Angels' Dance (9 page)

Picking up a set of throwing knives, Raphael gave them to Galen before taking a set for himself. When he raised his eyebrow, Galen grinned and looked up. “Let’s see how fast you really are, Bluebell.”

“Bluebell?” The archangel laughed as Illium swore to get even, and then the first knife was flying from his hand.

Twenty knives later—ten each—Illium smirked from his high perch. “Oh, you both missed.” Faux disappointment, embellished with theatrical sighs. “Poor, poor dears.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, I am an archangel,” Raphael reminded the irreverent angel, his tone dry.

Illium grinned, unrepentant. “Want to try again? I’ll move extra slow—you are both so much older, after all.” The last words were a conspiratorial whisper.

Galen glanced at Raphael. “How has he survived this long?”

“No one can catch him.”

As Illium laughed and attempted to get Raphael to commit to a wager, Galen felt a sense of absolute rightness.
This
, this was his place, with these warriors tied together by more than fear or subservience, but most of all, with the woman who had marked him with the erotic promise of her kiss.

He wondered when Jessamy would realize what he’d done.

9

J
essamy said, “Saraia,” in a stern tone.

“Sorry, Jessamy.” Pulling her drooping wings back up, Saraia looked to Jessamy for praise.

She smiled. “Good girl.”

Satisfied, Saraia continued reading out the passage she’d been assigned.

Jessamy knew her charges thought her merciless for the way she constantly reminded them to raise their wings, but the fact was, their bones were still forming. The more effort they put into the task, the stronger they’d grow, until the heaviness of their wings became near weightless.

However, in spite of her correction, her mind wasn’t completely with the children. Part of her remained in Galen’s arms, her mouth burning with the imprint of his own. When he’d offered to fly her, she’d felt such guilt for the awful thought that had wormed its way into her mind earlier, but Galen had certainly not minded her efforts at a silent apology.

“You’re seducing me to get your own way.”

A giddy smile more suited to an adolescent threatened to break out over her face.

“Jessamy?”

Glancing up, she saw Saraia looking at her with a hesitant smile, the book closed.

“Well-done,” she said, wrenching herself back to the present, and to these precious souls who needed to learn what she had to teach them. “You have a lovely way of reading.

“Now,” she said, once Saraia had returned to her firm but comfortable stool in the circle of young ones, Jessamy’s older students having already had their lesson, “it’s time for our discussion. Have you all thought of a subject to talk about?”

A hand went up, waving wildly.

“Yes, Azec?”

The boy’s wine-dark eyes sparkled as they met her own, the naughtiness in them so apparent she had to fight a laugh. This one reminded her of Illium—whom she’d had to threaten with dire consequences more than once when he wouldn’t concentrate on his lessons. He’d always kissed her on the cheek afterward and apologized with such sincerity, the little mischief-maker.

“Miss Jessamy,” Azec said, all but vibrating with excitement, “do you like the new angel, the big one?”

“Galen,” the girl next to him supplied in a loud whisper. “My mother said his name is Galen.”

Jessamy blinked, so startled she could only say, “Why?”

Azec stood, wings spread, and hands thrown victoriously in the air. “Because you were kissing him!”

Giggles erupted around the room, while Azec sat back with a bright grin, satisfied he’d trumped all his classmates. But his elevated status didn’t last long.

“I saw, too!” another girl cried. “Up on the cliff.” Kicking out her legs, she beamed at Jessamy, her wild tumble of sun-colored curls held back with a pretty lilac ribbon. “I could tell it was you because of your wing,” she said with the unvarnished honesty of youth.

All at once, Jessamy remembered how Galen had blocked the view with his own wings when things became heated—he’d
known
their silhouettes would be visible from certain areas of the Refuge, had to have realized the kiss would be all over the angelic city by morning. She had been, she realized, expertly outflanked. No wonder so many people had looked at her with secret smiles on their lips this morning. Not smirks, but smiles full of delight.

Such as those on the faces in front of her.

Their joy for her shattered something inside her, some brittle, hard shield. “I did kiss Galen,” she admitted, because you couldn’t lie to children and expect to keep their trust.

Azec and Saraia both spoke at the same time, their voices tangling in playful innocence. “Did you like it?”

