knees buckling. Bryon launches from his pathetic position against the wall, catching her head before it cracks against the stone.

"Stay here," Bryon orders. He rises without difficulty from the ground, hobbles over to retrieve a chunky, unfamiliar staff, and hobbles then in the direction of the exit. His bare, bloody shoulders reflect the starlight with the crimson rivers crossing over his back.

Audiat stares after him in frustration as dog bays and hoarse male bellows begin to sound outside. At least she realizes she can't assist him, that she's in too poor a shape to help in any way, but she doesn't look all too pleased about it.

First, cries of recognition echo down the cave from inside as the hunters first spot Bryon – but those cries are quickly replaced with howls of pain. The crack of wood against flesh repeatedly sounds in a constant, staccato rhythm, with the startled shouts in perfect harmony. I, like Audiat, much await Bryon's return.

At last, when all of the dog barks have faded into the distance and not a human voice cries out in the night, Bryon calls in solace to Audiat. "See? We're all good here."

"Did you kill them?" Though Audiat attempts to maintain a shield of indifference, a slight ricochet of horror backs her words.

"They'll have bruises in the morning, maybe one with a concussion, but nothing that won't heal," Bryon consoles. "Also, one of them will be missing a shirt. I advise, however, that we get out of here before any more show up." He pokes his head in through the opening. "Do you mind if I carry you again?"

And, with that final note, I'm whisked off to another dream and another tale, again featuring Bryon and Audiat – except this time, there is a less tense air about them, as if friendship has replaced the awkward distrust. Their forested setting doesn't differ too dramatically from the last time they'd been in contact.

Biting her lip, Audiat is pressing a ratty cloth to Bryon's shoulder, where another fountain of blood erupts from. Her own bushel of curls raining over her shoulders is splashed with blood, although its origin is unknown. Her delicate wings shade Bryon from the glaring sun above, the feathers filtering just enough golden light through to illuminate the bronze gleam in his eyes.

"Rotten bastard," she hisses. "That was a cheap, cheap shot."

"No." Bryon starts to cough, hacking violently. He leans over and spits out a massive glob of blood. "It was extraordinarily clever. Which angel was it that stabbed me, exactly?"

"Uriel, tricky fleabag," Audiat growls in disgust. Bryon can't see the way her eyebrows are pinched together with explicit concern, can't catch the sparkle of worry dancing in her red eyes, can't even see the tenderness which she presses the cloth against his shoulder. But I can.

"Not fleabag." Bryon winces, as if she presses slightly too hard, but doesn't allow her to see his expression, either. "Keep an eye on that one – he's got his own agenda, I'll bet. It may not become clear for a very many centuries, but he's got the spark of a mad genius. He knew the dagger he stabbed me with was going to snap. Now that damned blade's lodged itself in my shoulder, just like he anticipated."

"I suppose so. I'll keep a lazy eye on him if it pleases you. But for the moment – your shoulder. What should we do? Just stem the bleeding?"

Bryon shakes his head slowly back and forth, expression brooding. "No. No, that won't work – it's a long distance from the closest healer, and by then, I'll have patched myself up. It's not pleasant, to have them reopen a healed wound. Do you think you could…?"

"Oh." Audiat's expression quavers. "That."

Hastily, Bryon says, "If you don't desire, you needn't do it yourself. It is a task that does not require anything but a will of iron, and if you don't think –"

"I've done it before," Audiat breaks off, her voice a vague imitation of poorly mimicked indifference. "I can do it again. How deep is it…?"

"How far will you have to reach? A single inch. How many inches is the length of the entire blade in my shoulder? Four, I do believe. It hurts like hell. The sooner you get it out, the better."

Audiat hesitates still. "Bryon?" Her voice is soft, lilting in a quiet, gentle inquiry.

"Yes, Audiat?" His head swivels slightly, the very tips of his hair brushing against her hand on his shoulder. His bronze eyes fasten onto hers, shining with undeniable and passionate concern.

"If I don't get it out, what will… will you…?"

Bryon chuckles with abrupt relief, his shoulders rippling with the laughter. "I'm not going to die, Audiat. Didn't I tell you once I know when that sort of thing will happen?"

