Archangel's Heart
Page 117
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It was Majda who said, “Jean-Baptiste has a predilection for knives as well.” A soft voice, almost breathy in its husky sexiness, but it was clearly not an affectation, simply the way her vocal cords produced sound. “He had quite a collection.”
“My consort has never met a blade she doesn’t love.” Raphael’s contribution had Majda’s and Jean-Baptiste’s smiles growing even wider.
“Not true,” Elena said. “No rusty blades—except, of course, when I want to carve out the eyes of vicious monsters.” She locked gazes with Gian, who was already looking better than he had in the torture chamber he’d created.
Bastard was strong.
And this time, he wasn’t quick enough to hide his true self: hate foamed in his eyes, though those eyes weren’t on Elena but on Jean-Baptiste.
Elena heard movement behind her, followed by a sharp word in a feminine voice, the language the same one she’d heard in the town. Her grandfather held his peace, but she could feel his simmering rage.
The same lived in her.
She carried the crossbow openly in one hand when they walked into the Atrium. It was full of Luminata, all in those hideous robes that were less about conformity for the sake of luminescence and more about hiding evil. At least the bastards weren’t arrogant enough to keep up their hoods. Fear twisted too many of their exposed faces, the kind of fear that spoke of guilt, but there were as many faces that held only confusion.
It confirmed Elena’s supposition that the ugliness had been perpetrated by a select group. More had known what was happening or had an idea of the wrongness—and were equally guilty in her eyes—but there were a few who’d known nothing. People like Ibrahim, who’d innocently come here in a search for enlightenment, and older Luminata who might’ve been considered too set in their ways to trust with the vicious break in Lumia’s traditions.
“Raphael, why do you call us to a meeting?” It was Astaad’s voice, an edge to his tone that reminded her that, elegant manners or not, he was an archangel, a power beneath the skin. “All has been decided.” The Archangel of the Pacific Isles stood in the center of the Atrium, in a large area that had been left empty by the gathered Luminata.
Disapproval was an open stain on his features when he spied Gian’s broken form. “We do not treat the Luminata with such disrespect.”
* * *
Raphael had come to know his fellow archangel far better since Elena became friends with Mele. So he knew the most important thing of which Astaad needed to be aware. Do you believe in forcing women to be your concubines, Astaad?
A look of pure distaste in Astaad’s dark eyes. Where is the pleasure in force? His gaze landed on Gian again, flicked to Majda, then, with a startled jerk, to Elena. Comprehension sparked. I see.
The other man didn’t interfere when Raphael threw Gian into the center of the circle. Fresh blood sputtered from his wound to mark the polished stone of the floor. As the leader of the Luminata struggled to speak, clutching at his throat in a futile attempt to remove the blade star, the two archangels stood in a silence that had the gathered Luminata going dead silent as well.
The next to arrive was Michaela. “Really, Raphael, if you wanted to see me, you just had to knock on my door,” was her opening salvo, her voice a sensual huskiness. “And are you now building a harem of odd, white-haired women?”
“I will explain,” he said, in no mood for games. “The others will be here soon.”
Michaela sauntered over to stand next to Astaad, her eyes on Gian. “There appears to be something stuck in his throat,” she said conversationally. “Perhaps I should slit it to give him relief.”
As the audience flinched, Elena held out a large knife, hilt first.
It might’ve been the first known occasion where Michaela and Elena had been in agreement.
Taking the blade with a mocking smile, Michaela bent, wrenched back Gian’s head with a grip in his hair, and did exactly what she’d said: she slit the man’s throat. Choking and with blood bubbling out in a dark red pulse, Gian clawed at the wound while Michaela wiped the blade on his clothing, then threw the blade back at Elena with archangelic speed.
Raphael was just far enough from his consort that he couldn’t intercept it, knew it was going to embed itself in Elena’s face—because Michaela was far better with knives than most people realized. Then Elena’s hand was in the air, gripping the blade by the hilt as the sharp tip hovered a centimeter from her eye.
Michaela’s wasn’t the only face that reflected stunned surprise.
The female archangel, who kept her territory under control by engendering a careful mix of bone-chilling fear and respect at her icy competence, wiped the expression off her face within a split second but Raphael had spotted it. As he’d spotted Astaad’s responsive jerk toward Elena, as if to attempt to intercept the knife himself.
Raphael would forget neither reaction.
The Archangel of the Pacific Isles began to smile an instant later, faint enough that he erased it easily off his face when Michaela spun around to stalk back to stand beside him.
Gian, meanwhile, was still clawing at his throat with his right hand.
As Raphael watched, Gian dug into the wound and came out with fingers sliced off at the tips, the bones showing. He stared at the amputated tips, his face white. When one of the other Luminata made a move as if to help him, Raphael just looked at the tall, thin male who would not survive this night. Gervais froze, swallowed, scuttled back.
