“Agreed,” said the final man, and though his dialect differed from the others, it was familiar enough in the basics.
When Naasir was yet a child, Dmitri had told him he must learn as many languages as possible, so no one could keep secrets from him. This wasn’t the first time that advice had held Naasir in good stead.
“We watch and we wait,” said the angel who seemed to be the leader. “She can’t stay here indefinitely.”
The woman appeared dubious. “Amanat is a jewel for any historian.”
“But she has certain responsibilities in the Refuge. If she does decide to stay, we’ll reconsider our options.”
“Can we afford to wait?”
“Philomena wants her as soon as possible, but we can wait tonight. If she doesn’t leave with the dawn, I’ll contact the general.”
Naasir listened further, learned the squadron intended to spread out around Amanat, covering one quadrant each. He thought about taking them down one at a time, but if they were used to checking in with one another within short periods of time, he’d betray his hand. Deciding to leave them to their surveillance and wanting to ensure the four didn’t suspect he’d spotted them, he retraced his steps until he was about an hour out from Amanat, then ran toward the city openly.
Unlike Andromeda, he didn’t have to wait for an escort to enter Caliane’s territory. The city shield knew him, opened automatically in a welcome that was a ripple of archangelic power over his skin. The only person who could revoke his access was Caliane.
He picked up Andromeda’s scent the instant he hit the temperate air of Amanat; it was a shiny, delicious thread in the active mix of a thriving city.
“Naasir!”
He waved at the friend who’d called out to him from the second story of a nearby building, but didn’t stop. Isabel’s cool, clean scent crossed with Andromeda’s at one point, then both scents ran parallel toward the walled courtyard Isabel used as a sparring ground.
He grinned when he heard the clash of swords.
Loping up a wall on one side of the sparring ground, he crouched on top and watched Isabel and Andromeda dance with blades. His former partner in Amanat was good . . . but Andromeda was better. He hadn’t expected that. Neither, he saw, had Isabel. Naasir knew her, could read her expressions, tell when Andromeda’s moves surprised her.
Because, Naasir realized, Andromeda fought instinctively.
Dahariel had given her an excellent grounding, but she adapted her moves to the flow of combat, causing Isabel to have to rethink her more classical style. His eyes narrowed. That wasn’t just skill, not given Andromeda’s age—the instinct came from within.
She was an archangel’s granddaughter.
But where her mother wasted the strength that ran in her veins, Andromeda had honed it, made it her own. When she put her blade to Isabel’s throat in a move that signaled a win, her chest heaving but her hand steady, he wanted to growl in pride. Instead, he waited until the women drew apart and raised their swords in front of their faces in the respectful bow of two warriors.
Jumping down to the ground, he saw Andromeda’s head whip around. “Naasir!” She ran straight into his arms, sword thrust into a scabbard that hung alongside one of her thighs. He recognized it as one of Isabel’s.
And then she was cupping his face in her hands and all he could see was the clear brown of her irises, the golden starburst around her pupils bright. “You’re safe!”
Sliding his arms around her under her wings, he picked her up and spun her around. “You were worried about me.” He could look after himself, but it seemed right that a mate should worry.
“Of course I was worried.” Andromeda pretended to hit his shoulders as he held her up off the ground, but it was more a caress than censure. “You took your time getting here.”