Audiat sighs dubiously. "It sounds bogus to me. Okay. I'll do it. Just… I don't know… sit tight, okay?"

Bryon tenses slightly, as if preparing himself for pain, but he keeps the muscles around the wound limber. Before, Audiat had seemed oblivious to his subtle exhibitions of pain and nervousness, but now, they seem to leave just as much a mark as his soothing words.

With an extended hesitation, she lies her hand on the back of his neck and rubs into the firm tendons there, goading him silently to relax beneath her fingers. Although somewhat stubborn to release his protective tension of muscles, with one sizing glance in Audiat's direction, he goes pliant beneath her.

True, Bryon's back is turned, and his expression is beyond the reach of Audiat's vision. But if I can see the difference in posture, the fundamental shift in his bearings, then it is undoubtable that Audiat, who, even at this point in their entwined lives, has been around him longer than I have, can see it as well.

Grimacing, Audiat buries her hand into Bryon's shoulder, same as before. Her disgust is almost equal to Bryon's hidden pain – this, he hides better than his affection, as if his experience is greater in such an art.

Audiat scowls with repulsion, her fingers working deeper into his flesh. Bryon hisses in his exhale, a gradual release in his tension – it's almost as if he's forcing himself to be calm beneath Audiat's hands.

"I got it," Audiat murmurs, her pale eyebrows knitting together. "Hold still. Just a moment more…"

Bryon inhales staggeringly, sucking in his breath. Audiat's fingers slowly draw back from his flesh, pulling free the dagger's blade embedded into his shoulder. And, inch by precious inch, her slender fingers remerge, bathed in scarlet and dripping with sticky liquid.

Succeeding her hand, the dripping blade slides from his flesh. Bryon starts to grunt and hiss quietly as the final inch emerges, something I don't quite comprehend until I see the end of the blade – the tip of Uriel's dagger is serrated in a sole razor barb, the hook baited with a mess of jiggling red that I can't bring myself to look at.

"Dear Lord Almighty," Audiat murmurs, her eyes reflecting the dagger's bloody sheen.

"It's not so bad," Bryon guffaws hoarsely, his shoulders shaking in a poor imitation of laughter. "Once, I had a Fallen angel get his wings all wrapped up around me. It was a mess. There were many more barbs, I can assure you, and his hands weren't quite as… soft… as he ripped them from me."

Audiat thrusts the blade downwards with an expert flick of her wrist, burying the razor into the dirt at Bryon's feet. "My hands are soft because I don't like hurting you. I don't like hurting anyone. And a Fallen angel will hurt anyone."

Bryon's lips quirk. "Do you ever have a strange feeling" – he straightens his shoulders, cracking his neck, and rising to tower above Audiat – "that, through the course of a great adventure, that someone's opinion will change?"

As they share tentative, cautious smiles, my brain is already slipping into another reality, one with a greater hint of urgency. Instead of peaceful and quiet, their surroundings are chaotic, noisy, and, this time, the ruins of a building. Smoke tangs my dream's nostrils, mixing with the suffocating odor of the dust hanging in the air.

My uncle's hollow breaths echo off the stone rubble, each inhalation painfully sharp, and each exhalation wet and croaking. One of his legs is brutally mangled, as if it'd been crushed by the rubble encircling him; the other is bent at a cruel angle. His eyes are only visible through a glassy slit in his eyelids, the barest bronze still peeking through his fluttering eyelashes. Sticky crimson blood pumps from a wound in his chest, the dark red sharply contrasting Audiat's pale skin as she tries to stall his bleeding with her own hands.

Her voice, higher in pitch and reedy with stress, sounds over the distant din of battle. "Oh, God, oh, God, Bryon. This is too much blood." The hands pressed up against his chest begin to shake, her wings trembling. "What do I do? What do I do?" She begins to pant, hyperventilating. Her eyes roll slightly. "God, Bryon, there's nothing to stem the bleeding! What should I do?"

"Deep…" He hacks, blood staining his lips. "Deep breaths. Need… a paper… bag?"

"Bryon!" Audiat shrills. "I can keep this under control! How do I stem your bleeding? Or, I don't know, get the shrapnel out of your chest?!" This only sets her off again, into a mad breathing fit. Her expression of utmost panic could potentially break my heart – and, evidently, Bryon feels much the same.

