Falling for Anthony

Chapter Four

Anthony landed neatly atop the city's tallest spire. Around him, Caelum spread out in a circle of coruscating buildings and temples. Its shining marble columns and towers speared into the cerulean sky, piercing a blue that had never been darkened by clouds.

Anthony no longer raised his face to capture the sun's warmth, is he often had in England; without the cold and rain for contrast, its rays did nothing more than bring light. And now that he could see clearly on the darkest of nights, he did not even need that.

But he could fly, and for that he loved the unchanging sky.

The tip of the spire was not wide enough for perching; balanced on one foot, he waited, currents of air drifting across his wings.

The city's edge shimmered in the distance; it pulled his gaze, as it always did. A dark line marked the abrupt cessation of ivory stone—beyond it, a waveless ocean stretched to the horizon. He had explored its endless breadth and depths, but both the sky and the deep had been empty, and his splashless dives had disturbed nothing.

But Caelum thrummed and pulsed with life. Behind silent marble walls, thousands of Guardians watched, waited, and protected. They passed through the Gates and came back with Earth's odors clinging to them.

Anthony had learned to avoid those who were newly returned.

Like all new Guardians, he had to wait nearly one hundred years before he would be allowed to traverse those Gates: one hundred years of studying his new abilities and training to fight their enemies; one hundred years for everyone he'd known to die; one hundred years to forget the immediacy of being human. Until then, reminders of his past were as painful as they were alluring, and he preferred not to torture himself with them. It served no purpose.

Suddenly restless, he glanced away from the edge of the city, his eyes searching the ground below. Though hundreds of yards in the air, he could see the individual veins of color within the courtyard tiles, but he was not interested in the stone. Movement near one of the archways opening into the courtyard caught his attention—two Guardians held each other in an intimate embrace.

Two males, he realized. They kissed, and though Anthony was struck by the gentleness with which they touched each other, he had to look away. It was not unusual in Caelum to come across lovers in the public areas, but even after eight months, he had not grown accustomed to witnessing sexual acts performed between couples of the same gender. Over time, his shock and disgust had faded into mild discomfort, but he reasoned that he was, and maybe always would be, a product of his upbringing.

After all, he had not become accustomed to the idea of a male and female publicly displaying themselves, either. If a member of the ton had ever been so bold, he would have been expelled from society. Even if it took place behind closed doors, public knowledge of a liaison between unmarried lovers could have ruined the couple.

Emily had known that risk, but she had still pressed her lips against his.

Before that night, he'd dreamed of her touch countless times. Afterward, he could only look back with shame that his one opportunity with her ended in a mechanical coupling that had brought pleasure to neither of them. He still didn't know why she'd chosen him, but no matter her reason, their joining had likely failed her idealistic expectations. The image of her, eyes red-rimmed and her chemise stained with his semen, declaring that her faith in love had vanished, had been pinned like an insect into his memory.

No. He shook himself, forcing thoughts of Emily, of London, from his mind. Dwelling on what had been could only lead to unhappiness, could only bring frustration and regret. Here in Caelum, there were no titles or possessions, and value was not determined by birth or profession. He had a multitude of lifetimes ahead of him, and he would not spend them aching for a past that had rejected him at every turn.

With a deliberate shrug, he unrolled his wings and focused on the weight of them—they were heavy, but no more a burden than one of his legs or his arms. He tested the breeze against his skin and breathed the sterile air deep into his lungs.

Then he folded the white feathers tight against his body and plummeted.

He kept his eyes open as he rushed toward the ground. The wind created by his descent whipped his hair behind him and tore his shirttails from the waist of his breeches. The wildly fluttering hem cracked against his buttocks, startling a laugh from him before the torrent of air made him swallow it.

At the last possible moment, he snapped his wings wide. They caught air, and his trajectory changed sharply, vertical to horizontal. The effort wrenched his muscles, and he strained to hold himself aloft as he skimmed a foot above the courtyard tiles. His knees scraped; he cried out in surprise and tumbled over, skidding to a halt against sturdy, robe-covered legs. The brown wool smelled faintly of smoke.

Hugh's legs, Anthony realized with dismay as he lay on his back, stunned. This stunt will likely earn me a stiff lecture. He smiled in amused anticipation of it, particularly as the lecture would come from someone who looked a very young eighteen. Hugh's face, surrounded by boyish curls, could have been any youth's in a Botticelli painting, and yet his eyes bespoke his real age—they were too patient to have belonged to even the most mature boy.

