The Sleeper and the Silverblood

“Hey, man, you okay?” Declan snapped his fingers in Storm’s face.

Storm jerked back to the present. He, Declan, and Zayne sat in one of headquarters’ restaurants: a two-story architectural marvel of white marble and columns featuring a mezzanine balcony.

A few days passed after Kitara left Storm on read. He’d switched to messaging her online once he realized his texts went ignored, but he didn’t receive a response until four a.m.

Their communication devolved over the course of the week into single-word exchanges that didn’t give Storm much to work with. One of her longest responses stated she would contact him once she heard anything noteworthy.

Now Declan and Zayne stared at him with twin expressions of concern.

Grimacing, Storm realized he’d missed a question. “I’m fine. Long week,” he said. “What were you saying?”

Declan’s expression indicated skepticism. “You sure? You’ve been crabby since your trip out of the AIDO.”

Storm’s dark brows furrowed over his silver eyes. “I said I’m fine.”

The Guardian raised his hands defensively. “Sorry for asking.”

Storm didn’t blame him. Since Kitara revealed her hair-brained infiltration plan, he’d been agitated, edgy, and resentful of her silence. His sour mood hadn’t escaped notice.

“As I was saying,” Declan said through a mouthful of food, “Alasdair’s bringing a friend tonight. A female friend.”

“Says it’s platonic, though.” Zayne didn’t look up as he scrolled through a list of ambassador bulletins on his tablet.

Declan snorted. “Come on, he hardly parts with his tech long enough to make friends. She’s not just some random girl.”

“Not everything is about getting laid,” Storm said.

A wicked smile spread across Declan’s face. “Maybe it should be. I bet you’d lighten up a little if you were getting some.”

Storm focused on his food. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious! You need to blow off some steam. It’s been, what? Six months since you’ve been with anyone?”

Zayne snorted. “He should be more concerned you know that.”

But Storm didn’t want a random girl to “blow off some steam.” Most women only craved the fame and power associated with him. “Dec, like I’ve said before, my love life doesn’t need your help.”

“Hey, ’Dair.” Zayne drew their attention to the Engineer approaching with a curly-headed woman Storm recognized.

“Zayne,” the Engineer replied. “Declan, Storm, this is Devika.”

Storm murmured a noncommittal greeting, maintaining the impression he and Devika had never met before.

The Historian gave a single, awkward wave. “Nice to meet you.”

“It is nice to meet us,” Declan said with a cheeky grin.

Alasdair shot him a look of disapproval.

“And you too, Devika,” he added, almost like an afterthought.

“Declan can be a first-class jackass,” Storm said with a touch of wry amusement.

The Guardian leaned back and tucked his hands behind his head, unfazed. “I’ll take first-class anything over no-class nothing.”

“You’re right,” Alasdair agreed. “You’re a no-class jackass.”

The others laughed, while Declan clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “You wound me.”

“I think you’ll live,” the Engineer said, smiling as he and Devika sat down.

Storm’s presence attracted a crowd of mostly females, and today was no different. The expressions of the women around them conveyed everything from irritation to jealousy, despite Devika clearly accompanying the Head Engineer.

Alasdair had no interest in placating anyone, but Declan flirted like it was his job while Storm tried to maintain equal distant politeness with everyone.

“You seem familiar.” Zayne drew Devika’s attention. “How long have you been here?”

“A few months.”

“She’s Philemon’s new Historian,” Alasdair said.

Zayne’s brow furrowed. “You transferred here?”

Devika nodded. “From Spokane.”

Tension radiated down Storm’s spine, and he stiffened, turning to scrutinize the Historian more closely.

Spokane? That’s not a coincidence.

He leaned back in his chair. “A Historian?” he repeated. “That’s a difficult profession. Lots of reading, paperwork, studying—not to mention being able to do it in multiple languages. And Philemon…well, he’s got a pretty high standard for his Historians,” he said, naming the High Councilor of the Historian profession. “You must be something special.” He shot a sideways glance at Alasdair.

A slight blush rose in Devika’s face. “Yeah, well, you have to like the work. And I do.”

“How did a Historian out in the remote U.S. get on Philemon’s radar?”

She met his narrowed gaze with her own steady one. “I’m good at my job.”

Zayne considered her with a thoughtful expression. “Would you mind if I took advantage of that a little?”

She smiled at him. “Depends. What do you need?”

He leaned forward, setting his tablet within easy reach. “I’ve been asked to give a lecture about Moriah Orinokë at an upcoming seminar for Emissaries and Ambassadors.”

“Moriah Orinokë? That’s an interesting choice. Why?”