"Calm," he huffs, hand groping blindly until it closes around one of hers. He rubs a massage around each of her fingers, the simplest movement bringing relaxation to her breathing. "Reach in. Grab it. Pull out. I'll do the rest."

"Reach into your chest?" Audiat breathes; for a short moment, it appears as if she's horrified, as if her nerves are forbidding such a grotesque option. But quickly, she steels herself, squaring her shoulders and stomaching her fear. "Okay. Okay, I've done your back, done your shoulder – now your chest. Okay. With my entire hand, or just fingers?"

Bryon moves the one shoulder not sliced to smithereens by shrapnel slightly in a gesture I assume is a shrug.

"Right. Okay. Alright." Audiat shakes her head hyperactively, her wings still jittering left and right, their brownish red feathers stirring the debris' dust. "Bryon, what if…" She swallows, lip quivering. "What if I grab something that's not supposed to be grabbed?"

The familiar chords of laughter rattle about in Bryon's lungs, turned into more of a cough than a chuckle. "I won't… die. Doesn't feel like it. Not… not now."

"Okay." Audiat steels herself, squaring her shoulders and lifting her head. She forms a sort of shovel with her fingers, allowing them to hover over the gaping wound in his chest. "God, we do this way too often. Okay, here I go. Squeeze me if it hurts, alright?" Using her opposite hand, she twines their bloody fingers together.

Bryon coughs bitterly as her fingers slip into his flesh and then howls with the most pain I've heard him display yet. Audiat's hand convulses, her lips twisting in an amalgam of disgust and horror, but only heartrending love gleams in her eyes as she watches him thrash and strain against pain that is her own doing. Bryon's hand is tight around hers, but it seems that he cannot funnel all his energy into that contact – not without snapping her fingers, which I cannot believe Bryon would ever make himself do.

"I got it," Audiat cries. "I got it!"

She wrenches back, and Bryon releases a final bellow of pain as her fingers slip from inside of him. Audiat shakes and shivers like a leaf in the wind, holding the bloody metal shard to her face to inspect the crimson edges and points that'd been buried in Bryon's flesh. In repulsion, she flings it away, tossing it so it lands somewhere amongst the rubble. It hits a shattered stone column and splinters.

"Good… good girl," Bryon wheezes. "Good job."

Even Bryon's voice cannot rip Audiat from her horrified stupor; it seems to me like she's having a full-on panic attack, but I can't be certain. She surveys both her sticky, dripping fingers and the destruction around her with mute horror. Until this moment, I had not realized that dust-blanketed feathers and wings lay amongst the debris, that alongside the shattered rocks also lay shattered skulls. And, apparently, Audiat had not truly registered it, either.

Bryon notices her dismay almost immediately, and both his bruised, bloody hands close around the two of hers. He grunts and attempts to weakly prop himself up, hefting his head from the stone pillow only to let it fall back again with a painful crack. Instead of rising, he studies Audiat with soft bronze eyes, crooning soothing words all the while.

"You did a great job, Audiat," he murmurs in a tone much resembling golden honey. "I couldn't have gotten a better treatment from doctors. You had a very steady, soft hand." He draws her gaze by squeezing her hands, and then stares at her with unparalleled and inarguable adoration. "Audiat. You've done brilliantly. The other shards will heal."

"This is my home, Bryon." Her voice cracks, and a single tear spills from her eye. "I've lived here for… for… almost seven years. How could they do this to us? What… why are they doing this?"

"Oh, Audiat." Bryon tenderly swipes away her tear with both of their hands entwined. "I wish there were words that would make it all better, that would make all the pain go away. But we're at war, love. This is what happens in war. It's why I hate it so."

"Then I hate war, too." Her shaky voice carries bitter weight. "This is not a glorious battle or a heroic fight. This is savagery, savagery of the most harrowing kind. To think that my eyes were closed to this behavior for all these years –" Wearily, she cuts off, staring down into my uncle's eyes in a search for consolation.

