Angels' Dance (11 page)

“Jason,” the archangel said in an apparent non sequitur, “has been frustrated for seasons. He was able to get one of his people into Alexander’s stables; and has picked up pieces of knowledge from the gossip of the servants and the soldiers when they frequent the taverns, but he cannot get anyone into Alexander’s court itself. More, he hasn’t been able to find a way to see Alexander in public, attempt to judge his frame of mind.”

Galen’s wings rustled as he settled them. “That isn’t unusual. Titus’s court would be impossible to infiltrate, and Alexander is a warrior, too.”

Shaking her head, Jessamy put her hand on his wing. “No. Alexander has long made it a policy to walk and fly among his troops once every five days. He does it rain or shine, hail or snow. He has always led from the front.”

“The irony,” Raphael continued, “is that I took my example from Alexander on this. Yet Jason has not seen him appear to perform his duty in recent memory.” The archangel paced the confines of the cabin. “While word in the taverns is of his favorite concubine, I assumed that in truth, he was holed up with his generals, in a deliberate attempt to ensure nothing could be gleaned of his battle strategy.”

“That remains a possibility.” Galen rubbed at his jaw. “But Alexander also has a son. His weapons-master, Rohan.”

Raphael’s eyes met Galen’s. “Yes. And Rohan is quite capable of mounting a battle campaign.”

Jessamy’s blood turned ice-cold, as she registered the implications of Galen’s suggestion. If Alexander was dead . . . but no, how could that
possibly
be? Only another archangel could have killed him, and such killings were always catastrophic events that sent tremors across the world—archangels did not easily die. They took people and places with them. No poison, no stealthy—

Oh no.

11

“O
nly an archangel can kill another archangel
,
” she whispered. “But if he was betrayed by someone he trusted, he could be entombed.” Such a horror had happened just once, long before even Lijuan had been born.

Cut into pieces after being ambushed in sleep by those he considered friends, the archangel’s body had been scattered and buried deep in far corners of the earth. But archangels could regenerate even from ash. This time, the piece that regenerated into the whole man was buried in a mountain range deep in what was now Uram’s territory.

That mountain range no longer existed, and neither did anyone who bore even a single drop of blood related to those who had buried the archangel, the carnage so absolute that
no one sane
would ever dare such an act again. She swallowed, continued. “I don’t think Rohan would be disloyal to his father”—they had a true father-son bond—“but if Alexander is missing, Rohan may well be running the battle campaign, certain his father will soon rise.”

“Jessamy is right,” Raphael murmured. “But if Alexander has indeed been missing so long, then he is likely to be dead.” A reminder that an archangel regenerated at a speed no ordinary angel could comprehend, and that nothing could keep him contained, earth or rock or water. “If he fell into
anshara
for some reason,” Raphael continued, naming the deepest of healing sleeps, “and was betrayed to an archangelic enemy, even Alexander may have been unable to fight a burst of angelfire direct to the heart.”

The ability to create angelfire, Jessamy knew, was a rare gift—and a lethal one. Caliane had possessed it, but her son did not . . . not yet, his power escalating at too rapid a rate to predict anything. “So far as I know, four of the Cadre can call angelfire.”

“Would the victor not claim Alexander’s territory?” Galen said.

“It may not have been about territory.” Raphael blew out a breath. “There are some in the Cadre who would find pleasure and amusement in the game, in the kill, and in watching the resulting disintegration.”

A terrible feeling bloomed in the pit of Jessamy’s stomach. She liked Alexander, though he was an Ancient, with an Ancient’s conceit. He was intelligent, could be kind in the absent way of a being of such power, had led his people well. It sickened her to imagine him killed with such stealthy malevolence. But that was not the worst of it—if an archangel was dead or missing, and no one had informed the entirety of the Cadre, then his territory was currently under the rule of an angel who had no right to rule.

It wasn’t simply politics—it was brutal fact. Archangels ruled because they had the vicious power to control the vampires who were their servants. Without an archangel at the helm, the chances of the more violent of the Made turning feral, driven by the unthinking fury of blood hunger, were catastrophic. “The entire mortal population of his region could be wiped out in days.” Horror was an iron-dark taste on her tongue.

“It also explains why a vampire came to kill you.” Galen’s words were so contained she knew he was fighting rage. “At least some of the Made have noticed and realized the likely true reason behind Alexander’s absence.”

Jessamy’s mind flickered once more to the memory of that unexpected conversation with Alexander. “There was a vampire with him when he visited—she stayed by the door while we spoke, was in earshot. A tall, blue-eyed creature with skin of ebony.” The startling contrast of ice-blue eyes against dark skin was why the woman had remained so firmly embedded in her memory.

