Archangel's Heart

43

Caliane chose to flank Jean-Baptiste in a silent display of family unity.

On Raphael’s left stood Alexander.

He and the Ancient parted in silence when Aodhan, Xander, Laric, and Valerius arrived with a makeshift stretcher bearing Ibrahim’s broken body. They placed the stretcher in the circle, close to Neha, then backed off. Having witnessed Neha’s earlier reaction, Raphael wondered at the placement until Neha sucked in a breath and went down on one knee. She was still in the dark green clothing similar to a fighter’s leathers, her hair braided and her face clear of the cosmetics she usually wore.

God, Raphael, Neha is a warrior goddess.

Yes, Raphael said. She is also a Queen. That is her duality.

It was the warrior goddess who touched her hand to Ibrahim’s bruise-blackened and swollen face. “Who did this?” Her voice was a whip of fury, her wings aglow.

And Raphael realized that Neha hadn’t actually seen the beaten man’s face until now.

Aodhan, who’d come to stand behind Elena and Raphael, quietly filled them in. “Valerius recognized Ibrahim from Neha’s court. He was a respected scholar, one much in Neha’s favor until he came to join the Luminata.”

No one answered Neha.

Rising to her feet, the Archangel of India stared at Raphael. “You know the answer.”

“I know some of it.” He began to speak, starting with the fear that strangled the nearest township.

“They are mortals,” Charisemnon interrupted, and for once, his view wasn’t an outlier.

Raphael had once been part of that group, believing a life that was over in a firefly flicker had no relevance to him. He’d forgotten that Dmitri had once been mortal, the years having jaded him. Until a hunter faced him down with a foolish courage that dug its way into his heart. As he fell with Elena’s broken body in New York, he’d known there would be no one else like Elena in all his existence, her firefly flicker a dazzling light that had marked him, branded him forever.

“It is natural that they should fear their masters,” Michaela added with a mocking smile directed at Elena. “Such is the way of the world.”

Raphael felt Elena bristle, but his hunter was no green youth; she faced the archangel with expressionless calm. “Yes, they are mortals,” he said. “But those mortals are not the Luminata’s to rule. Or did you cede them the right to their own fiefdom?” The latter question, he directed to Charisemnon.

The Archangel of Northern Africa narrowed his eyes. “Morocco is mine. Lumia and Lumia alone is theirs.”

Leaving the other man to consider that fact, Raphael then spoke about what the Cadre would consider the most egregious crime. “Using the shield of seeking luminescence, the Luminata—at least a certain percentage of them—have been living a life free of all oversight. These men do not consider themselves as having to respect the boundaries we have laid down for all angelkind. They believe themselves above the Cadre.”

The wings of every archangel in the circle began to glow.

“The search for luminescence is a mask,” he said bluntly. “The ones involved have used it to enslave mortals and slake their carnal lusts without having to answer for their crimes to anyone.” Again, he knew crimes against mortals meant nothing to several of the archangels, so he continued. “Jean-Baptiste is not the only vampire who is apt to have ‘died’ while seconded to serve at Lumia.”

“I believe most are truly dead,” Jean-Baptiste said when Raphael looked at him. “Gian taunted us during our captivity with stories of all the ‘inconvenient’ guards he and his cohort had murdered without repercussion.” The vampire spoke with clear-eyed focus, his assurance a testament to his spirit. “He meant to frighten us into believing him omnipotent—he told us he was the final law in Lumia and even archangels didn’t question his word.”

“Liar.” The rasp of sound came from Gian, his vocal cords clearly recovering.

Ten archangelic heads turned toward the Luminata. None of the looks were friendly. It was Elijah who spoke. “I have lost three vampires over the past three and a half centuries. Two to an apparent freak accident during combat training when they attacked each other with too much force, one to a disappearance that was never explained except as a desertion of his post.”

“Ibrahim is mine,” Neha confirmed, crouching down again to touch his hand gently with her own before she rose. “A vampire seconded to Lumia was also said to have deserted out of boredom.”

