Archangel's Heart (13 page)

Raphael moved his fingers on her back.
And she has missed speaking to you, I think. She has said to me that you make her remember what it was to be young and fearless
.

Fighting pleasurable shivers, Elena said,
You sure that's not code for young and stupid?

Raphael's lips kicked up on one corner.
Are they not the same?

Elena couldn't exactly argue, given some of the stunts she'd pulled as a green hunter. “Have you spoken to Astaad?” She could see the archangel's distinctive wings, the feathers night black where they grew out of his back but fading slowly to pale gray at the tips, like a watercolor done with an expert hand.

“No, let's go do so now.”

When they did, Astaad confirmed he'd left Mele at home. “She wanted to accompany me, but she is too gentle, with no weapons of her own.” His eyes, a dark shade close to onyx, striking against the cool white of his skin, scanned the room. “Neha has arrived.”

The Archangel of India entered the Atrium with regal grace, her silk sari an unusual deep yellow embroidered with threads of blue-gold and her black hair swept back in its usual neat knot. She held her wings off the floor with unforced strength, the feathers icy white with filaments of cobalt in the primaries. Her brown eyes were of the queen she was: intelligent and used to power.

Close on her heels came Charisemnon.

The Archangel of Disease—Elena far preferred that name over his official title—was back to full health and he was physically quite handsome, all rich brown hair and skin of deep gold, his body fluidly muscled and his eyes a darker gold with flecks of brown in their depths.

He still made her stomach turn.

Neha might hate Elena, but Elena liked the Archangel of India for giving Charisemnon a distinctly icy reception when the two exchanged greetings.
I keep forgetting Neha's a warrior, too
, she said to Raphael,
and then she does something like that and I remember she has zero sympathy for people she considers cowards.

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?”

E
lena 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.

“Many of the pieces were becoming badly damaged by time and dust and the changes in temperature,” Gian told her. “In line with our mandate to preserve the art of our people, the Gallery was created to house the art in an environment best suited to preservation.”

Elena could see the logic in that. “So you don't have any outside?” It seemed to her that stone sculptures wouldn't molder away, but what did she know? She'd have to ask Aodhan his opinion of Gian's explanation.

“The odd piece that is at least somewhat resistant to time damage.” He nodded at a large mosaic on a hanging wall that
separated that part of the Atrium into two semi-independent sections. “But once we had the Gallery, it seemed wasteful to leave other pieces out in the ordinary atmosphere, where they would begin to degrade.” A deep smile. “I or any of my brethren would be happy to show you the way to the Gallery.”

“Thank you,” Elena said. “Can I also ask you about your library?”

His eyes never moved off her—and she realized they never had. Her skin pebbled. Okay, that was more than a little creepy, but he hadn't crossed any lines and she had to remember that he'd been isolated out here with a bunch of other Luminata for hundreds of years. Good way to get rusty on social skills.

“We call it the Repository of Knowledge,” he said, still watching her with unnerving focus. “And of course. You may ask me anything.”

“I was told you collect information.” At his nod, she said, “Do you keep any records on human-vampire children?”

A flicker in his eyes, gone so quickly she might've imagined it.

Only she hadn't.

“No,” he said with a shake of his head, his eyes shifting to his wineglass as he took a sip. “Why do you ask?”

“I'm pretty sure one of my friends was sired by a vamp who then ran off. You know, the usual deadbeat father story only he was a vampire.” She lied because instinct told her to lie. “I promised her I'd look into it so she'd have closure about her history.”

“A worthy goal.” Gian's eyes lifted to hers again, the cool white of his skin holding no betraying flush of color. “I hope you can help her.”

“Me, too. I have a question about myself, too,” she said, adding a half laugh to it, as if she wasn't too serious about her inquiry. “My hair and skin, it's really unusual. I don't suppose you've ever heard of anyone else who looks like me?”

No flicker. Nothing but a steady gaze as Gian laughed. “You are unique, Consort. I have never seen a woman such as you.”

Damn it. That had sounded genuine.

“Ah well,” she said. “I'll see if I have better luck in your Repository of Knowledge.”

“You will be most welcomed by the Luminata in charge.”

Again, nothing but warmth, but as they separated a minute or two later, Elena thought again of that flicker and wondered. Why had her instincts reacted with a plausible lie? Why didn't she want Gian to know she was aware she might have a vampire ancestor?

She was still chewing on those questions fifteen minutes later when she heard two Luminata say something to each other that made her ears prick. She only overheard the comment because she'd been staring at the mosaic Gian had pointed out—deep in thought, she'd been standing motionless for at least five minutes when she realized there were people on the other side of the hanging wall.