“She was a senior member of his court.” One who might just have turned traitor. “If she’s behind this, she may see it as a rebellion against the servitude demanded in return for being Made a vampire”—of a hundred years duration—“but once she turns that key . . .”

Raphael completed her thought. “She’ll learn why the archangels are so pitiless with some of her brethren.”

Galen and Raphael began to talk of how they might confirm the possibility of Alexander being dead. But Jessamy, pacing back and forth, kept thinking something wasn’t right. Raphael had been correct about her entombing scenario being unlikely given the time that had passed, but even if Alexander had been ambushed, his death still wouldn’t have been a quiet thing. He was an
Ancient
.

Yet no one had reported any devastation, and surely Jason would have noticed such destruction in the archangel’s lands. Sleeping or awake, Alexander— “He may have chosen to Sleep,” she said, the words spilling out before she’d consciously completed the thought.

The men stopped midword, frowned, before Raphael shook his head. “He had to know if he did it without warning, it would cause chaos not only in his territory, but across the world.”

“Not if he trusted his commanders, especially Rohan.” Galen scowled at the floor, his mind clearly elsewhere. “He may well have gone to Sleep in a secret location, leaving instructions for the Cadre to be informed once there was no chance of anyone tracing his whereabouts.”

A little of the sickness in Jessamy’s stomach settled, because she could see Alexander doing exactly that. Angels in Sleep were inviolate. It was one of their most fundamental laws. But no archangel would ever choose to Sleep in a place where his enemies might find him while he was vulnerable.

“Rohan,” Raphael said, wings flaring, “is strong, perhaps strong enough to believe he can rule in spite of whatever instruction Alexander gave.” His anger was a glow off his wings, an icy burn that augured nothing good. “If he has indeed been fool enough to do this, his arrogance will lead to Alexander’s people being butchered.”

Jessamy thought of the times in their history when angelkind had not understood the depth of the bloodlust that lived within the Made, but they had learned. The cost had been paid in the lives of thousands of mortals.

“The Cadre must be informed.” Cold words. “I will return to the Refuge and have Illium fly to Titus and Charisemnon.”

“Do you wish me to fly to Neha and Lijuan?” Galen asked, naming the other two archangels close to Alexander’s territory.

Raphael shook his head. “No, Lijuan will take it as an insult if I do not inform her myself. I want you to continue on toward my territory. If we are wrong and Alexander
is
alive, awake, and strategizing, then we must be ready for his assault.” His gaze fell on Jessamy, the ruthlessness in it chilling, though she knew it wasn’t directed at her. “You’re safer with Galen than in the Refuge.”

“I’ll slow him down,” she said, practical because sorrow was no use in a situation so grave. And Galen . . . Galen had promised to fly her wherever she wanted to go, so she would get the chance to touch the clouds again. “I can remain here. No vampire could reach this location.”

“There is a small possibility the vampire who attacked you was working for Rohan—and Alexander’s son has angels under his command.” Galen’s wing brushed her own, a heavy, intimate weight. “We can’t risk you.”

“He’s right,” Raphael said. “You’re too important to the Refuge.” With that, he nodded at Galen. “Go as fast as you can. Dmitri has the situation under control, but I don’t like the picture we’ve painted—if Rohan gets wind of the fact the Cadre knows of Alexander’s disappearance, it could panic him into moving faster.” A pause that said a thousand things. “I give you my trust, Galen.”

“Sire.” A single word that made Galen’s loyalties crystal clear.

* * *

G
alen had wanted to give Jessamy a gift, but this flight was a hard march through the skies. As the night cloaked them in velvet darkness, the stars glittering into being overhead, he knew she ached for them to land so she could look up in wonder. “After this is done,” he murmured into her hair, “we’ll fly the journey again.”

Her response was a kiss pressed to his jaw, her braid brushing his forearm. “I adore you, Galen.”

The words threatened to undo every one of his vows to have more from her than a gratitude that would destroy him drop by slow drop. “That’s permissible,” he said, rather than tearing open the wound she’d unknowingly inflicted.

Jessamy’s laughter wrapped around him as they continued to fly. Over mountain ranges groaning under the weight of endless snow, and rivers roaring from the thunder of the water’s passage. Over tiny villages perched on rocks, and scattered habitations over sprawling grasslands. Across the wild beauty of the crashing sea, stopping on the rare tiny island in the endless blue, and once on the white sand beaches of a pristine lagoon. Over primeval forests and new paths, until they were heading toward the cloud-piercing form of a tower rising from the untamed land around it.

They came in just as another dawn broke, and it appeared as if the structure, formed of rock and wood and glass, was aflame, a brilliant pillar visible from every direction. It was an impressive achievement and an impressive statement. Raphael clearly understood that for some, power had to have a physical form.