Appearances, Anthony reminded himself, arc almost always deceiving. It had been one of the first lessons he'd been taught upon entering Caelum, and one of the hardest for him to absorb. As a physician, he'd been trained to trust what he observed and to act accordingly. As a Guardian, he had to learn to distrust it, along with many other things he'd taken for granted when he was human.

Instead of lecturing, his mentor only looked down at him thoughtfully and said, "Perhaps we should move on to the lessons for tactical aerial combat."

The unexpected response to his reckless dive, combined with the thrill of his relatively successful landing, had Anthony shaking with laughter.

Hugh's expression didn't change; if anything, it became more sober. He watched as Anthony picked himself up and waited until his laughter had passed.

"Michael has summoned us."

Anthony paused in his attempt to tuck in his shirt. Michael had transformed him, brought him to Caelum, and then left him in the care of his mentors. Anthony hadn't expected to see Michael again until his hundred years had passed and Anthony received his first assignment.

"Why?"

The faint disapproval that thinned Hugh's lips was the strongest emotion Anthony had ever seen him display. "He's sending you on a mission."

Anthony's brow creased into a frown and unease skittered down his spine. "To Earth?"

Hugh didn't reply, turning stiffly in the direction of the Hall. Anthony was forced to follow him on foot—Hugh preferred walking to flying, as if the journey to every destination was a pilgrimage—and the trek gave him too much time to remember all the reasons he'd want to return to Earth, and too little time to forget them again.

Michael's residence, like much of Caelum, bore the unmistakable influence of the ancient Greeks. Columns topped with intricately carved scrollwork stood like sentinels around the building; on the doors, an enormous marble frieze depicted Michael's battle against the dragon.

Anthony had studied the sculpted scene during his exploration of the city and had been astounded that the artist's skill had so perfectly replicated the visage of the man in stone. Michael—naked, wingless, and armed with a single sword—stood alone against the dragon. Behind him, an army of angels lay beaten; riding the dragon, a horde of demons eagerly awaited victory. It captured the moment |ust before Michael had thrust the sword into the dragon's heart—his muscles bunched with effort, his expression desperate but determined.

Michael had been human then, but it had been his triumph that led to the formation of the Guardian corps. The first Guardian, he was the Doyen and the acknowledged leader. Although every Guardian had an equal voice in Caelum, if Michael did intend to break tradition and send Anthony to Earth before his training had been completed, there would likely be little opposition.

Unless that opposition came from Anthony.

Guardians prized free will above all other things. Though choices were sometimes limited, Michael would never force Anthony to do anything he resisted.

Anthony could—and would, he determined—decline the mission when it was offered. The decision quieted the unease that had plagued him and allowed him to enter Michael's sanctum with confidence.

The interior was as palatial as Anthony had expected, but except in scale it differed little from his own residence. Archways and columns divided the single large, open room. A seating area in the front held an elegant array of sofas, chairs, and ottomans. Their styles varied widely, a testament to Michael's age and the extent of his travel, and came togther in an arrangement too soft to accurately reflect the owner.

Anthony did not relish the prospect of talking to Michael while lounging on sofas and cushions, and was relieved when Hugh led him into the armory at the back of the room. Weapons lined the walls: ancient axes and bludgeons; swords and spears; newer firearms. The floor had been left empty—in his apartment, Anthony used the similar space to practice his fencing skills with Hugh. His mentor, despite his monkish appearance, was a formidable opponent; Anthony imagined Michael was invincible.

The Doyen waited for them beside a display of Japanese katanas and aboriginal slings. He wore a white linen tunic and loose, flowing trousers, and he'd chosen to vanish his black wings. The effect should have been less daunting than Anthony's last encounter with him, when Michael had been winged and naked, the glowing angel of death, but somehow his muted appearance seemed more impressive simply for its deception.

Anthony wondered if the effect was deliberate. Did Michael think to intimidate him into returning?

"Six months ago, the nosferatu you encountered in Spain killed three members of the Ames-Beaumont family," Michael said without preamble. "Several weeks ago, he attacked the remaining family but did not succeed in his attempt to kill them. You will go with Hugh and assist him in destroying the creature, before he finds another opportunity to strike at them."

If Michael had hit Anthony with his full strength, the blow would have been less painful than his words. Anthony staggered under their impact and spoke through numb lips, "Who?"

Hugh said quietly, "The earl, Henry, and Catherine."

Anthony sucked in a sharp breath, his relief that Colin and Emily had survived immediately accompanied by guilt—and, as the full import of Michael's announcement sank in, rage. His voice shook with it. "Six months? It killed them six months ago, and you are only now sending someone to destroy it?"