Bryon provides comfort without a single plea. Taking both her hands in one fist, he cups her face, rubbing his thumb rhythmically at her cheek again, the tips of his fingers combing her hair. "You are so wise. Do you know that? You are not only able to see beyond prejudices and stereotypes, you are able to redefine yourself separate from their hooked tethers."

Audiat laughs hollowly. The arm propping her up quakes violently with her chuckle, threatening to give way – before it's done unwillingly, though, Audiat lowers herself until she's lying beside Bryon, her head pillowed against his bloody chest, crimson staining the white of her skin.

"I'm not wise, Bryon," she mutters as she curls against him, snuggling into the nooks of his body. "I've just come to realize that stereotyping anything, especially love, is the worst possible crime I could ever commit."

The first thing I register as my coherence snaps back into my body is that Paige's pocket of warmth in the sheets is missing.

The second thing I register is that she's swinging open the door to a stranger.

I hurl my legs over the bed, scrambling with heated cheeks as my brain desperately scans the bare hotel room for something to throw on over my simple nightdress as Paige opens the door wider and wider. Yelping, I lunge for the fluffy bathrobe as light floods the room, slipping my arms through the sleeves as Paige lifts her hands and waves hello.

Blinking to banish all signs of sleep from my eyes and shoving my mussed hair from my face, I stagger to the open doorway, grabbing Paige's shoulder before looking into the eyes of the man who'd come to pay a visit at this early a time.

His eyes are brown, a chocolaty, warm sort of color – big, ovular, expressive. Everything, from the broad set of shoulders to the muscular legs he hosts, is coiled and poised, like a lynx ready for a small, furry animal to hunt down. Despite the cruelty he seemingly holds himself with, there is a delicate balance in all of his features. I recognize the black leather armored shirt he wears more than his physical characteristics; it cuts off at the shoulders, allowing limpid view of his arms, and has two sword sheathes built into the back of it, nestled between where I know his wings are folded. Additionally, he carries several knives at his thick belt, their silver gleams unhindered by scabbards.

He'd been the Spanish one, the one with the melodic name.

"Uh, hi," I greet, snapping my mouth shut, bundling my robe around me tighter. In vain, I attempt to calm the wildfires raging at my cheeks. "Can I help you?"

The man's eyes are trained on Paige, as they had been ever since I'd stumbled up, and his expression ice cold. "Miss Young, is that your sister?" he rumbles in his exotic accent, voice utterly emotionless.

A heavy stone settles in the pit of my stomach. My grip on Paige's shoulder tightens, and, for a split second, I consider whisking her inside and slamming the door on the Hispanic's face. "It so happens," I concede, my awkward gaze shifting into a warning glare.

Abruptly, a warm yet somewhat distant smile punctures through his chiseled tough façade. Those expressive eyes reveal their true potential and show everything there is to show – and, sinking to one knee, he brings those eyes to my sister's level. Despite his evident change in temperament, my hold on Paige tightens even further – a warrior does not kneel before a little monster.

"Hello," the boy silks, not moving in any way Paige or I could possibly consider threatening. "My name is Emilio. Emilio De La Flor. Who would you be, little Miss Young?"

Paige, who'd shied against my leg at Emilio's descent, seems to burn with curiosity – she steps away from me, ignoring all displays of my distress, and studies the man with intelligent, fascinated eyes. No actual words follow his inquiry, nothing vocal; rather, they seem to communicate with body language harmony. It takes me a fair amount of time to see the relation in movements, the shift of eyes and the squaring of shoulders and bowing of heads.

Paige grins as best she can with the stitching pulling at her lips.

Emilio smiles to the exact same degree as he rises from his crouch.

"You seem to know a lot about how to deal with my sister," I notice suspiciously, still not utterly trusting the strange warrior.

Emilio's warmth spreads to me, as if my sister's charm had melted some of the ice encasing his heart. He lifts a hand for me to shake. "Yes, well, I've dealt with quite a few that the angels had tortured in similar ways. You've got to know how to use your body to communicate."

I study Emilio as I take his outstretched hand, shaking it once with a curt note to it. This new face, new character, is so different from the one I'd seen yesterday, or even the first few seconds of today, and I'm not sure how much I trust that flimsy a personality. Then again, he is undoubtedly a Nephilim, and I believe Bryon would take it well if I made friends. He might even be proud of me.

