Archangel's Consort
Page 40

“Favashi,” he’d said with a smile that had been rare before he met the Persian angel, “is too sweet to cast curses on your name, but I’ve been told that the instant the year is over, I am hers.”
Yet when that time came, Dmitri’s smile had long disappeared and aside from a single discussion where Raphael had asked Dmitri if he wished to leave, and Dmitri had replied with a curt “no,” they’d never spoken of it again.
Now, the vampire finished his conversation and closed the cell phone. “We may have a situation—Elijah was spotted flying into your territory. He is currently over Georgia.”
28
Coming on the heels of Favashi’s words, there could be only one response. Raphael contacted Nazarach and asked him to intercept the other archangel, invite Elijah to his home in Atlanta. “I will join you.” While he could and had flown such distances with ease, he decided to conserve his power in case Elijah had more than conversation in mind. “Tell Venom to prepare the plane,” he said to Dmitri after hanging up.
“Sire.”
“Dmitri.” He waited until the vampire turned, to say, “You will watch over her.”
“I made a vow. I won’t break it.” But Dmitri’s expression said he still wasn’t convinced—not when it had become clear after Beijing that Raphael’s bond with Elena had somehow made him weaker. He healed slower, was easier to wound. Such a flaw could be deadly for an archangel.
“Perhaps,” Raphael said to his second, “an archangel needs a weakness.”
Dmitri shook his head. “Not if he is to survive the Cadre.”
Sara was chatting with another hunter when Elena, the box containing the essence held to her side, poked her head around the open door of the Guild Director’s office. “Ash!”
The dark-eyed hunter looked up, a smile lighting up that face that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the silver screen. “Hey, Ellie.”
“So, it’s safe for you to venture out of the Cellars?”
Long jean-clad legs sprawled out in front of her, Ashwini buffed her nails on her white T-shirt. “No comment.”
Across the desk, Sara made an inelegant sound. “They’re flirting.”
Elena’s mouth fell open. “No.” She turned to Ashwini. “You and Janvier? I don’t believe it.”
“Janvier, who?” An angelic look that was so fake Elena burst out laughing.
“Did you really do what I think you did to him?” she asked, any remaining shreds of her earlier frustrated distress drifting away. Because this place, these people, they were hers, too.
Ashwini’s lips curved into a feral grin. “All I’ll say is that damn vamp will think twice about messing with me now.”
Sara’s phone rang at that moment. As she took the call, Ashwini lowered her voice and said, “Those wings are wicked awesome.” She wiggled her fingers. “Can I touch, or is that too weird?”
Elena knew Ashwini wouldn’t be offended if she said no—the other hunter had her own gifts, carried her own nightmares. “Quick touch of the primaries is okay.”
Ashwini ran a gentle finger over the large feathers of white-gold at the edges of her wings. “Wow. They’re alive—warm. I guess I never really thought about that.”
“You wouldn’t believe how much I have to learn,” Elena said as Sara hung up.
“Ash,” Sara said. “I have a job for you.” A slow smile.
Ashwini’s eyes narrowed. “No effing way.”
“Language.” Sara’s eyes were dancing. “Seems like Janvier’s got himself in trouble again. Florida—somewhere in the Everglades.”
“There are swamps there.” Ashwini gritted her teeth. “I hate swamps. He knows I hate swamps. That’s it—I’m going to kill him this time. I don’t care if I lose my bonus.” Snatching the piece of paper Sara was holding out, she stalked out of the room.
Elena grinned. “You know that’s just what I needed after the morning I’ve had.” She told Sara what had happened in the Bronx.
Her best friend flapped a hand. “The fascination won’t last, Ellie. You’re not pretty enough.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Hey, not my fault you hang around with gorgeous man-flesh.” A more solemn expression. “No matter what, you’ve got every hunter in the Guild behind you. Never forget that.”
“I won’t.” Raphael was her rock, but Sara and the Guild, Elena thought, were the foundation on which she’d built her adult life, found her footing. “How did you get to be so wise and all-knowing?”
“I hope Zoe thinks the same when she’s fifteen and wants to date some moronic senior.” Sara raised an eyebrow. “You want to talk about something else, I can tell.”
“Do you have Vivek’s blood stored?” The Guild did that for its hunters, for use in a medical emergency—however, Vivek wasn’t an active hunter.
Sara gave her a penetrating look. “No, but he’s up for his yearly physical next month.” A pause. “How much do you need?”
“A vial.”
“I’ll make sure you get it.”
Ten minutes later, having successfully navigated the obstacle course of the subterranean Cellars below the Guild—and Vivek’s snippiness that she hadn’t visited earlier—Elena walked into the scent chamber.
Empty of furniture, the room was painted a stark white. It was also about the size of a shoebox. Gritting her teeth against the edge of claustrophobia, she drew in a breath to establish that the room was free of outside scents—other than those on Elena herself—before unstopping the bottle of liquid night that had cost her a considerable chunk of change.
