Archangel's War

12

Raphael knew why it was only Dmitri who’d come up to the balcony outside his and Elena’s living area. He and his second, they had a unique relationship. Raphael might’ve been several hundred years old when he first met Dmitri, but Dmitri had been a married man by then, a farmer confident in his skin and open in his love for his wife.

The two of them, they’d always met as equals.

As he stepped out onto the balcony, his second turned and looked at him with dark eyes that gave nothing away . . . but he strode across the space to meet Raphael halfway. They raised their right hands, clasped each other’s forearms, leaned in for the embrace of warriors. “It is good to have you back.” Dmitri’s voice was potent with emotions unspoken but understood. “I’m putting in for ten years’ vacation leave starting today.”

“That bad?” Raphael asked as they drew back.

“Charisemnon keeps trying his luck, Neha watches in enigmatic silence, Michaela’s disappeared into her mountains, and China’s lost so many people without explanation that large swathes of it are silent.”

“Michaela?” he said, picking out the most intriguing detail among all that Dmitri had recited.

His second folded his arms, biceps taut and skin a bronzed hue that would hold its color even in the heart of winter. “Jason’s confirmed she’s in her stronghold near Budapest, but she hasn’t been seen in flight for at least five months.” A shrug. “No one’s dared misbehave in her territory yet. Her generals have orders to kill at any sign of insurrection. That’s it. No other punishment. Straight up beheading. It’s efficient.”

Raphael couldn’t disagree with the admiration in Dmitri’s voice. It was a simple and effective way to keep a territory in control while the archangel in charge went dark. “It’s not unknown for archangels to go under for months at a time.” Even members of the Cadre occasionally needed time to simply exist.

Raphael was too young to feel the urge, but he knew his mother had taken such time during his years as a child. “Michaela’s not much older than I am.” A matter of five hundred years, give or take. “But she has recently had to deal with a meat ‘infant’ and possession by Uram. Perhaps it has put her in a bad mood.”

Dmitri barked out a laugh. “I can see her sitting in a funk in her stronghold. At least she’s not creating more problems. Charisemnon, on the other hand, is being an asshole—it’s only having Titus at his border that’s keeping him in check.”

“The birds and cats are Eli’s?”

A short nod. “I found a damn lynx on the hood of my Ferrari the other day. Thing snarled at me.” Scowling, he continued on. “In other interesting news, Suyin asked to relocate to New York and go into combat training. I authorized it, put her under Honor’s tutelage.”

Raphael raised an eyebrow. With skin of cool white and hair of ice white, her cheekbones sharp as blades, Lijuan’s niece could’ve been her aunt’s twin if not for her dark eyes and the beauty spot under the corner of her left eye—and her lack of a killing instinct. Suyin had been Lijuan’s prisoner for thousands upon thousands of years, a fragile artistic being so traumatized that she was fading from life when rescued.

Dmitri nodded. “I wasn’t expecting that, either, but Honor says she’s a quick study and determined to be ready to fight Lijuan when her aunt rises again.”

“A motive to be respected. Especially after the torture she suffered under Lijuan.”

His second’s expression was dark, but his tone pragmatic as he continued his update. “Haven’t heard much from Astaad and Alexander—they’ve both been busy coping with massive ice storms.”

Parts of Alexander’s desert territory were susceptible to ice, but Astaad’s territory was nearly all tropical. “The islands?”

Dmitri nodded. “Residents barely own cardigans, much less snow gear. I’ve sent supplies and so have Michaela and Lady Caliane.” He shoved a hand through the black of his hair. “That’s not all of it—Alexander’s also been hit with flash floods, while the monsoon season in Neha’s territory is threatening to become monsoon year.”

“Elijah?”

“Plagues of wasps. Swarms have killed at least ten people so far.” He braced his hands on his hips. “Titus and Charisemnon have the opposite problem to Neha: drought. Wildfires are running rampant across the savannah.”

“It’s gotten worse.”

A nod from his second. “We’ve been lucky in the scheme of things. A couple of torrential lightning storms, a few more minor geothermal issues in the area you already evacuated, and, bizarrely, an infestation of ladybug beetles in a small town. No damage from the bugs, but they creeped out a bunch of people.”

Dmitri cocked an eyebrow. “Did you know fear of ladybugs has a name? Coccinellidaephobia.”

