A broken winged warrior rises from the sea to battle for his throne. An heiress flees Earth to reclaim her life.
She alone can temper his violent power… but can he find sanity in time to save her from her dark past?
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
A few dozen passengers crammed into the small space beside the windows. Abella had spent most of the trip there, impatient for a glimpse of the planet she would soon call home. From her spot she had an unobstructed view of brilliant blue skies and white gold beach flanking the port. The transport inched toward the dock at a glacial pace. She knew, of course, that the craft sliced through several feet every second, but deep space had a way of making everything seem out of scale. The empty skies didn’t help.
As a rule, the Aikalah didn’t allow the kind of air travel common on Earth. Per the HR primer, the winged species preferred to fly under their own power. Abella had thought the skies above planet Ailaut would be empty, but dozens of Aikalah flew over the port, many of them with bright red wings, a dyed color indicating they were part of law enforcement; the men shirtless, women in fitted wrap blouses. Not an ounce of fat on anyone in sight, but she supposed the energy burned by flying didn’t allow for extra padding.
A few transports like Abella’s made their way toward the dock, each of them stuffed full of off-worlders bound for employment on Ailaut. Not soon enough for Abella. She’d learned early in the journey that she wasn’t cut out for space travel—which officially made the three-month journey to Ailaut the most uncomfortable of her life.
It’ll all be over in a few minutes. And when my feet touch the ground, everything will be new.
A new life awaiting her on the other side of the hull. A life with nobody who depended on her—but nobody for her to depend on. She tried to see the bright side, to open her heart to the sense of adventure buzzing through her fellow travelers. Try as she might, Abella couldn’t keep the heavy ball in her stomach at bay.
Her jitters only intensified as she stepped off the ship. A twenty-foot-long line of people stood between her and the reception booth. She ran through her employment contract in her mind, double checking that there wasn’t a clause allowing the Aikalah to reject her credentials at the gate.
As if on cue, one of the red-winged men turned his gaze to Abella, glancing at the data pad in his hands. Her heart raced, and a familiar sinking feeling washed over her stomach.
It’s fine. Just don’t panic.
Any thought of staying calm evaporated as the winged man walked toward her. Abella ran through her options. She could jump into the water, but even if she managed to outswim the intake workers, she didn’t have anywhere to go on the planet. Running past the intact booth posed the same problem. Where would she go?
“Employee 564327?” the man asked as he stopped in front of her.
Abella swallowed a lump in her throat. The HR liaison at the employment agency told her to memorize her employment number—it was the only thing standing between her and being summarily booted as an undocumented off-worlder. The Aikalah tended to boot and refuse to ask questions later. The HR primer made at least ten references to the importance of remembering the number, but with the towering angel—wait, no, don’t call them angels; they hated being called angels—standing in front of her, Abella’s mind went blank.
“I… yes?”
The man rolled his eyes and glanced back down at his electronic pad. “Abella Michaels?” Off her nod, the man pulled a device the size of an inner ear out of the side of the pad and passed it to her. “The agency would like to have a word with you.”
Taking the device, and a deep breath for good measure, she slipped it into her ear. “This is Abella. Who am I speaking to?”
“Who are you—have you abandoned all your faculties?” Cheryl demanded, too well bred to screech. But Abella heard the higher-than-normal octave. “Where are you?”
Busted. She cleared her throat, and picked her way through a white lie. “I’ve decided to do some traveling. You always said every well-rounded lady should take a tour—”
“Not of the galaxy, Abella!” Her sister took a deep breath, then injected her voice with the false syrup of a practiced politician’s wife. “Of Europe. And you’re about ten years too late for a tour, darling. I’m making arrangements for you to return right away.”
“But—”
Cheryl’s voice hardened. “We have far too many things to do to close out the estate, Abella. Now is not a good time. Stay near the transport. I’ll have the Authority escort you back on your ship.”
Abella winced from the confirmation that her older sister knew exactly where she was. She’d always known Cheryl would find out, but Abella had hoped her brother-in-law’s campaign would keep his wife busy for at least a few weeks. It had certainly kept her too busy to make more than the occasional obligatory trip home to see their parents in their final years.
“Just send me whatever documents you and the lawyer want me to sign for the estate,” Abella said, moving forward with the line of employees. “I don’t need to be there for it.”
“It’s not that simple, Ella,” Cheryl snapped. “There are decisions that have to be made. I can’t believe you would do something so irresponsible.”
The subtle feeling of guilt that Abella felt faded, replaced with growing anger.