“Yes.” Until she didn’t know the passionate, demanding stranger she’d become.

* * *

H
aving caught more than one speculative look directed his way as he walked through the artisans’ section of the Refuge later that day, Galen bit back a smile of primal satisfaction. No one was now in any doubt about his claim when it came to Jessamy.

Illium knocked on the door of the home where he’d led them, eyes of deep gold narrowing when his gaze fell on Galen. “It might be better for your health not to look like the cat that got into the cream when you see Jessamy next.”

Galen bared his teeth. “A man has a right to declare his courtship.” And make it clear that anyone who got in the way would be eviscerated.

The blue-winged angel shook his head. “Barbarian, there’s declaring and then there’s beating the point home with a club.”

Right then, they heard a faint “It’s open” from within the house.

Following the flirtatious wind in the hallway, they came out onto a railing-less balcony that hung out over the gorge, appearing to be suspended against the cerulean blue of the sky. The angel who sat with his back to the house, his face and hands streaked with red and blue and yellow, a color-drenched canvas on the easel in front of him, was created of fractured pieces of light.

His wings were diamond bright, refracting and breaking the piercing beams of sunlight; his hair the same pale, paradoxically dazzling shade; his eyes, when he turned to glance over his shoulder, splintered outward from the black pupil in shards of crystalline blue and green. A sculpture in ice, but for the fact his skin held a golden warmth that likely made him an object of desire, though he was a youth yet.

Rising the instant he saw that Illium wasn’t alone, the angel took a respectful stance beside his easel, the blue paint on his cheek a primitive tattoo.

“Galen, this is Aodhan. He serves Raphael.” Illium made the introduction with a courtly grace that wouldn’t have been out of place in the palace of Neha, the Queen of Poisons. “Aodhan,” the angel continued, “meet Raphael’s new weapons-master.”

“Sir.”

Raphael’s people, Galen thought, fit no predictable pattern . . . but one. “Your aerie is well situated,” he said, considering the quiet, implacable loyalty he’d sensed in both Dmitri and Illium. An archangel who inspired such fidelity in men of strength was indeed a power Alexander should fear.

Aodhan’s wings rustled as he moved to join Galen near the edge of the balcony. “The light,” he said, a shy smile in his eyes, “it’s perfect for painting.”

Shy perhaps, Galen thought, but intelligent, and, from the way he moved, highly capable in some kind of combat. “The blade,” he murmured. “Rapier?” The delicate but deadly sword would fit the angel’s graceful step.

But Aodhan shook his head. “Too light for me. I prefer a more solid blade.” He pushed back his hair, leaving a red streak on his forehead and in the strands. The color glittered.

“You returned to the Refuge this morn?” He’d give the young angel time to rest, after which he wanted to see him in the salle—as weapons-master, he had to know the strengths and weaknesses of all of Raphael’s trusted people.

“Yes. I’ve been acting as a courier for the sire this past year.”

“You’re very young for the task.”

“I was given special dispensation,” Aodhan began, just as wings of white-gold swept down from the sky to land on the balcony, the wind of Raphael’s descent blowing Galen’s hair back from his face.

“You’re all here,” the archangel said, folding his wings tight to his back. “Good.”

Caught by the tone of his voice, they converged around him.

“It’s time I returned to my territory,” Raphael said. “It seems Alexander is stirring. Galen, you come with me.”

Cold in his veins. He’d always known he would be needed at Raphael’s side should war beckon. Except— “We can’t leave Jessamy unprotected.” His fury reignited as he remembered how she’d cried against his chest, his strong, intensely private Jessamy.

“Aodhan, Illium, and Jason, when he returns tonight, will make certain she’s never in any danger.” Raphael glanced at the other two angels, received immediate nods. “Jessamy is a woman of intelligence—she will not foolishly put herself in harm’s way.”

Galen knew that. He also knew she was his to protect. “May I speak to you alone?”

“Illium, Aodhan.”

The two angels swept off the balcony at the quiet command, their wings making a brilliant show of shattered light and wild blue against the jagged stone of the gorge as they attempted to outfly each other.

