Archangel's Heart

13

Raphael leaned in to speak against her ear, an archangel and his consort sharing a private joke. “Gian was the second of an archangel who has Slept since before Neha’s ascension. He is at least five thousand years old and dangerously strong.”

Smiling to keep up the illusion of a private conversation between lovers, Elena said, “Got it. I’ll watch myself.”

“He also had a reputation for being a man who enjoyed the pleasures of life and who had many lovers, all of them women.” Raphael’s tone was thoughtful. “From that to this bastion of maleness, it’s an unusual progression.”

“I dunno—sometimes people take stock of their life and don’t like what they see. Could be what happened to Gian.” She glanced over her shoulder to check on Aodhan.

The angel had taken up a position against the wall of the Atrium nearest the door, alongside several of his fellow escorts. One of those escorts, Elena saw, was a well-armed and gorgeous woman with a blunt fringe of black hair against skin of muted brown—and she was looking straight at Aodhan, invitation in her smile.

Aodhan’s attention, however, was on Elena.

Turning back around after their eyes met in a silent communication that all was well—so far—she asked Raphael about the woman, then held up a hand. “Wait, let me guess. Hmm . . . Neha’s escort?”

“Titus’s,” Raphael told her with a smile. “He adores soft, feminine women, but he also has a powerful contingent of female warriors. I’m fairly certain the woman is the fourth in his command structure.”

Reminding herself that all the archangels were multidimensional, she saw that Michaela and Titus were still talking, while Gian remained in another area, in conversation with Astaad. Mele was nowhere to be seen, but Elena glimpsed Hannah and Elijah in the far opposite corner of the Atrium. Alexander and Xander stood with the couple, Alexander dressed in black pants, boots, and a silver breastplate stamped with an image Elena couldn’t make out from this distance.

Missing were Neha, Favashi, Charisemnon, and Caliane. “You had contact with your mom?”

“She is about to arrive.” Raphael began to move, Elena moving with him.

“Let’s wait, greet her,” Elena said after a thought. “No harm in everyone here knowing you two are a unit.” Caliane might’ve once been an insane mass murderer, but she appeared sane now—and full of remorse for the atrocity she’d committed in her madness. And she’d stood by Raphael since the instant she awoke from her long Sleep.

Raphael shook his head. “I am not Caliane’s son at this moment—I am the Archangel of New York. I wait for no one.”

Damn subtle archangelic politics, Elena thought to herself. She’d learned so much but countless things could still trip her up. Because Raphael was right—he couldn’t be seen to be waiting for his mother to arrive. And what the hell was he doing now?

“Are you heading toward Michaela?” she asked sotto voce. “Good God, why? If you want someone to stab you in the back, I have plenty of knives.”

His laughter caught Michaela’s attention, her head angling toward them. “Titus and Michaela are the closest to us,” he murmured. “It is simple courtesy—and I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to examine her more closely.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think you can tell just by looking at someone if they gave birth a year ago.” The idea of Michaela birthing a child was still a hard one for her to accept. “She was probably just playing a game, or maybe she was Sleeping off Uram’s poison.” That was a possibility Elena hadn’t previously considered and it made just as much sense as the secret birth of a baby that might or might not have been impacted by the same poison. “Her figure certainly hasn’t changed.”

Then they were too close to risk further discussion. Mere seconds later, Titus greeted Raphael with a back-slapping hug that made it clear to the room at large that he considered Raphael an ally. Then, as Elena gritted her teeth, Raphael touched his hand to Michaela’s in a polite greeting between Cadre.

Titus, meanwhile, was gripping Elena’s forearm in the way of warriors—though he’d tempered his strength, likely as a result of a mental reminder from Raphael. The warrior archangel had accepted Elena as a fellow warrior to the extent that he sometimes forgot she wasn’t as physically strong as an archangel. “Ellie,” he said, using the nickname she’d asked him to use. “When is your next block party?”

His booming true voice filled the room, the enthusiasm in it making her grin. “Maybe after we sort out this whole possible mass bloodlust situation,” she said and, forearm shake complete, forced herself to turn to Michaela. “Archangel Michaela,” she said politely. “It has been many moons.” The words were a stock phrase Jessamy had taught her. She felt like adding: I hope it’s way more moons to our next meeting.

“Guild Hunter,” Michaela responded.

The other woman probably thought she was delivering a subtle put-down by referring to Elena’s occupation rather than her status as Raphael’s consort, but Elena would never be insulted by being referred to as a hunter.

And Raphael would never be insulted on her behalf.

“Your markings are astonishing, Raphael,” Michaela said in a much warmer tone, her sultry voice pitched just right. “I confess I had no idea of their impact from seeing the images broadcast by the media.”

Leaving Raphael to handle Michaela, well aware her archangel would never have the extreme bad taste to be seduced by that viper, Elena focused on Titus. “I was looking forward to seeing your own markings, Titus.”