Like the other hanging walls on either side of the large central space of the Atrium, it wasn't closed off on either end. Rather it functioned as a partition that allowed people to gather in different sections of the Atrium, so that they could form small, intimate groupings while remaining part of the bigger whole.

Given her position and motionlessness, and the layout of the room, it seemed the two men on the other side didn't realize she was there. Because Elena definitely wasn't meant to hear this conversation.

“The resemblance is extraordinary, is it not?” A male voice, not particularly distinctive.

“‘Eerie' is the word I'd use.” Another male, this one with a deeper tone to his voice. “It feels like a ghost is haunting Lumia.”

Elena heard that part of their conversation with a peripheral corner of her mind, didn't really pay attention to it.

Then the first speaker said, “The shape of her face and that near-white hair against skin of dark gold . . .
her
skin was darker, but other than that, they could be mirror images of each other.”

Elena's entire attention snapped to the conversation. Because there was only one person in the room who had hair of near-white.

“Not quite,” the second speaker replied. “The eyes are not the same. Hers weren't silver. I always thought they gave her a feline appearance.”

“Yes, you're right.”

A pause, while Elena's heart thundered.

“Gian has not said anything.”

“Neither will he and you are
not
to mention it.” The words were hard, an order. “Or have you forgotten what he was like after her betrayal?”

“A madman . . . or so close to it as not to matter.” A whisper of wings, as if the Luminata was settling his feathers. “I will spread the word that it is a matter not to be discussed.”

There was more rustling, wings and robes shifting. Elena made a quick decision and turned to go in the opposite direction to the movements on the other side. By the time the two Luminata emerged from behind the partition, she was standing next to Raphael, far enough away that there was no way they could suspect her of having overheard their conversation.

The damn robes that hid their wings made them all so anonymous, but at least their hoods were down tonight. She took note of the two speakers: one was the tall male with mahogany skin who'd first shown her and Raphael to their suite, the other shorter, more square-appearing with silky blond hair. His skin looked to be not-enough-sunlight white with a flush of red underneath.

Guild Hunter, while Astaad appears to believe you are merely being a supportive consort by standing next to me without saying a word, I know different.
Raphael's wing spread slightly over hers.
What is it?

I'll tell you later
, she said, trying her damndest to look interested in the conversation Raphael was having with Astaad on the audible level.
I just overheard something so interesting my pulse is doing somersaults. I need a minute to get it together.

Raphael's thumb brushed over her spine as he replied to Astaad with zero indication he'd missed any of the conversation. She didn't know how he did that—have a physical and mental conversation at the same time. She didn't realize she'd asked him on the mental level until the crisp bite of the wind swept through her mind.

I have had a thousand five hundred years of practice,
hbeebti. He turned to smile down at her.

And her overworked heart, it kicked. Because his gaze held affection and love and so many other things she could've never
imagined the first time she looked into those eyes of searing blue.

“Ah, you make me miss my Mele.”

Astaad's words had Elena turning to the other archangel, even as she leaned a little closer to Raphael, needing to feel his warmth, the strong beat of his life. The more time she spent in Lumia, the more it felt as if this place was cold down to the bone, not in temperature but in its soul.

For a while, speaking with Gian, she'd almost begun to question her initial views on the place, but now that she knew he was a liar, it was easy to see the entire web of charm he'd constructed in front of her. It had been done so skillfully that she'd been partially caught in it even as she believed herself standing separate, critical-eyed.

Elena would not be making that mistake a second time.

“I miss her, too,” she said to Astaad. “I wish we didn't live so far apart.”

Astaad inclined his head. “And these times of war make travel difficult. Mele did enjoy her time in New York earlier this year. Thank you for hosting her.”

“It was my pleasure.” The other woman was a scholar rather than a hunter, but she and Elena had clicked from the first. “Mahiya also loved spending time with her. I hope she'll visit again.”

“She would be delighted to do so,” Astaad said, “but I find it difficult to have her far from me.” His features altered, tension humming beneath his skin as shadows darkened his eyes. “I have faith in your honor, Raphael, but I do not have such faith in all our brethren—I can see them harming Mele to get to me. Many know that of all my concubines, she is the most favored.”

“I wish I could disagree,” Raphael said in a tone as grim. “But honor is no longer what it once was.”

Astaad stroked his neat black goatee, nodding slowly in silence.

Elena's blood chilled without warning, her spine stiffening. She caught a sensual, smoky perfume the next second. Not too thick, not cloying. Just right.