“You court Jessamy,” Raphael said, his attention on Galen, the staggering power that ran through his veins a near-visible presence. “She understands the world as not many do, will recognize why you cannot remain in the Refuge at this time.”

Galen shook his head, determined to fight for this. “The flight to your territory is long and will require us to move at a steady pace.” Unlike Illium and Aodhan’s game, it would be about endurance. “A light passenger won’t slow us down.”

Raphael’s eyes darkened in surprise. “Jessamy does not leave the Refuge.”

“No.” Hands at his back, he gripped the wrist of one with the other. “Jessamy
cannot
leave the Refuge.”

The archangel’s motionlessness was nothing mortal, nothing even an ordinary angel could emulate. It was utterly and completely of himself. “You shame me, Galen,” he said at long last, the golden filaments in his wings catching the sunlight. “So many centuries have I known her, and not once have I ever asked if she would like to visit other lands.”

“Jessamy,” Galen said, “is not a woman who shares her innermost thoughts with the world.” It was a gift to be allowed to see beyond the gauzy, impenetrable veil of her composed grace.

Raphael gave him an oblique look. “And yet she shares them with you?”

“No, but she will.” Galen wasn’t budging, wasn’t ever changing his mind, and he wasn’t leaving her behind. “Illium says I have all the subtlety of a bear with a blunt club, but bears with clubs get results.”

Raphael laughed; however, his words were practical. “You’re the only one Jessamy has ever allowed to fly her as an adult, but if you can gain her cooperation, we can alternate. We leave with the next dawn.”

As Galen flew off the balcony not long afterward, the wind rippling through his hair, he thought of what he’d said to Raphael, considered every facet of it. Jessamy was a woman of secret passions and dreams, of hidden layers and intimate mysteries. He wondered if he would ever truly know her. The idea of always being on the outside made pain shoot down his clenched jaw, but regardless of his comment to Raphael, she was no enemy he could conquer with brute power. The campaign to win Jessamy must be a subtle thing.

Landing in front of the school, he saw the closed door and realized lessons must be over. He was readying himself to fly to the library when a tiny creature with sun-bright hair dropped down from the sky in a crooked dive. Catching her to stop her from crashing to the earth, he held her away from him with both hands around her waist, and scowled. “Your flight technique is faulty.”

Big brown eyes with lashes the same light shade as her curls stared at him. “You’re big, Jessamy’s angel.”

Jessamy’s angel.

Deciding he could handle the invasion of tiny creatures—because two more had managed to land around him—he put the girl on her feet beside her friends. “Why are you here? The school is closed.”

It was one of the boys who replied. “We’re allowed to play in the park.” He slid his hand into Galen’s in a trust that made something go hot and tight in his throat. Children were an unknown species to him—he’d spent his life with warriors, even when he was a babe himself.

“Will you play with us?” the girl asked, tipping her head back in an effort to meet his gaze . . . so far back that the weight of her wings toppled her over.

Reaching down, he tugged her up with one hand. “No, I think you all need a lesson in flight.”

So it was that he spent time he didn’t have drilling three excited babes who held his hands when it wasn’t their turn to fly, and who called him Jessamy’s angel. “I’m leaving the Refuge,” he told them afterward, for to disappear without warning would be to betray their trust. “And I’m taking Jessamy with me.”

Sadness blunted the shine in their bright eyes. The little girl’s lower lip wobbled. “Will you bring her back?”

Hunkered down before them, he gave a solemn nod, because he understood what he was asking. “Yes, but now it’s time for Jessamy to fly.”

Stalking into the library after the children assented that he could “borrow” Jessamy for a while, he felt the hush of the hall of learning attempt to cloak him. It snagged, tore. He was as out of place here as he would be in Jessamy’s bed, big brute that he was . . . but that mattered little. Not when she looked up from the book in which she was writing, the ink flowing gracefully across the page, and smiled. “There you are, devious man.”

Fisting his hand in her hair, he claimed a kiss, the contact a raw melding of mouths. “I have something to ask you,” he said, taking another sipping taste of her mouth as she spread her fingers against the sensitive inner surface of his wings.

“Hmm?”

He told her of the trip they’d be making, saw her passion-dazed expression skitter between dazzling joy, disbelief, and finally despair.