The Archangel of Southern Africa had developed gold markings across his massive chest, but tonight, those marks were covered by a gold breastplate, the designs etched into the breastplate almost as intricate as the carvings that decorated the hallways and walls of this complex. As with Alexander, the back of the piece was made of thick but pliable leather.

“Ellie, for you, anything.” Titus was back to using the softer tone he consciously adopted in social situations. “I hope we will not always be in meetings.” His scowl made his opinion of meetings clear. “If so, I will spar with Raphael. You may watch.”

Before, Elena might’ve taken that permission as condescension. Now she understood that Titus would spar with her, too—if he wasn’t so sure he’d rip off her arms when fired up by battle fever. “I’ll take you up on that,” she said. “Galen still speaks of all that he learned in your armies.”

Even as Titus beamed at the mention of Raphael’s weapons-master, there was movement near the entrance. Caliane walked in, a woman with haunting blue eyes and raven hair, the template from which Raphael had been cast. Her hair flowing down her back and adorned by the thinnest of diamond tiaras, the gems glittering like ice on fire, she wore a gown in glacial white that turned her into a queen of frost and flame.

However, it wasn’t her mother-in-law who caught and held Elena’s attention.

Tasha had walked in behind Caliane, now took position among the escorts.

Scarlet haired and with slanted eyes of a vivid green, her wings a rich copper, the scholar and warrior looked out over the crowd. Her lips curved when they landed on Raphael, the archangel who’d once been her playmate, then her lover.

Regardless of the fact that Raphael and Tasha’s relationship hadn’t lasted, Elena wasn’t immune to a twinge of irritation. Why the hell did Raphael have such great taste in exes?

“Ellie.”

Turning at the sound of that lyrical female voice, Elena smiled. “Hannah.” She hugged the other woman with open warmth.

She and Hannah had first made contact because they were the only two consorts in the Cadre, but their bond had transformed into a true friendship over time: two very different women who’d found common ground.

Drawing back from the embrace after a long moment, Hannah said, “You look lovely and fierce.”

“Montgomery,” Elena said, admiring how Hannah had woven a fine string of iridescent black pearls through the elegant bun in which she wore her hair. “He’s my fashion consultant.”

Hannah’s laugh was throaty. “I would steal your butler, Elena, except that he is so passionately devoted to you and to his sire.”

“You don’t need Montgomery’s help—you always look gorgeous.” That was no exaggeration. Hannah had an artist’s eye and knew the colors that looked good against the ebony of her skin. Which, honestly, was pretty much every shade under the sun.

Today, she’d gone for a shimmering copper that made her glow and set off the peach accents in her wings. The dress had a high neck and no sleeves, swept down her body in a column with a slit down one side. Stylish yet simple—but for the touch at the top of the slit: the palm-sized image of a crouching puma picked out in gemstones that ranged from the hard clarity of diamonds to the smoky browns of topaz.

Elena approved of the subtle reminder of Elijah’s Cascade-given gift—the ability to command both birds of prey and large jungle cats. “How are the pumas?”

“They know not to invade my studio unless I invite them in,” Hannah said in a very stern tone. “In all honesty, I have come to care for the creatures—how could I not when my favorites wait outside the studio for me, then curl up in the sun and watch as I go about my work.” She shook her head. “Elijah keeps telling me I’m spoiling them, that they need to be ferocious beasts, not pets, but I know they would protect me to the death should it come down to it.”

Elena had to agree—she’d seen recordings of the pumas and they were definitely wild animals. That they adored Hannah was a reflection of Elijah’s love for her. “So you’re not interested in learning to throw paint knives now that you have a guard of pumas? I told Raphael we’d get up to mayhem.”

Hannah’s smile turned into a grin, an expression Elena had never thought she’d see on the elegant consort’s face when they’d first met. That was before she’d realized that while Hannah’s private face included her elegant side, the other woman also had a wicked playfulness to her.

It made Elena wonder what she didn’t know about Elijah.

Because the man who’d won Hannah’s heart would have to have a touch of playfulness in him, too. And that was a fact that simply didn’t mesh with her view of Elijah—he was more like a stable older brother, if that older brother was a brutally powerful archangel.

“Oh, I like the idea of causing mayhem.” Leaning closer, Hannah whispered, “Shall we kidnap Tasha and pluck off her feathers?”

“Don’t put ideas in my head.”

“Consort.” The voice was purest beauty, the woman who spoke equally so.

Turning to greet her mother-in-law without cutting Hannah off from the conversation, she inclined her head exactly the right amount to acknowledge their relationship without diminishing Elena’s standing as Raphael’s consort. The funny thing was that it wasn’t Jessamy but Caliane who’d taught her that precision bow—a little mother-in-law–daughter-in-law bonding exercise when Caliane realized no one knew how to deal with the protocol between an Ancient mother-in-law and her archangelic son’s consort.