"Really?" Instead of dwelling on my uncertainties, I pursue a subject I'm more interested with. "There's more kids like Paige?"

His brow wrinkles. "I assume there's more than what this town has to offer. I freed a band of them, right when the program began – of course, at the time, it was just some lunatic's fantasies. I had no idea it would return after I destroyed their lab, or that it would grow." He tilts his head back, glancing at the sun breaking over the tiles of the roofs around us like gold bleeding over the ridge of a mountain. "It's much too early to worry about such troubling thoughts, though. The real reason I'm here is because my mother was devastated that you" – he mimics her tone with amusing accuracy – "poor skinny little twig couldn't eat any of her delicious and fattening garlic lamb and had gone to bed hungry. Outrageous. So, she made you breakfast."

"Wait, really?" I blink again, wondering if he's merely a mirage conjured up by the sun's glare. "She made breakfast? For us?"

Emilio nods solemnly. He leans down and plucks something from the ground, something that'd been hidden by the doorway's frame: a glass casserole dish, maybe the largest I've ever seen. "Good breakfast, too. She doesn't get up to cook for me, so I scooped a bit out for me – there's still plenty to go around," he adds hastily. "She makes very large quantities, as if she's still feeding our entire family. Anyway, it's good. Good stuff."

"What is it?" I question as I loop my arms around the glass dish, prepared to bear its weight. "Wow, this is heavy!"

"Here." He lifts it from my reach, shaking free my arms. "I'll put it inside for you. Where exactly…? Where exactly do you want it?"

"Uh." My blush returns with full force, burning my cheeks. I pivot out of his way, bundling the robe around me self-consciously. "Uh, right there, on the coffee table. I'll do the rest."

Emilio nods tersely. He slides past me with ease, smiling once down at Paige when he walks by, and sets the glass against the wooden table. After having placed it perfectly on the table, Emilio remove the foil covering to the dish, releasing a sweet, sweet fragrance into the air.

I sniff deeply as Emilio walks back, filling my nose with the scent.

"You like Mama's cooking?" Emilio flashes me a smile. "Smells good, doesn't it? Our house smells like this all the time. I think she does it on purpose, fattening me up like a pig for slaughter." He throws back his head in a chuckle. "She makes you eat until your stomach might burst with happiness and flavors and then scolds you for getting too roundy. Be careful, eating around her."

"What is that?" I whisper, eyes trained on the beautiful dish. Even Paige seems entranced by the fragrance, drifting closer with flaring nostrils.

"That? Scrambled eggs, fresh from the chickens she raises on the roof, with chorizo. Not hot, spicy, tongue-burning Mexican chorizo – Mexicans ruin everything – but good, tasteful, seasoning chorizo. Spanish chorizo. The good chorizo. I think you will enjoy. You, too, little Miss Young."

"Her name is Paige," I murmur, eyes still fixed on the eggs.

"Paige?" Emilio's approval is warm. "What a beautiful name. Paige Young. Hmm." He clears his throat. "Well, goodbye, the two of you. fare well. Do not eat too much, she will scold you for being fat! I hope we meet again, little Paige; I think you'd like my sister. Penryn, I'll meet you by noon in the square."

"Huh?" I turn around with surprise, my eyes wide, like a startled deer facing a predator. "What? Why?"

Emilio casts one glance backwards, his face hardening into the stone mask it'd been before he'd arrived. "I suppose no one's had any chance to tell you, considering your slumber, Bella Durmiente." His white wings flex slightly from their stiff teardrop positions folded on his back, quivering to vanquish and rigidness he may maintain. "Your uncle arranged for me to train you for these short days. Apparently, he doesn't think you swing your sword well enough. How I shall do anything with this amount of time, I am not sure – but we shall have to see, I suppose, what I can do."

Then, without another word, he hops onto the arch, slams out his wings to their full length – a pathetic comparison to Raffe, true, but aweing in its own measure – and glides away, joining the spirals of other Nephilim in the sky.

