Free Phoenix Contract: Part Three (Fallen Angel Watchers) by Melissa Thomas Page B

the possibility. The temptation.
    “I’m sorry.” At some point during their conversation, Magnus had moved closer and now stood three feet away. He fell silent, effectively hidden within the leather cloak so Matthew could only guess at the Celt’s mood.
    “You’re sorry for yourself, not me,” Matthew said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. His hard won tranquility was gone. He resented Magnus for the casual destruction. Inner peace wasn’t easy to come by.
    “Yes, I am. I’m sorry for myself and not you, because I’m losing my only friend, and I’ll be living with the loss long after you’re dead and buried,” Magnus agreed. Rich with sorrow, rife with irony, impassioned with pain, the Celt’s amazing voice conveyed more emotion than music. He used that voice as a weapon and as a tool. It contained laughter and loss and invoked forty years of memories—images of their friendship through the decades.
    Magnus’ face was hidden within the cowl of his cloak, but the priest could sense rather than see the tears falling over that blackened, ruined face, and he imagined how they must sting.
    “I’m sorry,” Matthew apologized. “And I’ll consider it, all right? Thank you, I realize it’s not something you’d offer to just anyone.” He snapped his jaws shut, feeling like an insensitive ass. He sometimes mistook silence for a lack of feeling, and nothing could be less true. His friend approached everything with a frightening intensity.
    “I guess we both have a lot to be sorry for,” Magnus drawled, his voice normal again—a dulcet, lilting brogue.
    Exhausted, Matthew sank into his chair. The startling conversation had left him with more questions than answers. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me the truth?”
    Facing him, Magnus went statue still, waiting. “The truth is relative. What are you asking?”
    “Who are you? What are you? ”
    “I am of House Shemyaza,” Magnus said in the stiff tone he only used when he teetered on the verge of taking offense. Shemyaza had been the most powerful and prestigious of the Watcher Houses, an elusive and secretive faction that had reputedly been lost or destroyed centuries before.
    “Yes, you are of House Shemyaza,” Matthew agreed. “But also, I sense that you are so much more.”
    “I have my secrets, just as you have yours,” Magnus replied, pointedly staring at the priest.
    “Oh yes, I do, and we’ve guarded them from each other so very carefully all of these long years.” The priest stared unblinking at his friend, well aware of the delicate negotiations taking place between them. Could old dogs really learn new tricks? Their mutual deceptions had been going on for forty years: clever game play and constant subterfuge. It was the only way their friendship had survived four decades of divided loyalties and conflicted interests. For them, it had worked. Until now.
    “Don’t you think it’s time you told me everything?” Matthew coaxed. “After all, I’ll be taking it to my grave.” He smiled, but his attempt at humor fell flat on its face. The dirty little trick, designed to weigh on the Celt’s conscience, reminded Matthew of his mortality.
    “Matt, we’ve always respected each other’s secrets,” Magnus replied in a shuttered tone. “You have yours, and I have mine.”
    “And you see no reason for that to change,” Matthew concluded with a heavy sigh. Why did he feel like they’d almost made progress? Almost broken through Magnus’ impenetrable reserve and self-imposed isolation. Almost gotten past the Celt’s stubborn insistence that no part of him was human?
    “We’ve had secrets from one another for decades, and it’s never been a problem,” Magnus stated. “If something has changed, it’s because of her . She’s challenged your priorities, cast doubt on your judgment.”
    “Yes, you’re probably right. I’ve taught her honesty is a virtue and then told her lies. She’s exposed me as a