“Two,” Michaela snapped. “Two of my most talented young angelic warriors, seconded here as squadron leaders for a short term because Lumia is considered a prestigious position and I wanted them to have that experience on their records.”

I keep forgetting she’s an actual archangel, Elena said. One who obviously rules well since her territory is stable. Then she says something like that.

Never forget no archangel is one-dimensional. It was a lesson that could well save her life one day.

“One,” Titus said in his booming voice. “A young vampire who disappeared without a trace and who, it was told to me, had been aggressive before he strode off into the darkness never to be seen again.”

In the end, the Cadre confirmed they’d lost a total of at least twenty-five vampires as well as ten angels over the centuries since Gian took leadership. Most of the latter had been seconded as squadron leaders.

The number wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things, but fighters with enough promise to be sent to Lumia were considered valuable assets and many had personal relationships with their archangels—or with the weapons masters of those archangels. They had been missed. The only reason no one had connected the dots was because the disappearances and deaths had been spread out across many archangelic territories and over centuries.

“Why did they die?” The question came from Alexander, and it was directed not at Gian, but at Jean-Baptiste. “Did Gian boast of his reasons?”

Once more, even in the face of an Ancient’s regard, the vampire held his ground.

Any archangel would be proud to have your grandfather in his forces, hbeebti.

Pride tinged the silver-rimmed gray of his consort’s eyes when she smiled at him.

“They began to ask questions,” Jean-Baptiste said.

“Liar!” Gian’s attempt at a yell was only a slightly louder rasp that everyone ignored, their attention on the vampire who was Elena’s blood.

“All of the ones who are gone were highly intelligent,” the other man said, “and they weren’t willing to look the other way when they realized Lumia was breaking the rules that permit it to be a self-governing society.”

Shoulder muscles bunched and his feet set firmly apart, he said, “The current squadrons are all privately sourced and paid for with the money the Luminata bring in with them when they pledge to Lumia—it means there is no risk the men will have any loyalty but to Lumia.”

Majda spoke into the pause, gripping at the back of her husband’s forearm and voice trembling. Yet she would not be silenced. “He calls himself the King of Kings, a man beyond the reach of anyone on this earth.”

Michaela would’ve fried Gian on the spot if Raphael hadn’t held up a hand. “I call blood debt.”

Everyone froze.

He waited for a challenge, but what he got was an incline of the head from Neha. “It is obvious you have a right to the blood debt.” Her eyes flicked to Elena, Majda, and Jean-Baptiste. “For the sake of formalities, do you claim the two vampires as family?”

“Yes.” He turned to Favashi. “Will you dispute?”

A shake of her head. “Jean-Baptiste’s term of service at Lumia ended four decades ago. He is free to choose his allegiance.”

“The copy of your consort is young, Raphael,” Michaela said, hip cocked, one hand placed on that hip. “She remains within her Contract period, will have to serve it out to whoever owns her.”

Jean-Baptiste closed his hand tightly over his wife’s as Majda’s face went white. Jaw rigid, he said, “Gian Made her by force. There is no Contract.”

His words were live grenades thrown into the room. The Making of vampires was strictly regulated. Each archangel had his or her own rules, but there were rules. Angels couldn’t simply go around Making vampires; they needed the permission of at least one of the Cadre, though that permission might be given once and hold for millennia.

There were meant to be no vampires in the world who did not trace back to at least one of the Cadre, even if the thread was a nebulous one where the Cadre member would not interfere in the vampire’s existence except in very rare circumstances. It had to do with the balance of the world, with blood and with life.

“He lies,” Gian said again. “She is Charisemnon’s.”

This time, Raphael knew they couldn’t simply ignore the words.

Unexpectedly, it was Raphael’s mortal enemy who handed Majda her freedom. “Do you think me a fool?” Charisemnon said to Gian, his voice full of rage. “I will not be used by a mere angel who wishes to meddle in the affairs of his betters. The woman is yours, Raphael.”