It was an amusing thing he’d have to tell Elena. The rest however . . . “Favashi?”

“No sign of her since she disappeared into the lava with Cassandra. As for her territory—Lady Caliane keeps me updated when she isn’t threatening to boil me alive for not letting her see you, and she says that while Neha’s had to cope with some refugees from China, it’s nowhere near the number she expected. Not even after accounting for the vanished villages.”

“Lijuan’s people are loyal.” Many would say to the edge of madness. “Aodhan, Naasir, and Galen remain at the Refuge?”

“Yes. Galen wanted to send the others back to New York, but I told them to stay. I didn’t want to leave him without powerful backup.”

Raphael locked eyes with Dmitri. “What has happened?” Galen was Raphael’s weapons-master and well able to deal with any threat excepting attack by one of the Cadre.

“Things are moving under the Refuge.”

The Refuge never shook. Legend said it had been anchored by the cataclysmic power of Sleepers who wished never to wake. “Do not tell me you believe in the legend of the Ancestors, Dmitri?” Said to slumber below the Refuge, the Ancestors were whispered to be the first of Raphael’s kind, angels so old they were another species.

“Sire, at this point, I’m ready to believe in the fucking tooth fairy.”

Raphael clasped his second on the shoulder. “Thank you for holding my Tower safe.”

“Next time, I’d appreciate you warning your mother that you’re about to take a nap.” A black scowl. “Lady Caliane’s last threat included having me drawn and quartered.”

“You survived.” That he had was a measure of his mettle; Raphael’s mother, after all, was an Ancient.

Dmitri’s next question was quiet. “Elena?” A worry in his dark eyes that would astonish Raphael’s consort, the two were such determined adversaries.

“The Cascade has underestimated my hunter’s will.” He opened out his wings to check their status. They remained aflame but the odd feather was beginning to show through, so the white fire was apt to settle in the coming hours. “I must go and close the chasm from which Elena and I arose.”

“Raphael.” Arms folded again and feet set apart, Dmitri got in his way. “Contact your mother before you go or I swear I’ll tie your wings together and drag you inside to make the call.”

The cold power in him whispered for him to take offense at such insubordination, but Raphael had no intention of becoming its puppet. “I will do it as soon as I fulfil a promise to Elena.” Dmitri was right—Caliane might’ve once been mad, might’ve left him bleeding and broken in a forgotten field, but she’d risen sane and she’d been firmly on his side since.

Nodding, Dmitri left to return to his duties, while Raphael swept off the balcony to head to the storage unit where Elena kept her childhood. She visited the space regularly, made sure her things were free of dust, told him stories about pieces when he was with her, but while she’d given her sister Beth anything she wanted from within, she’d never brought a single item home herself. Today, however, when he returned with the quilt and opened it over her, she tugged it closer and snuggled down.

He brushed his hand over the near-white silk of her hair, what he felt for her such a huge violence inside him that it had no name. “To the end and beyond, hunter-mine.”

Forcing himself out of the room, he shut the door quietly behind himself, then went to the screen mounted on one wall of the suite’s library. He could’ve used a phone to call Amanat, but Caliane didn’t trust in such things. She was barely comfortable with the system that allowed them to see each other as they spoke.

The face that answered on the other end was a familiar one: uptilted eyes of dramatic green, hair of a deep, deep red, skin that was close to translucent and wings of copper silk.

Tasha would never pass unnoticed through a crowd.

Her eyes widened at seeing him, a gasp exiting her throat. But the woman—and warrior—who’d been his lover when they were young angels first spreading their wings was already moving out of shot, and he knew she was getting his mother.

Tasha was as loyal to Caliane as Dmitri was to Raphael.

When Caliane appeared on the other side, it was with a frown marring her forehead. “What—” She cut herself off, her face softening in a way it only ever did for Raphael. Placing her hand on the screen on her side, she whispered, “My son. You are home.”

Raphael echoed her gesture on this side, placing his palm over hers. “We will speak further soon, Mother. I must take care of my territory now.”

Caliane had been an archangel longer than Raphael could imagine; she didn’t argue against his priorities. “That upstart vampire you call second needs to learn how to speak to his elders, but he has done you proud.” Regal and a touch haughty, Caliane’s words nonetheless held the approbation of an archangel who had never been afraid to have strong people around her. She had taught him how to rule by example.

