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He looked up at Ava one last time even as darkness came for him. "I will . . . have . . . vengeance."
Blackness came for him then and the very last sound he heard was of Ava laughing.
"Not in this lifetime," she said. "Not ever."
UNEXPECTED CHOICES
DIANA PHARAOH FRANCIS
In the Horngate Witches series, the magical apocalypse has struck. Destructive wild magic has washed over the earth, unleashed by the Guardians--a group of elemental beings with extraordinary power--in order to restore the balance of magic and magical creatures in the world. Giselle is a witch who established the Horngate covenstead to help preserve those humans she can, though her methods are often brutal. Shoftiel is an angel of justice. Centuries before, he was imprisoned in the Mistlands after passing a death sentence on an innocent woman. Free again, he finds himself repeating his mistake, seeking vengeance on Max--one of Giselle's supernatural warriors--who he mistakenly believes has imprisoned two of his angel brethren. Now he faces eternity in the bleak, unchanging Mistlands.
Both Giselle and Shoftiel are villains in their own ways. Both seek redemption. "Unexpected Choices" brings them together once again. The question is, can either of them overcome their hatred and suspicion of each other to save the world and themselves?
He felt no pain in the Mistlands, even when he tried to harm himself. The wounds gaped bloody and then healed, all without the slightest ache.
No hunger. No weight of exhaustion. No cold. Nothing. No change at all. How long would he remain this time? Five hundred years? Double that maybe, for failing a second time?
It was his own damned fault. The knowledge burned. He'd been prideful, so sure of his judgment. How could his brother angels have willingly bound themselves to a witch's coven? The idea was ludicrous. No, it was insane, a betrayal of their race, of everything they were. Like putting themselves in service to dung beetles.
All the same, he should have known. He was better than they. He was stronger, smarter, and more powerful. Yet here he was, once again trapped in the Mistlands, brought down by an ancient curse, the very same one that had brought him here before. For all his abilities, he'd made an error, one that would cost him centuries more in this hellish place.
There was nothing in this realm but thick white mists. No sun, no moon, no landmarks. Shoftiel had no way to judge the passage of time. His mind clawed for something, anything, to do. He decided to use this time to learn perfection. He must learn so he never again made a mistake of judgment.
How had he been so wrong?
The answer repulsed him. His pride made him blind, unwilling to see what was, unwilling to question, to consider he might be wrong.
He'd been made to be perfect. An angel. He could not be fallible like the cockroaches swarming the earth. But the facts were unimpeachable. He was not perfect at all. Not even close. Now he reaped what he'd sowed.
A change.
Shoftiel instantly noticed the subtle shift in the air. A faint scent of stone, fire. A melody of magic whispering across his skin, ruffling through his gold-edged crimson covert feathers as they shifted from solid to smoke and back a
gain.
Somewhere a door had opened.
Another impossibility. Still, his entire being riveted on the feeling of something new, something different.
The scents faded, but the melody remained. It called him. Teased him. Taunted slyly in the opaque mist.
His heart sped, his wings flaring to lift him. The blood-red feathers turned to smoke as Shoftiel flew blindly. The song grew merrier as he drew closer to the source of the siren call.
Then song and sensation died.
Shoftiel faltered, his heart splitting in two. "No!" he howled and a sword of red smoke appeared in his hand. He slashed it back and forth through the mist as if he could cut it apart. It stirred and quieted, silently obdurate as ever.
Shoftiel howled again. If he could have found a rock in the emptiness, he'd have beaten his idiot head against it.
Something hard pelted his naked chest. He snatched it from the air with preternatural speed. "Ask and you shall receive," he muttered with mordant humor.
It was a polished oval half the size of his palm. Indigo and gold flashed within black. Labradorite. He turned it over, looking for something to tell where it had come from. He was sure it was a message of some kind, if he only had the wit to read it.
The rock stabbed his palm. He swore and dropped the labradorite cabochon. Before it could fall far, he snatched it out of the air again. Blood pooled in his hand from a puncture wound. Realizing what was wanted, he set the stone in the blood.
A cloud of blue puffed from the stone, then a streamer of blue smoke unraveled from it. It rose in the air before him, twisting and curling into a smiley face.
Shoftiel scowled. He'd used the same face to taunt the Shadowblade warrior as he brought her to her knees. What was she up to?