“My consort has never met a blade she doesn’t love.” Raphael’s contribution had Majda’s and Jean-Baptiste’s smiles growing even wider.
“Not true,” Elena said. “No rusty blades—except, of course, when I want to carve out the eyes of vicious monsters.” She locked gazes with Gian, who was already looking better than he had in the torture chamber he’d created.
Bastard was strong.
And this time, he wasn’t quick enough to hide his true self: hate foamed in his eyes, though those eyes weren’t on Elena but on Jean-Baptiste.
Elena heard movement behind her, followed by a sharp word in a feminine voice, the language the same one she’d heard in the town. Her grandfather held his peace, but she could feel his simmering rage.
The same lived in her.
She carried the crossbow openly in one hand when they walked into the Atrium. It was full of Luminata, all in those hideous robes that were less about conformity for the sake of luminescence and more about hiding evil. At least the bastards weren’t arrogant enough to keep up their hoods. Fear twisted too many of their exposed faces, the kind of fear that spoke of guilt, but there were as many faces that held only confusion.
It confirmed Elena’s supposition that the ugliness had been perpetrated by a select group. More had known what was happening or had an idea of the wrongness—and were equally guilty in her eyes—but there were a few who’d known nothing. People like Ibrahim, who’d innocently come here in a search for enlightenment, and older Luminata who might’ve been considered too set in their ways to trust with the vicious break in Lumia’s traditions.
“Raphael, why do you call us to a meeting?” It was Astaad’s voice, an edge to his tone that reminded her that, elegant manners or not, he was an archangel, a power beneath the skin. “All has been decided.” The Archangel of the Pacific Isles stood in the center of the Atrium, in a large area that had been left empty by the gathered Luminata.
Disapproval was an open stain on his features when he spied Gian’s broken form. “We do not treat the Luminata with such disrespect.”
* * *
Raphael had come to know his fellow archangel far better since Elena became friends with Mele. So he knew the most important thing of which Astaad needed to be aware. Do you believe in forcing women to be your concubines, Astaad?
A look of pure distaste in Astaad’s dark eyes. Where is the pleasure in force? His gaze landed on Gian again, flicked to Majda, then, with a startled jerk, to Elena. Comprehension sparked. I see.
The other man didn’t interfere when Raphael threw Gian into the center of the circle. Fresh blood sputtered from his wound to mark the polished stone of the floor. As the leader of the Luminata struggled to speak, clutching at his throat in a futile attempt to remove the blade star, the two archangels stood in a silence that had the gathered Luminata going dead silent as well.
The next to arrive was Michaela. “Really, Raphael, if you wanted to see me, you just had to knock on my door,” was her opening salvo, her voice a sensual huskiness. “And are you now building a harem of odd, white-haired women?”
“I will explain,” he said, in no mood for games. “The others will be here soon.”
Michaela sauntered over to stand next to Astaad, her eyes on Gian. “There appears to be something stuck in his throat,” she said conversationally. “Perhaps I should slit it to give him relief.”
As the audience flinched, Elena held out a large knife, hilt first.
It might’ve been the first known occasion where Michaela and Elena had been in agreement.
Taking the blade with a mocking smile, Michaela bent, wrenched back Gian’s head with a grip in his hair, and did exactly what she’d said: she slit the man’s throat. Choking and with blood bubbling out in a dark red pulse, Gian clawed at the wound while Michaela wiped the blade on his clothing, then threw the blade back at Elena with archangelic speed.
Raphael was just far enough from his consort that he couldn’t intercept it, knew it was going to embed itself in Elena’s face—because Michaela was far better with knives than most people realized. Then Elena’s hand was in the air, gripping the blade by the hilt as the sharp tip hovered a centimeter from her eye.
Michaela’s wasn’t the only face that reflected stunned surprise.
The female archangel, who kept her territory under control by engendering a careful mix of bone-chilling fear and respect at her icy competence, wiped the expression off her face within a split second but Raphael had spotted it. As he’d spotted Astaad’s responsive jerk toward Elena, as if to attempt to intercept the knife himself.
Raphael would forget neither reaction.
The Archangel of the Pacific Isles began to smile an instant later, faint enough that he erased it easily off his face when Michaela spun around to stalk back to stand beside him.
Gian, meanwhile, was still clawing at his throat with his right hand.
As Raphael watched, Gian dug into the wound and came out with fingers sliced off at the tips, the bones showing. He stared at the amputated tips, his face white. When one of the other Luminata made a move as if to help him, Raphael just looked at the tall, thin male who would not survive this night. Gervais froze, swallowed, scuttled back.
