Page 109 of Death of the Glass Angel
“Do you think Talon will be okay?”
“I think that songbird would tear himself apart and think the remnants better left scattered.”
Des’ mouth warbled, staring at her mentor.
Gem exhaled. “Don’t be gone long. And stay with him.”
The door shut and locked behind him.
Beaming, Des pulled the curtains back open and leaned on the sill, peering into the night. A light snow fell over stone roads, painting them gray with white. An urge appeared in the sight of the night-cast streets, a desire to slip out and be as one with the shadows.
Stepping back, Des fished through her bag until she grasped the soft, aged stuffed dragon. Setting ‘Des’ down on the nightstand, she pried the window open.
One purpose directed Des’s life: to guard others. First Eros, then Janus. Why not also the songbird who thought nobody would care if he disappeared?
An unmistakable thrill breathed through the window, mixed with the night’s chill. How blessed a life Talon led for this to be his calling.
27
Talon
Ten years ago. . .
Asher handed old Gaius a copper, and the rugged wood-chopper took it as he always did. First, he scrutinized it suspiciously, then he bit it with a loud, unpleasant metallic clink. When it did not bend, old Gaius nodded approvingly, one hand adjusting his winter cap over his balding head.
“She’s genuine.” Old Gaius said playfully, tucking the coin into his bag. He leaned down, sorting through his wood pile and loading the agreed-upon number of logs into Asher’s wagon. “You sure that’ll be enough for the week, kiddo?”
“Mom said it’s all we need to get by,” Asher confirmed, helping him haul the firewood.
“Maybe it’s all you need, but it sure wouldn’t be enough for me.” Old Gaius murmured. He glanced at Asher, pretending to be discreet as he set another pair of logs on the pile. “There you go. Head on home, now.”
“Thanks, Gaius.” Asher beamed at him as he grabbed the handle and pulled the wagon behind him.
The streets were busy. The sun shone through the clouds, its intense beams piercing the overcast sky and searing Asher’s eyes. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, avoiding bumping into the bustling crowd.
White marble buildings rose around Asher like monoliths, and he pretended they were old castles in an empty field. The people he bumped into were knights riding past in a great battle.
Far from the splendor of marble edifices, home waited, a dull wooden building where cobbled roads fell away to mud. Imagination dampened, Asher pulled the cart inside.
Gloom permeated the house. Fumbling for the table, Asher found a candle and lit it. The fire illuminated his father’s face, and Asher backed away in surprise.
Heavy bags shadowed tired eyes. A tattered tunic hung from his shoulders as he lowered a bottle of watered-down ale from his mouth.
“Good,” Father muttered, gesturing to the mantle. “Put ‘em over there.”
Nodding, Asher hastily went about his business, lining the wood up in the rack beside the mantle. Mom’s cooking pot hung above the unlit fire, empty, beckoning. If Asher did not make dinner, nobody would.
Mom had taken care of him for years. It was not so much to ask to return the favor.
Once the wagon was empty, Asher rolled it back into the small front yard and locked the front door. He observed his father, but the man stared at the table, despondent, moving only to occasionally drink. Tiptoeing past him, Asher pushed open the door to his parents’ bedroom and snuck inside.
A pleasant light illuminated the quilted bed and the small rocking chair beside it. Mother rested in the chair, gently tipping back and forth, a blanket pulled over her. Her resemblance to Asher faded with each passing week. Wide, bright purple eyes had dulled, her freckles lost in the pallor of her skin. Brunette’s locks, once thick, fell limply to her shoulders.
But she managed a smile for her son.
Asher sat on the bed beside her, reaching out to take her hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” She said, her voice quiet. “How did it go?”