Raphael turned to Majda. “Choose your allegiance—you are not under Contract, but you must be under archangelic oversight until you have passed ten decades as a vampire.”

Despite the fact Jean-Baptiste was free and clear of his own obligations to serve an archangel, he came immediately to kneel in front of Raphael. He had his hand clasped around his wife’s, and though it was apparent she didn’t understand the rules, she followed him without hesitation.

“I swear to be loyal. My blood is your blood,” Jean-Baptiste said, his wife repeating the words. “My life is yours to command. I will serve no other but you.”

Raphael nodded at the two to return to their previous positions. “Gian is mine to punish,” he said flatly. “However, the wider question of Lumia remains.”

“Raze it,” Favashi said, exposing the steel core that lived beneath her soft, elegant surface. “There should’ve never been a place on earth that wasn’t under Cadre control.”

Charisemnon nodded. “We are the masters of this world.”

“If I may . . .” The hesitant words were spoken by Donael, the eons-old angel having been hovering on the edge of the circle since the beginning.

Neha looked at him with a coldness that spoke of the poison that was her greatest weapon. “Speak, Donael. I give you this opportunity only because I knew you once as a man of great wisdom.”

Bowing his head lower than Elena had ever before seen one of the Luminata bow to anyone, Donael said, “The Luminata play an important role in angelic society. We are the seekers of knowledge and the keepers of art, and we are the one group that can call the Cadre to a meeting when things reach a breaking point as they have in Lady Lijuan’s territory.”

He breathed deep, exhaled. “Ending us will leave a vacuum. And even should we put all that aside, angels need a space where they can come to find their souls, a place where the mind can be free.”

Elena felt her lips twist at that pretty little speech, but she kept her silence. Surprisingly, it was Hannah who broke it, the other woman having come in with Elijah. “I would speak,” she said quietly. “Not as Elijah’s consort, but as an artist.”

When no one in the Cadre interrupted, she said, “I have been absorbed in the Gallery since we arrived. I found great joy in this place that safely houses so much of our artistic history.”

Elena saw Donael begin to smile. But Hannah wasn’t done.

“However,” she said, “even as I studied the astonishing array in the Gallery, I was aware that few eyes ever get to see these works of art.” A frown lay heavy on her elegant features. “The Luminata have become a more and more closed sect in the time since I have been Elijah’s consort, until ordinary angels do not believe they have the right to come here and interrupt the brothers’ contemplation.”

No smile on Donael’s face now, nothing but an insulted stiffness.

“That is not right,” Hannah said. “If the Gallery is a library of the greatest art produced by our people, then angelkind should be able to visit at will, should be encouraged to visit. It disturbs me that the Luminata seem to consider these treasures their own and that they, and they alone, are the ones who decide which works will be displayed and which won’t.”

The other consort’s gaze went to beyond Elena. “I would ask that Aodhan also be permitted a voice.”

“He is an artist,” Caliane murmured. “A respected student of the Hummingbird. I would hear his thoughts.”

Aodhan rarely spoke when he was with a larger group, but today, he said, “Lady Hannah speaks true. It is also regretful that the Luminata have discarded artworks without any oversight.

“While I was visiting with the healer who has been helping Ibrahim”—he indicated Laric’s small form, the healer almost hiding behind Aodhan—“I discovered a damaged painting by the Hummingbird. Laric saved it from a room that seems to act as a gathering place for things bound for destruction, was told he could have it as it was no longer good enough for the Gallery.”

The reaction to his revelation was visible and audible. Even Titus, who Elena hadn’t thought was particularly artistically inclined, fisted his hands. Illium’s mother is far more important to angelkind than I understand, isn’t she?

Raphael’s response held a gentleness he only ever betrayed when speaking about the Hummingbird. She is a treasure, broken perhaps beyond repair, but a treasure nonetheless.