“Irresponsible? While you and Grant were busy playing a devoted family for the polls, I cared for our actual family.”
Something in the background shattered—there mustn’t have been any staffers or press around. Cheryl never showed negative emotions when it might make her look like anything but the perfect, composed, High Tier wife.
“I’m afraid you don’t fully understand the situation,” Cheryl said, voice tight. “If you don’t return, I will instruct our lawyers to proceed against your inheritance in the courts.” She paused. “It’s not that long a trip to Ablaut in the Nova class space cruiser.”
The threat came through, loud and clear. Unfortunately for Cheryl, Abella knew it was an empty threat. If she lived, she was entitled to her inheritance, no matter where in the universe she lived.
“Do whatever you feel you must,” she said, voice cool despite a clenched fist. “And when you’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m not an underling for you to control, we’ll talk. Maybe.”
Abella pulled out the ear piece and passed it to the red-winged man, who’d kept pace with surprising patience. She would have liked to break it, but the agency and the Aikalah wouldn’t look kindly on it. And she appreciated this official’s courtesy.
Her nerves faded, replaced by a fierce determination. There was more than greed behind Cheryl’s insistence that she go back home; there was certainty. Certainty that Abella, having spent her life caring for others, couldn’t handle herself in the vast galaxy. Certainty that she had no purpose if nobody needed her.
Abella exhaled as she approached the intake booth and gave the clerk her name and ID number. Her remaining family were irrelevant now. Cheryl, Grant, everyone who questioned her right to live her life on her own terms.
None of them mattered anymore.
* * *
Lord, please wake. You are needed.
He must be, for his Vicelord to intrude on his Sleep. Ishaiq stirred, the cool blanket of the sea parting around him. He floated, suspended in a magical bubble deep in the black waters, his resting place hidden, undisturbed except by fish.
They scuttled when he opened his eyes, the sudden beam of light disturbing their peace.
He closed his eyes immediately, murmuring a silent apology. They’d done nothing wrong.
His mind fought through the lethargy weighing him down. Luqmun wouldn’t call unless it was important.
Why do you disturb my rest? He asked his right wing.
Lord, forgive me. The Conclave has ordered every unmated Archan to take a concubine. They require proof of compliance or lands and tributes are forfeit. Sleep is not an excuse for non-compliance. As long as you comply, they will not interfere with you.
He heard the words, but they made no sense. Because he was still enmired in Sleep, anger was slow to rise. Why?
They fear our power is waning. They want winglings.
Their people always wanted winglings. That wasn’t new. A long-lived race, they weren’t nearly as fertile as the off-worlders, they didn’t need to be. But they were in no population crisis.
They fear the power of the aliens. Their technology.
Though Luqmun would refuse to acknowledge it, the thought would affront him as well. But silence was also assent.
When?
You have three weeks, Lord. Forgive me. I waited as long as I dared.
I am coming. It may take… time.
I will hold what is yours until you rise.
Of course, he would. Ishaiq, Archan of the only Skyhall to make its home over the sea, trusted his Vicelord implicitly. He would accept nothing less than complete loyalty.
Disloyalty was always punished with death.
* * *
Luqmun gave him something precious. Purpose.
The years were grey and weighed on his shoulders. His people, the mortals who made their home on the tiny island off the main coast, were born and then died, nestled under the shadow of his Skyhall. Caring for them took time, and attention. Though brief, their quality of life still mattered. They were his children—a trust.
But he had no children of his own, and it had been long since he’d loved a female. Never a mate, a pasanzi, but a partner who he enjoyed for a time before the ebbs of life took her away. Either due to mortality because in the end, he didn’t love her enough to extend her life beyond what was natural, or simply, the emotional distancing that happened between Aikalaan. Without his protest, because by then, they’d tired of each other.
Ishaiq began his ascent, fighting against the darkness of his mind and the darkness of the ocean that did not wish to relinquish him. The bubble insulated him from the crushing weight of the waters, and the cold. His power insulated him from the madness of absolute silence.
The Conclave dared mandate he choose a mate and breed heirs? Dared threaten his domicile should he not comply? Evidently, while he was away from the world, the flight feathers of the remaining Archans had molted to accept such an edict. That alone worried him. What had changed to give the Conclave the power to make demands, instead of carefully worded requests?
With each meter gained, consciousness and energy returned. He surged to the surface, gathering the tattered remnants of control to order the waves. Gathered the sluggish remnants of his mind and forced himself awake.
The time for napping was over.