“I hate to answer a question with a question, but do you know my mom?”

“You’re Zayne Dragić, right?” When Zayne nodded an affirmative, Devika said, “Of course I do. She’s the High Emissary.”

“Figured I’d ask rather than assume you knew,” he replied a little sheepishly. “So, my mom was Moriah’s friend before she died. She can’t attend the seminar herself—she’s got too much else on her plate, so I think they’re going for the…adjacent connection.”

Devika’s eyebrows raised in interest. “That’s a unique perspective. You probably have insight most Historians don’t.”

“Maybe,” Zayne said. “But it doesn’t make preparing any easier. What I’ve put together so far is either from my mom’s personal stories or the common knowledge everyone already knows. I’d like to bridge the gap between ’the legendary Emissary’ Moriah and ’my mom’s friend’ Moriah, if that makes sense.”

“It does. And I understand the difficulty,” she said, glancing at Storm. “Living legends are still people, after all.”

Was there insinuation in her words? Storm couldn’t tell.

Relief suffused Zayne’s face. “Exactly! Maybe you could point me in the right direction for some lesser-known sources.”

“I’m happy to help.”

Storm watched with narrowed eyes as the two of them fell into an easy discussion. Devika’s origins in Spokane still unnerved him. She and Kitara hadn’t seemed overly close during the mission debrief, but that didn’t mean anything. Still, he couldn’t deny her enthusiasm—or her expertise.

Zayne occasionally scribbled notes on his tablet as he and Devika compared what they knew about Moriah. Devika described a human war Moriah singlehandedly averted—something none of them had heard before—while Zayne recounted the High Council’s intention to offer her the High Emissary role before her untimely death. Devika animatedly declared she hadn’t known the latter with all the excitement of a Historian learning something novel.

Declan threw his head back and mimed a fake snore. “Oh my god, you’re such nerds.”

Storm stifled a chuckle while Zayne glared at their blond friend.

Devika gave Declan a onceover, noting his Valëtyrian Academy t-shirt with a critical eye. “Let me guess: you’re one of those brainless meatheads allergic to even the idea of opening a book.”

Declan leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, flexing his muscular arms. “Does this look like the body of someone who sits around reading all day?”

“There’s value in both,” Zayne said diplomatically.

“Yes,” Devika conceded, though exasperation mingled with amusement in her expression. “That’s true. So what exactly do you do…when you’re not criticizing intellectuals?”

A lazy grin spread across Declan’s face at the subtle challenge in her tone. “I’m a Guardian Captain—”

“Also known as someone who prefers to hit other people with sticks,” Alasdair interjected, prompting laughter from the others.

“Swords,” Declan corrected, rolling his eyes. “You make it sound so…primitive.”

The Engineer snorted. “You let me know when those swords keep enemies from portaling into the AIDO, then we’ll talk.”

“Hey, who protects your precious tech from physical threats?” the Guardian countered, his voice amused. “All your technopathy doesn’t mean jack if someone takes a sword to your equipment.”

“Isn’t it your job to prevent them from getting that far in the first place?” Alasdair countered.

Devika laughed at their good-natured ribbing. “Stars, I didn’t mean to start a war.”

“War?” Alasdair grinned. “No, this is just a regular Tuesday afternoon for us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Declan wadded up a paper napkin and tossed it across the table at his friend, who easily avoided the projectile.

Zayne and Devika returned to the subject of Moriah while Alasdair and Declan bickered. Storm’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket to check the notification under the table. His expression darkened, and he muttered a curse before shoving the crystalline device back into his pocket.

“Everything okay?” Declan’s focus sharpened immediately as he scrutinized the silverblood.

“Just a minor interruption to my plans for the evening.” Storm smoothed his scowl into a mask of neutrality. “Nothing to worry about.” He pushed away from the table. “It was nice to meet you, Devika.”

She looked up from her discussion with Zayne, her expression placid. “Likewise. If you need anything, I’m always around in the library.”

Storm spared her a curt nod.

“You need company?” Declan made as if to rise from the table.

Storm shook his head. “Not right now. Give me…” —he checked the time— “half an hour, maybe.”

Declan’s brow wrinkled, but he sat again.

She might be Kitara’s Historian, but Storm wouldn’t announce his unexpected visitor to his friends with Devika present. Not until he had a better understanding of her relationship with their assigned Sleeper.

Storm took a deep breath once outside his room, then palmed the scanner and admitted himself.

His father sat on Storm’s couch while Tyrrell reclined in a neighboring chair.

“Dad,” Storm greeted him. “I didn’t know you were coming by today.” He nodded at his companion. “Tyrrell.”