As I watch him disappear, another figure soon swallows my attention with his dark prowl. Yanking my gaze from Emilio, I watch as Raffe benignly trots towards me, his sideways gaze trained on me and his mouth set in a firm line. The sight of him acting in such a petulant manner banished the gruesome questions Emilio brought up. I bundle the robe tighter over my breasts and comb a hand through my hair.

Smothering a giggle at his poorly concealed approach, I smile at him. "Hey, Raffe," I greet in a fake sugary voice. "Whatcha doing?"

Raffe halts, hesitates, and surrenders the act and adopts another. Crossing his arms over his chest, Raffe studies me. "Trying to locate the origin of that fragrance," he informs. "I do believe it's wafting from inside your hotel room. Tell me, is it Spanish chorizo?"

"Is there really that much of a difference in scents?" I tilt my head to one side. "Huh. Emilio said they were really different, but..."

"Tell me," Raffe insists in too innocent a voice, "was Emilio just here dropping off your breakfast? At this hour? Or did he want anything?"

I roll my eyes, unable to quiet the smile toying with my lips. "Raffe, he was dropping off his mother's cooking. It was far from a sensual experience."

"You never know." Raffe glances over each shoulder. "He is Hispanic. You know what they say about Spanish men. They're the ultimate thieves, because they steal the one thing you can't replace."

"Oh, really." Smirking, I open the door to invite him inside. "You're a man that relies on a lot of stereotypes, aren't you? Let it go, come inside, and have some of my eggs."

His eyes widen slightly as I open the room to him, pupils blowing wide. Something in his composure wavers, something fundamental to his facade. After having studied my room in utter silence, Raffe smiles grimly.

"There's not many ways to personalize these rooms, are there?" He edges backwards still avoiding my gaze. "Rather bland."

Maybe all the men are trying to out-weird each other. I make a mental note that I need more female companions.

"Right," I agree, studying him suspiciously. The light drapes over his shoulders and gleams off his glossy wings, and the sun frames his head in a perfect halo. His blue eyes sparkle, their pallor nearly identical to that of the morning sky behind him. Shaking my head to clear it, I focus on the problem at hand.

"Well, you've found the source of the smell," I congratulate awkwardly. "You want some eggs, or...?"

"No." Raffe shakes his head, a hint of wistful emotions swimming in his eyes. "No, you're not even dressed yet." Black wings shuffling on his back, he hesitates, as if reluctant to abandon me. "I would like to speak to you later on, though, princess."

"I thought we agreed I was the Evil Queen, O lone, sexy Knight in Feathered Armor," I tease, provoking his playful side into action.

"You know, that was a strangely prophetic idea I had there," Raffe hums, crossing his arms and grinning. "Considering you are royalty, what with the Dragon King and all. Maybe you should be an Evil Princess."

Princess. He's right. In a strange, roundabout way, I'm a princess.

"Well, I hardly think this princess will need saving from the big, bad dragon," I chuckle. "Looks like the Knight in Feathered Armor is unemployed."

Raffe considers this with a, "Hmm," of deep thought. "Maybe it's not the dragon you need saving from," he husks, leaning closer. The smile pulling at his lips throws my stomach into a washing machine. "Maybe it's something much closer to home."

"Someone's left out the 'Evil' in the title," I note with a wicked grin. "Don't count your chickens before they're hatched. Be sure of the fact that I can make things interesting."

"Don't worry, Your Highness," Raffe drawls, "I'm counting on it."

We grin at one another with the funniest sort of smiles, and, as we stare into each other's eyes, I cannot help but wonder if Raffe feels the same rebelliousness, impulsive and undaunted, the same warmth, sunny and carefree, as if his gaze has opened a happier dimension for me solely, or the same slight undertone of wistfulness, the whisper of a song that shall never be sung on the edge of my conscious, the deep, painful pang in the pit of my stomach, a yearning for something that will never be.

But, before I can complete my evaluation, a mushy slopping noise sounds from behind me, quickly followed by Paige's cry of distress.

I turn on heel, heart pounding for an entirely separate reason. My relief escapes in a heavy sigh as I see that she'd only failed to scoop some of the scrambled eggs onto her little plastic plate. It lies in a quivering pile on the carpet. Paige falls to her knees before the food, possibly a trait she'd picked up from Hugo, who does the same thing when he drops something.

