Seraphs by Faith Hunter

Audric had never wanted to be bound to a seraph. He wasn’t happy with his status, would never be happy serving another, not even a being of Light who would call him to battle. “It is my duty and my honor to protect the licensed mage my master has honored with his presence.” When he raised upright, his sigil of office rested on his chest, and his skin was warm with the soft tones of the second-unforeseen. Not as bright as my own, but clearly displaying his half-neomage genes.
    “Nice touch,” I said, uncertain. “But don’t risk it if you don’t have to.”
    Audric laughed, the deep rumble echoing in the cold stairwell, his dark eyes hot with scorching brightness. “If the day is auspicious, the humans will attack and we will fight. Battle and glory call to me today,” he said with all the formality of his kind. His hands rested on his swords. “The blood of humans is sweet when they trespass against the seraph’s chosen.”
    “Hey. Human being standing here,” Rupert said. “Enough of the blood and glory.”
    “If they attack, stay to Thorn’s right,” Audric commanded. He slung a scarred battle cloak over his shoulders and dobok. Tapping his lightning-bolt pendant, he damped his skin. I touched my prime amulet, blanking my neomage attributes, and checked my walking-stick blade. Eighteen inches of mage-tempered steel showed before I re-sheathed it.
    “Okay,” I said. “If you’re sure.”
    When we reached the bottom of the stairs, Audric stepped into the uncertain light of the shop. From a chair in the waiting area of Thorn’s Gems, he lifted a dark bundle and gave it a shake. Yards of velvet slinked down with a whisper of sound, taking the shape of a cloak. He held it to Rupert. “I bought it for your birthday, but it seems appropriate for today.”
    “ Sweet seraph. It’s wonderful.” Rupert took the cloak, stroking the dark blue velvet, so fine it scattered the light. The lining was quilted scarlet silk. He shook the wrinkles from its folds, and tossed it over his shoulders. Assuming a rakish pose, he asked, “Well?”
    “You look perfect,” I said. “It brings a blue sheen to your eyes, and makes your hair look even darker.” I’d have added it was lovely, except it wasn’t; it somehow carried a sense of menace. The cloth fell to the floor, making his shoulders look broader, his form threatening.
    “And there’s this,” Audric said. From the counter, he lifted a cloth-wrapped object and extended it to Rupert. A leather-wrapped hilt with a dark blue stone set into the pommel protruded from the end. “It’s a bastard sword. It was specially made for you.”
    At the sight of the ornate navy-and-burgundy, tooled-leather sheath, Rupert made a soft sound, not quite a moan, not quite a groan, but way more than a sigh. The timbre brought a smile to Audric’s face. “You’re slower than a mage or a half-breed,” he said, “but stronger. As your skills increase, that strength will make you a formidable opponent, even for me. The hand-and-a-half-length hilt is perfect to capitalize on that strength.” Rupert pulled the blade from the sheath and set the leather to the side. Gripping the hilt in both hands, he swung the double-bladed, four-foot sword experimentally, getting the feel of its balance. “Don’t start a swing that you aren’t totally committed to, Rupert. It has its own weight. It won’t be easy to stop in battle.”
    “Is it named?” he asked.
    I stiffened at the question. Most sword masters—not sword owners, but masters —named their weapons, and that name often followed a blade from master to master. That name was part of the initiation rite when a savage-blade student was given his first battle-weapon. To a traditional swordsman, the blades he used were alive, with personalities and characters all their own. I had never named my own weapons, and had never been through the ceremony that officially marked a mage reaching adult-hood, thus I had never received my