Landing on the wide, flat roof, he set Jessamy on her feet and folded in his wings before meeting Dmitri’s dark gaze where the vampire stood waiting for them. “Any developments?” he asked, well aware Raphael had to have a relay set up that could move information at speeds no mortal would believe.

“The Cadre is converging on Alexander’s territory.”

“So quickly?” Jessamy’s eyes widened as she stretched out her legs, but not her wings. It was why Galen had made a pretext to land before sunrise—he’d wanted her to have the privacy to exercise those muscles. That she hadn’t hidden from him as she did so, it was another root digging into his heart.

“It appears,” Dmitri said, “that no one in the Cadre has seen Alexander for two seasons at the very least—proof enough for them to take Raphael’s concerns seriously.”

Dmitri opened the door for Jessamy, waited until they were inside the tower before continuing. “A demand has been made for the archangel to show himself.”

“His son has troops ready.” Galen had an excellent idea of their numbers and strength, given the information Raphael had shared with him after the archangel first arrived in the Refuge. “He may engage rather than comply.”

“Neha and Uram are close and have moved their armies in.”

It was, Galen knew, a significant act. Archangels did not interfere in the affairs of others in the Cadre, or even in wars fought between particular archangels. However, if Alexander was dead or in Sleep, his territory could not be permitted to collapse into bloodrage and violence, and regardless of its flaws, the Cadre could, and did, work effectively as a unit when necessary. “How long before we can expect an answer?”

Dmitri glanced at Jessamy.

“If,” she said, lines forming between her eyebrows, “Alexander is alive and awake, he won’t hesitate to use violent force to repel the others from his territory. The more time that passes, the more certain it becomes that he’s no longer in charge.”

Dmitri waved to a door, the dark elegance of his movements striking. Jessamy could appreciate it, appreciate him, but she felt no draw toward this sensual male creature. Her body was attuned to another’s, the warm, earthy scent of Galen imprinted in her skin, the deep timbre of his voice one she wanted to hear as they spread their wings in bed. Somehow, with Galen, she forgot she was crippled, forgot the ugliness of her wing and simply existed.

“Jessamy, you have time to change, rest a little. Your room should have everything you need.” Dmitri’s voice broke into her thoughts. “I’d like you to join us after—but we will talk war.” The question was unspoken.

Jessamy was a historian, one who stood on the sidelines and watched. She did not interfere. But there were times in any life when a stand had to be taken, a side chosen. “I’ll come,” she said, meeting eyes of heliodor-green.

If they were to be together, then her loyalty had to be Galen’s.

* * *

T
he day passed in a fury of planning and concordant action, and it wasn’t until after sunset that Jessamy found Galen standing on the roof, his wings held with warrior discipline as he stared out at the flights of angels leaving the tower in perfect formation. They were the first wave of defense, sentries and messengers experienced enough to patrol the borders. Dmitri had already had a skeleton crew doing the task, but had held back the majority so Galen could personally gauge the readiness of Raphael’s men and women.

Below the night-shadow of wings beating in a smooth, fast rhythm marched an army of vampires, a ground guard that moved at a crisp pace to take up defensive positions at a distance Dmitri and Galen had determined would provide optimum protection without compromising the Tower’s defenses.

In spite of the hundreds of pairs of wings that sliced through the air, the mass of vampires on the ground, the night was eerily quiet. It was a whispering darkness, she thought, a portent hanging over their heads. Soon, either Alexander would retaliate against the invasion of his lands by the Cadre, or he would not . . . and they would know.

Jessamy hoped he Slept, for the world was not ready to forever lose the deep wisdom of an Ancient.

“You are the only one who calls me wise.” Alexander’s silver eyes, so inhuman that he was beyond even their long-lived race. “Everyone else believes I am a being of violence and war.”

“You are both, Alexander. You always have been.” She had read the histories, knew what so many had forgotten. In times past, Alexander had brokered peace, saved the world from unimaginable horror. “I think, if the test came again”—not petty arguments or battles engendered in pride and power, but a true question of good and evil—“you would stand on the side of right.”

A faint smile. “You are so young, Jessamy. Foolish, many would say.”

“Did they not call you the same when you stepped between two warring Ancients?”

His laughter rang deep and real, the silver molten. “Come, young one. Walk with me and tell me tales of when I was a hot-tempered youth.”

Smiling at the now-bittersweet memory, she leaned against Galen, this man who would break her heart into innumerable shards should he ever choose to Sleep. “This is not,” she said when the angels disappeared from view, the vampires long devoured by the dark green forests that bordered the Tower, “how you imagined your life in Raphael’s service would begin.”