Lush, sensual, rich . . . addictive.
She blinked, took a mental step back, tried again.
Dark, hidden notes of sunlight . . . of a very feminine compulsion. Not dangerous to a woman.
An intricate scent, Elena thought, fitting for an archangel.
But, while she was now certain she’d detected this exact combination of notes on the swinging bodies on the bridge and on the girl with the forget-me-not dress, it wasn’t quite what had hit her above the Hudson, or what she’d sensed in the bedroom when Caliane had whispered her son’s name.
Her brow furrowed.
It was highly possible, she admitted, that her memory was at fault, given that her adrenaline had been through the roof on both of those latter occasions. The other fact was that both the girl’s mutilated form and the vampires on the bridge had been exposed to the elements—a more subtle note could’ve been lost long before Elena arrived on the scene.
Still ...
Elijah was standing by the river that ran behind the plantation house from where Nazarach controlled Atlanta when Raphael arrived. Landing a short distance away, he moved through the shade of the leafy trees that lined the bank, and to the edge of the quiet current. The fingers of a weeping willow touched the clarity of it on the other side, and he could hear the calls of the birds hidden in the foliage.
It was a beautiful place, and it spoke to none of the violence that Nazarach had done. Each angel had his own way of ruling. Nazarach used fear. But it wasn’t the amber-winged angel Raphael had come to see. “Why are you in my territory, Elijah?”
The archangel who ruled South America looked up, his golden brown eyes haunted, his hair disordered as if he’d been thrusting his hands through it. “I come to ask you for sanctuary, Raphael.”
“Not for you.” Elijah was older than Raphael, powerful in his own right.
The other male looked unseeing into the water, his wings trailing on the mossy earth. “For Hannah.”
“You think you will harm her?” Raphael had faced the same fear after he’d executed Ignatius, taken Elena so roughly.
“I would never hurt her,” Elijah said in a hollow voice, “but I am not always myself.”
“A rage, red across your vision?”
Elijah jerked up his head. “You’ve felt it?”
Raphael considered his answer as the heavy-limbed trees above them, around them, sighed into the silence. This could well be an act, Elijah probing for a weakness. But the South American archangel was also the one who had always stood behind Raphael in the Cadre, the one who had told him he had the potential to lead. “Yes, but not in the past week.” He examined Elijah’s tortured face. “Has it touched you in that time?”
A quick negative shake of that golden head that had inspired sculptors and played muse to poets. “But once was enough. I do not trust myself—I acted with a cruelty that will haunt me for centuries to come. The vampires in question survived only because of Hannah’s intervention.” Elijah fisted his hands. “I could’ve hurt her with the same violence.”
Raphael had learned to spot and exploit the chinks in an opponent’s armor long ago. He’d had to, to survive the Cadre. But he’d also known Dmitri for almost a thousand years, understood something of friendship. “Yet you did not, Elijah. That is the line. You did not cross it.”
Elijah was silent for a long time, the water passing with serene patience over pebble and rock as they stood unmoving on the riverbank. Across from them, the fronds of the weeping willow swayed in a gentle motion, pulled by the tug of the water. But the birds had gone silent, and suddenly the world was a much darker place.
“If she can do this to us in her Sleep, Raphael,” Elijah said at last, “what will she do when she wakes?”
Having showered and changed after training with Illium— every one of the drills geared to give her the strength to achieve a vertical takeoff—Elena walked into the library where Montgomery had laid out an informal dinner, and came to a complete halt. “Aodhan.” He stood next to the window, looking out over the storm lashing Manhattan once more. The dark beyond threw the piercing brilliance of him into cutting focus.
The fact was, Aodhan would never, ever blend in, not among angelkind and certainly not in the mortal world. His eyes were shattered from the pupil outward in shards of vivid green and translucent blue, his wings fractured light, his hair glittering strands encrusted with diamonds. The whole of it should’ve made him appear a cold being of marble and ice, but his skin held an undertone of gold, warm and inviting.
“Elena.” He inclined his head in a slight bow, his voice still unfamiliar, she’d heard it so infrequently.
“Raphael should be here soon.” Walking to the table, she poured herself a steaming cup of coffee—wine would put her to sleep after the workout she’d had. “He returned from Atlanta ten minutes ago.” From the territory of an angel who would’ve given Elena the creeps even if Ashwini hadn’t warned her before she ever met him. Screams, Ash had said of Nazarach’s home, the walls are full of screams.
Aodhan said nothing, simply turned to look at the rain-drenched dark once more, a remoteness to him that she knew was deliberate. The angel fascinated her. He was akin to some great work of art, something you admired without understanding in truth. Except . . . there was far more to him. Pain, suffering, and a hurt that had made him withdraw into himself like the most wounded of animals.