Michael didn't respond to Anthony's anger, his expression as hard and unyielding as ever. Realizing that the Doyen did not feel he had to explain himself, Anthony stepped forward, his fists clenching. If he had to, he would beat the answers out of Michael, and damn the consequences.

"We weren't certain he had targeted the family until the latest attack," Hugh said. His mentor's rational tones slipped under Anthony's anger and made him pause mid-step and listen. "The three died when he set fire to their London townhouse; although we had heard reports of a nosferatu in London at the time, the two events did not seem connected until three weeks ago. I've since been to the townhouse and verified he'd been there—his scent lingered in every room, from before and after the fire."

The fire. Sudden tears blurred Anthony's vision. If the nosferatu had killed them himself, their terror and pain would not have been less. The rage that had been focused on Michael shifted to its proper object and burned cold under his skin.

He recalled the pleasure in the creature's eyes when it had drank his blood, its insistence on delving into his memories. Its scent lingered in every room of the house. "What is it searching for?"

Approval flashed across Michael's face at the question, but Anthony did not care what the Doyen thought. If it had been something in his mind that had brought tragedy upon the family, he would be the one to stop it—and for that, he had to know what the nosferatu sought. He had to think ahead of it.

What had been particular to the memories it had pulled from him?

"My sword," Michael said suddenly. "Blood had been spilled from it on both occasions."

Anthony started in surprise. "The sword from the Second Battle?" At Michael's nod, Anthony gave a short, humorless laugh. Norbridge's prized relic was far more valuable than the earl had known.

Beside Anthony, Hugh's body went rigid and he leveled an accusing stare at the Doyen. Michael returned the stare, unapologetic.

Though he noted the exchange, Anthony didn't stop to wonder what had caused the sudden tension between the men. He had his answer, and he didn't want to waste any time going over details. There would be time enough later, after the nosferatu was dead.

He pivoted and stalked toward the exit. "I will collect my weapon and meet Hugh at the Central Gate in ten minutes," he said. Without waiting for an answer, he swept through the doors and took to the sky.

Hugh was silent until he was certain Anthony could not hear him, but Michael anticipated his objection.

"He wanted to know; I found the answer. You disapprove?"

"You entered his mind without his permission—that makes you no better than a demon. Or the nosferatu who started this." Hugh shook his head. "We don't do that."

"You don't." Michael's expression hardened. "The world has changed, Hugh, and the forces Above and Below are changing with it. Finding the sword is an omen."

"An omen—and yet you send a novice?" Hugh folded his hands together beneath the sleeves of his robe. His tranquil posture would not deceive Michael, yet he refused to betray his anger by word or expression. "You can have no reason to include Anthony. His familiarity with the family might be an asset to the search, but it will bring insurmountable complications. He learned quickly, but his lack of training, his ignorance of demons and nosferatu—he has not yet discovered his Gift. He cannot disguise himself from those he knows and who think him dead!"

"You think he cannot shift his form because he cleaves too strongly to his memories," Michel said. "I am sending him because he cannot shift; he must face the people he has left behind without disguise, without lies."

"It is an irresponsible decision. You will expose us—"

"Transforming him was a mistake," Michael said. "And if I do not send him to Earth now, the damage will be irreversible. He cannot be a Guardian."

Hugh could not hide his shock. "Do you send him to his death, then?"

"I did not realize you thought so little of your own skills and 'tour mentorship. If he has not learned enough to keep himself alive…" Michael's smile chilled the room. "Do you wish to have another go in your place, then? Do you refuse your part in this?"

"No," Hugh said, regarding the other man intently. "What has happened between his transformation and now? What have you learned?"

To his surprise, Michael looked away. "Your Gift may force me to answer truthfully," he said. "But if I do not answer, there is neither truth nor lie."

Hugh withdrew his hands from his sleeves. "If Anthony dies—"

"You will Fall?" Michael anticipated him again and laughed with genuine humor. "No. You'd not leave the corps for this. I'm disappointed in you, Hugh; whether he lives or dies, you should have more faith that everything will be as it should." He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, turned toward the display of weapons, and selected a long, curving Saracen blade. "Now, go. If Anthony's impatience and anger still burns as hotly as when he left, he might not wait for you and go through the Gate alone."

Hugh couldn't take the time to respond; though it annoyed him, Michael was right: Anthony was completely unprepared to experience Earth as a Guardian.