Free Angel-Seeker by Sharon Shinn Page B

am here to befriend you.”
    â€œNo angel was ever friend to Jansai, except the Archangel Raphael,” Michael said and turned away. Sheathing his knife somewhere in the folds of his clothing, he stalked off into the night. Obadiah made the rest of the short trip to the hotel unescorted and extremely alert.
    Obadiah woke up earlier than he would have liked, and feeling much less clear-headed than he would have preferred. Still, he had been neither knifed nor poisoned the night before; he supposed he must consider that a victory of sorts. He showered and shaved, donned a clean shirt and his flying leathers, and inspected himself in the mirror. His blond hair was still damp from washing but otherwise unaffected by a night of heavy drinking. His face looked a little tired, with faint circles emphasizing the light blue eyes. He appeared to be slouching a little, so he pulled himself upright, straightening his broad shoulders and unfurling his wings to their fullest extent. There, now he looked more like an apparition out of the Librera, the holy book that told of “Jovah’s winged creatures, mighty and just and fierce.” For the moment, he would simply settle for “winged.”Once he grabbed a quick breakfast, he would go aloft and be on his way.
    He was airborne within the hour, but a building headache kept him flying low so that he did not have to contend with the thin air of high altitudes that could make his ears ring even when he didn’t have a hangover. He flew on a southwestern course directly back toward Cedar Hills, marveling at how heavy and sticky the air felt when he was forced to fly this near to the ground. Now and then he flew over Jansai caravans, some heading in toward Breven, some traveling away. He was close enough to see the upturned faces of the men watching him pass overhead. He was not close enough to see their expressions of dislike and calculation, but he imagined them in place all the same.
    A little past noon, he became aware of a raging thirst that nearly draining his canteen did nothing to alleviate. There was not much water near Breven, but he was close to one of the rare oases that dotted the perimeter of the desert, so he angled downward. He would drink from the small geyser till his thirst was slaked, eat a piece of fruit, refill his canteen, and be on his way again. The farther from Breven by nightfall, the better.
    He was only a couple hundred yards above ground when a searing pain ripped through his left wing. He cried out as he began tumbling through the air, madly beating the wind with his good wing but feeling the heavens spin around him. A second streak of fire caught him across his thigh, and he shouted again, drawing his body into a tight ball. He could not hold a course—his injured wing could not lift and beat—the ground rushed up at him from a crazy angle. When he was too close to even attempt to ease his fall, he wrapped his wings protectively around his body, ducked his head, and hit the ground hoping to roll.
    Heavy impact on hard, hot sand—a few moments of motion as he skidded across rocks and desert—another few minutes of stunned immobility and deep, desperate breathing. He lay sprawled across the ground, heart hammering, head spinning, half of his body on fire. He could breathe and he could think—barely—so he must be alive. But what had brought him from the sky? And how badly was he hurt now?
    Shakily, he forced himself to a sitting position, though the pounding in his head was so severe that for a moment he could not focus. Sweet Jovah singing, there was a bloody gash across his left leg that looked like it had been ripped there by a burning-hot iron. The edges were crisp and black, and the whole of it was so raw and so red that it looked like it should be causing excruciating pain. The fact that he felt only a low throb in his leg made him shift with worry. He must be going into shock; he must be even worse off than he