Funnily enough, that particular situation had never before come up.

“It is good to see you,” Elena said now, going off-script from the ceremonial greeting because she and Caliane had progressed beyond that in the short, stealthy visits Caliane had made to New York, and Raphael and Elena to Amanat, during the past two years. “You know Hannah, of course.”

“Hannah, my dear.” Caliane closed her hands over one of Hannah’s, leaned in to kiss the other woman on the cheek.

The difference in greetings was no insult. Elijah had been one of Caliane’s loyal generals before his ascension to archangel, and even afterward, he’d never betrayed her. Rather, he’d looked out for her son.

“Lady Caliane.” Hannah’s smile held an infectious warmth as she used the same title Elijah continued to use for Caliane, an equal who chose to acknowledge the history he shared with Caliane.

Elijah could do that without repercussions, was old enough to get away with it. Raphael had to tread a far more careful path. His relationship with Caliane had never been of equals when he was younger—he couldn’t hark back to it without also reminding the rest of the Cadre of the boy he’d been. More, he’d only been an archangel for approximately five hundred years, a drop in the ocean in angelic time.

“I’ve almost finished the piece I sketched in Amanat,” Hannah said, the words a whisper so others wouldn’t overhear of Hannah and Eli’s visit to Caliane’s city, learn they’d left their territory at times. “I have great hopes of showing it to you within the next six months.”

“I will await the unveiling with anticipation,” Caliane responded warmly before returning her attention to Elena . . . only for her gaze to skate past Elena, the look in them changing to a piercing love that only appeared when she looked at one person.

“Raphael, my son.” She took Raphael’s kiss on the cheek in greeting, touched her own fingers to his cheek in return.

It was still a shock to Elena’s system to see them side by side. They appeared near to the same age, though Caliane was older by many, many millennia. Unexpectedly, Caliane then spoke to Elena. “Consort, I would be pleased if you would walk with me tomorrow eve prior to dinner. I would hear of my son’s home, learn how his people are doing.”

Why isn’t she asking you? Elena said to Raphael, even as she accepted Caliane’s invitation.

Her archangel placed his hand on the bare skin of her lower back as his mother moved on to speak to Alexander. Hannah, too, had been drawn away—by Elijah, who’d smiled a hello at Elena, Raphael and the other archangel having already spoken.

She is preempting those who might believe they can drive a wedge between us by using the fact you are not the consort my mother would’ve chosen for me.

Raphael moved his fingers on her back. And she has missed speaking to you, I think. She has said to me that you make her remember what it was to be young and fearless.

Fighting pleasurable shivers, Elena said, You sure that’s not code for young and stupid?

Raphael’s lips kicked up on one corner. Are they not the same?

Elena couldn’t exactly argue, given some of the stunts she’d pulled as a green hunter. “Have you spoken to Astaad?” She could see the archangel’s distinctive wings, the feathers night black where they grew out of his back but fading slowly to pale gray at the tips, like a watercolor done with an expert hand.

“No, let’s go do so now.”

When they did, Astaad confirmed he’d left Mele at home. “She wanted to accompany me, but she is too gentle, with no weapons of her own.” His eyes, a dark shade close to onyx, striking against the cool white of his skin, scanned the room. “Neha has arrived.”

The Archangel of India entered the Atrium with regal grace, her silk sari an unusual deep yellow embroidered with threads of blue-gold and her black hair swept back in its usual neat knot. She held her wings off the floor with unforced strength, the feathers icy white with filaments of cobalt in the primaries. Her brown eyes were of the queen she was: intelligent and used to power.

Close on her heels came Charisemnon.

The Archangel of Disease—Elena far preferred that name over his official title—was back to full health and he was physically quite handsome, all rich brown hair and skin of deep gold, his body fluidly muscled and his eyes a darker gold with flecks of brown in their depths.

He still made her stomach turn.

Neha might hate Elena, but Elena liked the Archangel of India for giving Charisemnon a distinctly icy reception when the two exchanged greetings. I keep forgetting Neha’s a warrior, too, she said to Raphael, and then she does something like that and I remember she has zero sympathy for people she considers cowards.

Raphael didn’t reply; it wasn’t necessary. He was the one who’d told her about Neha’s skill with the curved blade of the kukri, told her stories of sparring with the Archangel of India. She knew he missed the relationship he’d had with Neha before he had to execute her murderous daughter.

Favashi entered seconds later, a soft-featured angel with wings of rich ivory and hair of shining mahogany against skin of sun-kissed cream, her beauty lushly feminine and her power the epitome of the steel hand in a velvet glove from all Elena had heard. She wore an intricately beaded dress of rich cream with shimmering cerise accents, the full-length sleeves cuffed at her wrists and the lush skirt coming to just above her calves. Below that were tight cotton leggings of the same cerise and simple gold sandals.

“So, we are all here,” Astaad murmured. “Who do you think will attempt to kill who first?”