“Thought I’d see how you are.” His father stood to embrace him as the other angel returned his nod. “Checking in.”

“Checking to make sure I haven’t gotten anyone killed this week, you mean?” Storm couldn’t suppress his bitter tone.

Cornelius returned to the couch while Storm sank into a chair across from Tyrrell.

“Not in such a…distasteful way, no,” the Councilor said. “Should I ask if you got anyone killed?”

“No.” Storm leaned back with a frown. “Nobody’s died that I’m aware of.”

Given Kitara’s refusal to work with me, I guess I wouldn’t know, though.

The thought made him scowl.

Cornelius noticed. “How are things between you and Kitara?”

Storm gave his automatic response. “Fine. No complaints.”

The High Councilor arched an elegant dark eyebrow. “Really? That’s…promising, I suppose.” He sounded anything but thrilled. “Her past hasn’t indicated she’s easy to work with.”

“Because of what happened with Phoenix, you mean?” Storm asked, crossing his arms. “She hasn’t brought it up.”

“Of course she hasn’t,” Tyrrell put in. “It doesn’t paint her in the most favorable light.”

“Were you expecting her to?” Cornelius asked.

Storm shrugged. “I thought she might use it as a threat or something.”

The High Councilor’s handsome face darkened. “She wouldn’t dare.”

“We don’t talk much.” Storm rubbed the back of his neck. “According to her, there’s nothing much to report yet.”

“That makes sense.” Tyrrell cut Cornelius off before he could interject. “She’s been out there less than a week. She’s probably still infiltrating.”

Storm refrained from mentioning his disapproval of Kitara’s infiltration plan. His father would take it as a sign he couldn’t handle the Sleeper. Instead, he nodded. “That’s true. She’s reassured me that once she’s got something to share, I’ll be the first to know.”

That stretched the truth some, but Storm’s father didn’t need to know that.

Cornelius had clearly hoped to hear something different. “Well,” he said, smoothing down his elaborate ceremonial robes, “Sometimes handlers and Sleepers don’t mesh. It’s unusual, but not unheard of to split up a partnership that isn’t working. If you feel that’s the way of things, you could pursue an ambassadorship instead.”

Storm shook his head. “Zayne’s the diplomat, not me. I should be leading my own battalion by now but…I’ll accept this. At least it means something.”

“You’re motivational, a role model.” Cornelius leaned forward with an earnest expression. “That means a great deal, inspiring others. In fact, I’d argue it’s necessary for the Valëtyrian ecosystem.”

“Get Phoenix to do it then,” his son replied. “He was always happy to do the smiling and placating—”

“Phoenix is better suited in his current position,” Cornelius interjected.

“And you are the son of the High Councilor,” Tyrrell added, toying absentmindedly with the silver and gold cane in his hand. “Phoenix might have been the first silverblooded child since the Myragnar’s retreat, but you are still more important than he ever was.”

“I’m the poster child for the Warrior profession and haven’t seen a moment of battle,” Storm said. He avoided his father’s gaze. “And they all just…fall in line to enroll, as if meeting me will make them invincible against a poisoned blade or bullet.”

“Your job now is to help us destabilize Ostragarn,” Tyrrell tried to placate him. “You have not been bloodied yourself, but you might impact thousands of lives with the right intel.”

Storm didn’t point out that Kitara did the hard work in that department, but it didn’t stop him making the comparison. He frowned.

“Tyrrell is correct,” Cornelius said with a sigh. “Always the voice of reason. Whatever my thoughts on the matter—or yours—if you’re able to keep Kitara in line and cooperative, it may indeed save many lives.”

Storm couldn’t help it. “Even if she’s the reason Mom’s in a coma?”

Cornelius narrowed his eyes at his son but didn’t reply. Storm hadn’t expected him to. After one tumultuous night when the High Councilor said more than he intended, he refused to speak about the incident again.

Storm’s father stood, and Tyrrell followed suit more slowly, using his cane to leverage himself out of the armchair. Storm’s prior encounters with the blond angel kept him from offering a hand.

Cornelius placed a hand on Storm’s shoulder. “I am very proud of you.” He spoke as if Storm hadn’t mentioned the tragedy that shattered their lives five decades ago. “And you have much to be proud of. Don’t lose sight of that.”

The silverblood resisted another sarcastic reply. “Thanks, Dad.”

“I’ll check in again soon. And if Kitara gives you the slightest trouble…”

Storm nodded. “I’ll let you know.”

Cornelius held the door for Tyrrell as he limped through, then the two of them disappeared. Storm closed the door again and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Time to change the game. Kitara could either play by his rules or lose it all—and Storm intended her to know exactly what that entailed.