"I'll leave you two to eat," Raffe chuckles. He'd probably witnessed my sister's dilemma, and my alarmed response had amused him. "I'll see you later, my Evil Queen."

I meet his gaze, lips forming the first syllable of a word; I can't finish the word, no matter how hard I may try. Raffe's wings are extending slightly, and, though they are hideous, Raffe was truly meant to have six limbs. A sense of belittlement crushes any reply I might've mustered as he squares his shoulders and glances back. Through my trance, I get the notion his eyes are following Emilio's shape, and, by the dip in his lips, I can tell he's not too fond of the other warrior.

Swinging that dangerous gaze back around to me again, Raffe smiles crookedly. He steps forward, closing the distance between the two of us in one elongated stride. My heart tap-dances in my chest as one of his hands reach to the soft skin of my cheek, his calloused fingers tracing my jawline and combing through my knotted, greasy hair.

"Goodbye," Raffe murmurs, his eyes so close to mine I could trace their shapes with a single finger. My knees feel weak as his lips swoop down to mine.

It is more a fleeting touching of lips than a true kiss; there is none of the passion, the fervor, as there had been at the aerie. If anything, it is a message to all males nearby in Raffe's primal language – it's a warning that I am his, and that I shouldn't be one to meddle with. But that doesn't stop my hand from cautiously cupping his face, nor put any barrier between his warm body and mine.

He is the one to break the sweet union, sighing with reluctance and marginal regret as he draws back, the hand in my hair releasing very, very slowly. Our foreheads are touching, burning at the contact. But even here, surrounded by the docile children of angels and humans, the good, brave soldier sticks by his rules.

Stepping back, I realize I hadn't ever truly known blushing before now – even my reddened cheeks around Emilio are put to shame by the flame lapping at my face. Though I lust to meet Raffe's gaze, to attempt to interpret his emotions and how he regards such contact, but even as I long for such information, I also fear it. I retreat backwards with awkward, shuffling steps.

"Bye, Raffe," I murmur, sneaking one glance up to his face to find that he's beaming at me.

"Goodbye, you bizarre, awkward monkey," Raffe chuckles, shaking his head. Sending my heart on another roller coaster, he leans forward to press a kiss to my forehead before I can escape him entirely, perhaps to console me, perhaps because he likes kissing me; I'll never know, I can't gather the courage to look at him again. The kiss, though, gentle and lingering, gives me a whole new definition of flustered.

And, with that, he walks off with a confident, pleased stride. I watch him saunter down the walkway, his hands slung in his pockets, demonic wings constantly bobbing, as if they're moving to the beat of a song only Raffe knows. Watching his apparent content as he strolls about, I can't help but smiling. Perhaps Raffe will find himself better accepted here then he'd originally anticipated, surrounded by positive vibes and smiley angel spawns.

As I watch Raffe, I can't help but notice more than one teenage or college-age boy eyeing him balefully. If Raffe's plan had been to frighten off any potential suitors, I do believe it worked. But if it did succeed, there's no need for him to kiss me again, and Raffe isn't fond of affection at all.

I also can't help but notice my uncle swooping down from out of nowhere and tailing Raffe around the courtyard walkway like a predator stalking the prey, his brown cloak billowing at his feet. Any plan also has its side effects, I suppose, which might mean it's not the end of Operation Evil Princess.

Sighing, I head back inside of the bland hotel room, shutting the door behind me, flustered and confused and content. I trot over to the coffee table, more than ready for those delicious smelling scrambled eggs.

And Emilio is right. There isn't anything like good Spanish chorizo.

There is nothing like Spanish chorizo, I will tell you.

Or Raffryn fluff. That's good, too.

I can't say when my next update will be – I've got a backpacking trip to plan for, to pack for, and it's absorbing most of my time. If you'd like to speed my writing, shoot me more reviews than usual, it usually motivates me – otherwise, I can't promise much.

NOTE: No disrespect to Mexican chorizo intended, by the law of God, all sausages are created equal.

POLL: Throughout Penryn's dreaming cycle, she glimpsed three different moment in Bryon's and Audiat's shared history, three moments with three very different mindsets from each of them. Thoughts?

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh