Archangel's Heart
Page 38
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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?”
14
Elena was more interested in the Luminata in the room than she was the Cadre—at least right now. The tiny hairs on her nape kept prickling as people circulated and she was near certain it was Gian watching her.
Deliberately separating from Raphael after warning her archangel she wanted to make it easier for the Luminata to approach her, she spoke to Titus again for a bit, then a scholarly Luminata who turned out to be the head librarian. She was just about to ask him how she could access the archives when he excused himself with a mumble . . . and suddenly she was face to face with the leader of this strange flock.
Razor-sharp cheekbones, dark brown hair that shone with health, those incredible pale eyes that made her think of a creature that hunted in the dark, sleek and intelligent, Gian was not a man who would ever blend into the crowd despite the fact his height put him at least two inches shorter than Elena in her boots. The dun-colored robes of the Luminata served to highlight rather than downplay Gian’s physical attractiveness.
But Elena wasn’t affected by beauty. She lived with Raphael and he blew every other man on the planet out of the water. Because her archangel wasn’t only physically magnificent, he had a heart. It had started to go cold over centuries and centuries of immortality, but it had woken with a vengeance and it was as magnificent as his body and his face.
She wasn’t so certain the deathly handsome immortal in front of her had a heart, but she’d give him the benefit of the doubt. Arrogance didn’t equal evil or ugliness of the heart, especially among immortals who had lived for millennia. Often it was an almost inevitable by-product of age and power.
“Consort,” Gian murmured, the two of them alone on one side of the Atrium, both with glasses of wine in hand. “I must admit I am intrigued by you. So much so that I’ve been rude and watched you for most of the night thus far.”
Surprised he’d admitted so frankly to staring at her and liking him better for it, she said, “Oh? I’m only a hunter.”
His smile was a dazzling flash of light, a sudden, stunning brilliance.
Elena saw in that instant how Gian could win lovers aplenty. She wasn’t attracted to him in the least, but she could understand it. This man had the ability to put on the charm, to make people forget the kind of power he held in his grasp. No one stayed leader of a group of angels as generally old and strong as the Luminata without being a ruthless politician.
Again, however, that didn’t make him bad in any sense: it just meant he was clever and he liked power. Lot of people like that in the world who also happened to donate to charity and fund scholarships for needy kids.
“The first angel-Made in an eternity,” Gian said in a voice that was crystalline without being soft. “A true consort beloved by her archangel. And with such rare beauty.”
Elena mentally rolled her eyes at that last. Yes, she cleaned up okay, but not only was she more trained hunter than beauty, she stood in a room with Michaela, Neha, Hannah, Tasha, and more. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me, Gian.”
His laughter was the freaking tinkling of bells. Is this guy for real or is he messing with my head?
It’s real, Raphael responded from where he stood conversing with Favashi. My mother tells me that Gian has always had an astonishingly clear voice, that he used to fill colosseums on the rare occasions when he performed poetry in public.
Poetry? Yes, Elena could see the leader of the Luminata standing up in front of a crowd and holding them in thrall with his presence. He had that charisma thing going on. Raphael did, too, as did the rest of the Cadre—it seemed to come hardwired with becoming an archangel, but with Gian, it was a glow he wore at the forefront of his skin.
“I do not flatter,” Gian said with sincerity in every syllable. “I speak only the truth. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say—and my eyes find the placement of your features, the contrast of your hair to your skin, the way you move, quite extraordinary.”
“You forgot the weapons,” she pointed out, thinking that he was either a very good liar or he actually meant it—weirdly, it appeared to be the latter. His eyes held almost a little too much admiration.
A small shrug in response to her statement, his smile rueful. “Ah, but I am a traditional man. I prefer my beauties without blades.”
“I think Neha, for one, would scoff at the idea of that being traditional.” As far as Elena knew, angelkind had always boasted female warriors as well as male.
“True. Perhaps I need another word for it. Would Neanderthal be appropriate?”
Surprised into laughter by the self-deprecating statement, Elena found herself reevaluating her impressions of Gian. Yes, he was a little too perfect with that voice and that face, and he no doubt had a bit of a God complex, but he wasn’t insufferable and they had a good conversation in the minutes that followed. She also discovered what had happened to the art.
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?”
14
Elena was more interested in the Luminata in the room than she was the Cadre—at least right now. The tiny hairs on her nape kept prickling as people circulated and she was near certain it was Gian watching her.
Deliberately separating from Raphael after warning her archangel she wanted to make it easier for the Luminata to approach her, she spoke to Titus again for a bit, then a scholarly Luminata who turned out to be the head librarian. She was just about to ask him how she could access the archives when he excused himself with a mumble . . . and suddenly she was face to face with the leader of this strange flock.
Razor-sharp cheekbones, dark brown hair that shone with health, those incredible pale eyes that made her think of a creature that hunted in the dark, sleek and intelligent, Gian was not a man who would ever blend into the crowd despite the fact his height put him at least two inches shorter than Elena in her boots. The dun-colored robes of the Luminata served to highlight rather than downplay Gian’s physical attractiveness.
But Elena wasn’t affected by beauty. She lived with Raphael and he blew every other man on the planet out of the water. Because her archangel wasn’t only physically magnificent, he had a heart. It had started to go cold over centuries and centuries of immortality, but it had woken with a vengeance and it was as magnificent as his body and his face.
She wasn’t so certain the deathly handsome immortal in front of her had a heart, but she’d give him the benefit of the doubt. Arrogance didn’t equal evil or ugliness of the heart, especially among immortals who had lived for millennia. Often it was an almost inevitable by-product of age and power.
“Consort,” Gian murmured, the two of them alone on one side of the Atrium, both with glasses of wine in hand. “I must admit I am intrigued by you. So much so that I’ve been rude and watched you for most of the night thus far.”
Surprised he’d admitted so frankly to staring at her and liking him better for it, she said, “Oh? I’m only a hunter.”
His smile was a dazzling flash of light, a sudden, stunning brilliance.
Elena saw in that instant how Gian could win lovers aplenty. She wasn’t attracted to him in the least, but she could understand it. This man had the ability to put on the charm, to make people forget the kind of power he held in his grasp. No one stayed leader of a group of angels as generally old and strong as the Luminata without being a ruthless politician.
Again, however, that didn’t make him bad in any sense: it just meant he was clever and he liked power. Lot of people like that in the world who also happened to donate to charity and fund scholarships for needy kids.
“The first angel-Made in an eternity,” Gian said in a voice that was crystalline without being soft. “A true consort beloved by her archangel. And with such rare beauty.”
Elena mentally rolled her eyes at that last. Yes, she cleaned up okay, but not only was she more trained hunter than beauty, she stood in a room with Michaela, Neha, Hannah, Tasha, and more. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me, Gian.”
His laughter was the freaking tinkling of bells. Is this guy for real or is he messing with my head?
It’s real, Raphael responded from where he stood conversing with Favashi. My mother tells me that Gian has always had an astonishingly clear voice, that he used to fill colosseums on the rare occasions when he performed poetry in public.
Poetry? Yes, Elena could see the leader of the Luminata standing up in front of a crowd and holding them in thrall with his presence. He had that charisma thing going on. Raphael did, too, as did the rest of the Cadre—it seemed to come hardwired with becoming an archangel, but with Gian, it was a glow he wore at the forefront of his skin.
“I do not flatter,” Gian said with sincerity in every syllable. “I speak only the truth. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say—and my eyes find the placement of your features, the contrast of your hair to your skin, the way you move, quite extraordinary.”
“You forgot the weapons,” she pointed out, thinking that he was either a very good liar or he actually meant it—weirdly, it appeared to be the latter. His eyes held almost a little too much admiration.
A small shrug in response to her statement, his smile rueful. “Ah, but I am a traditional man. I prefer my beauties without blades.”
“I think Neha, for one, would scoff at the idea of that being traditional.” As far as Elena knew, angelkind had always boasted female warriors as well as male.
“True. Perhaps I need another word for it. Would Neanderthal be appropriate?”
Surprised into laughter by the self-deprecating statement, Elena found herself reevaluating her impressions of Gian. Yes, he was a little too perfect with that voice and that face, and he no doubt had a bit of a God complex, but he wasn’t insufferable and they had a good conversation in the minutes that followed. She also discovered what had happened to the art.