Until the madness. Until the death.

“I never doubted he would.” He inclined his head. “I will go now.”

“Before you do—your consort?”

Once, that might’ve been a barbed question, but Caliane and Elena had made their peace. It would always be an odd peace with jagged edges, but that was what happened when two strong women collided and one of them was used to being obeyed in all things—while the other obeyed only the dictates of her conscience.

“She is resting,” was all Raphael said; he and Elena would have to speak when she woke, decide their next course of action. Until then, he’d share nothing of her physical state.

After ending the call, he looked into the bedroom. A glint of hair of near-white . . . and the muted glow of her skin beneath the quilt. His hunter was curled up on her side in a tight ball, her knees tucked to her chest and her spine curved, her head curled over her knees. The tattoo on her back pulsed with light in time with her heartbeat.

Jaw clenched, he fought the urge to shake her awake from that torturously constricted position that had permitted her to emerge from the chrysalis with all her limbs. He lost the battle. Elena.

A sleepy mumble from her mind, the warm steel of her presence a kiss.

Muscle memory, he told himself. That was all. But he touched the back of his hand to her cheek to reassure himself of the life of her.

Sighing, she snuggled deeper into the bed . . . just as droplets of fire fell from his wings to dance over the exposed side of her face. She shivered as first one small flame sank into her flesh, then another, but didn’t wake.

The power spread under her skin in a soft burst that made her veins pulse a luminous gold for a startling second before the effect faded into a softer radiance. Soft or not, his hunter remained very much “glow-in-the-dark.”

He could imagine her displeased scowl when she woke.

Leaning down, he pressed his lips to her cheek. “If it is any consolation hunter-mine, my wings continue to burn and my eyes are alive with lightning.”

Archangel. A soft, sleepy murmur from a mind caught in deepest sleep but aware of him and what he meant to her.

The hand clenched around his heart stopped squeezing. Sleep, hbeebti. I will be home soon.

He stopped long enough to pull on a sleeveless tunic, and put into his pocket a set of small sample bags Keir had left behind. “Your scientists,” the healer had said, “will no doubt appreciate any samples you are able to retrieve from the chasm.”

As he took flight from the balcony off their bedroom, he paid attention to the performance of his wings, checked his speed. Everything felt as it ever had, as if he had flesh and blood, feathers and bone and tendon under his command.

Satisfied with his ability to control his body in the air, he swept across the glittering sunlit skyscrapers of his city, past the showy forms of trees ablaze with one last burst of color before their winter slumber, and over the chilly waters of the Hudson. Calmer now, it glimmered under the early afternoon sunshine, sparkles dancing off its surface.

He could see Illium’s wings from here, the wild blue vibrant even against the crystalline blue of the sky, the silver filaments bright shards. The angel held a hover near the edge of the cliffs. He’d also ordered members of his squadron and of the Legion to create a wide barrier around the dangerous hole in the ground.

No unauthorized wings moved in the air above, and no one walked anywhere in sight. Illium, have there been any reports of casualties in the Enclave?

No. I had members of the squadron fly over the area—they reported no fallen or wounded individuals.

Angling his body to wing high above Illium and the others, Raphael took in the wound in the earth. From so far above, it was a dark blot in the landscape, a scar that should not exist.

No power swirled in or around it. No lava glowed.

Dropping down, he landed on the very edge of the hole. Illium and the Primary soon came to land on either side of him. When he glanced at the Primary, he saw a strange thing: the Primary was now almost completely colorless. The transition had begun before Raphael went to sleep in the bed beside Elena.

The second becoming, that’s what the Legion had told Elena when she asked why they were losing the colors that had begun to appear in some of them. As Elena had regressed back into humanity, the Legion had regressed into the grayness that was the color palette with which they’d risen from the lightless deep.

But Elena was no longer mortal, and yet the Primary remained colorless. “Has the second becoming ended?”

The Primary tilted his head to the side. “No,” he said after a pause to consider the question. “We are deciding.”

Putting the matter aside for now, Raphael looked into the chasm created by the power that was ice in his veins. Such a cold, cold power. A power that whispered in his ear that Lijuan was an imposter and he was the true god.

The one who should be worshipped.