Archangel's Heart (18 page)

“None who have families are asked to serve here,” Ibrahim replied. “Those who do live in barracks located by the eastern wall, and during their rotation in Lumia, they maintain their chastity.” Flushing almost immediately on the heels of those surprising words, Ibrahim said, “I talk too much. Gian is in
despair that I will ever achieve anything close to luminescence.”

“According to the angels I know,” Elena said, “even a hundred years of doing something barely makes you competent at it, so you've got a few thousand years at least to figure out luminescence.”

Ibrahim's face creased into a smile at her dry tone. “Yes, this is so. But here, surrounded by so much peace, I wish to hasten my journey.”

“Have you ever considered that you might not want to be Luminata?” As far as Elena was concerned, he was too good for this place.

“Of course,” Ibrahim said at once. “That is part of the path—all of us who wish to become Luminata are given a century to make our decision. It is the rarest initiate who ever chooses to leave.” A tranquility to him that, all at once, made Elena believe this man would achieve the luminescence he sought. “A thousand two hundred years of adventure, excess, wealth . . . nothing in that life spoke to me as do the ancient teachings on which Lumia is built.”

Aware of Aodhan listening with concentrated focus even as he kept his eyes on their surroundings, Elena had the worrying thought that he might be considering this place . . . then mentally shook herself out of it. Aodhan had made it clear that he wanted to live, wanted to experience life in vibrant color after disengaging from the world for two hundred years.

Still, she'd ask him, make damn sure. She wasn't convinced he wasn't still shaken up after the fight with Illium.

“What about love?” Elena asked this initiate who appeared to have no hidden agendas, too new to have been inducted into the Luminata's secret society.

“L
ove?”

“Ellie means to ask if there was not a person or people you loved?” Aodhan said into the quiet. “To be Luminata is to leave behind such ties, is it not?”

Instead of answering the question, Ibrahim gasped. “You call your archangel's consort by a diminutive?”

“He's my friend,” Elena said, proud of the fact she'd earned Aodhan's trust. “And I'm never going to be like other consorts—I'll always have a mortal heart.”

It is your greatest strength.

Words Keir had spoken to her the last time he'd visited New York. The healer had placed his hand over that heart as he spoke. Coming from another man, it might've been a come-on, an invasion of her personal space, but Keir was . . . Keir. She knew he was a sexual being, had seen clear evidence of it, but he never interacted with her in that way. To her, he was a healer, wise and gifted. And his hands held only a healer's gentleness.

Never lose your heart, Elena. No matter if the world tells you it makes you weak. Immortals have so much power. It is good to have a weakness.

Elena wasn't certain she agreed with that last—especially when it came to Raphael. She never forgot that
she
was Raphael's greatest weakness, and it both infuriated and scared her. She didn't want her archangel to have any weaknesses, not when he swam with the vipers of the Cadre on a regular basis.

But in one thing, Keir was right: her mortal heart made her Elena. Give that up and she might as well lie down and die.

“A mortal heart.” Ibrahim paused in a corridor awash in color, the tiles having become ever more vivid step by step, the mosaics intricate bursts, and the paintings on the walls expressionist splashes of pigment. “You say that with pride and yet mortality is a fleeting thing without any hope of luminescence.” Rather than arrogance, his words held confusion and a question.

“Let me tell you a story, Ibrahim,” Elena said as they began to walk again. “About a holy man I met three years after I first became a hunter.”

The story was one of peace, of transcendence, of an awareness that mortality was but a shell and that the soul soared free in an immortality even the angels could not understand.

“You teach me,” Ibrahim said sometime later, the three of them at a stop in front of stone doors carved in complex patterns. His expression held equal amounts of awe, bewilderment, and thoughtfulness. “And I am humbled.”

Those sky blue eyes met hers. “I understand now: A thousand years or ten thousand years of life does not automatically proffer more wisdom. It is only fitting that I learn this from—forgive me for my boldness—a consort who is an infant in angelic terms.”

Elena shook her head. “I'm not wise, Ibrahim.” She was reckless more often than she should be, hadn't made peace with the memories that haunted her, had so many other faults. “But someone who
is
wise once told me to treasure my weaknesses. They are what make us.”

Beside her, Aodhan reached forward to haul open one of the stone doors. The air that whispered out was noticeably cooler than the external air, though by no means chilly. “Thank you for showing us here.”

“It has been my pleasure.” Ibrahim bowed low. “If I may be so forward, Consort,” he said upon rising, “I would speak to you again.”

“Only if you call me Elena,” she said.

Ibrahim's smile was that open and oddly innocent one. “Then I will see you again soon, Elena.” He pulled up his hood as he turned away, but paused to add, “I have not forgotten my promise to look for a map.”

“Thanks, Ibrahim.” Elena didn't say anything further until she and Aodhan were inside what appeared to be some type of an antechamber, a relatively small room richly carpeted in deepest blue and hung with small artworks. At the other end of it was another door. “An airlock?”

“I do not know this word,” Aodhan responded.

When she explained, he nodded. “Yes, I believe so. To ensure the air within and without do not mix to destabilize the constant temperature needed for the more delicate works of art.” He indicated the pieces on the walls. “These are relatively new, created only two hundred years ago at most. They do not need the extra care.”

Jerking her thumb over her shoulder, she said, “What about the stuff outside?”

“The mosaics were created in situ, likely purpose-done, and the paintings are brilliant but did not strike me as rare.”

Elena thought back to what Ibrahim had said of Laric's compulsive painting of that one scene. Which reminded her, “You're not being seduced by the idea of luminescence?”

“The idea, yes,” Aodhan replied. “This place, no.”

“Phew. Because I'd come drag you out if you lost your mind and joined this cult. Though Illium would probably beat me to it.”

Aodhan stared at the floor. “Do you think he's all right?”

“Jason would've got word to us if anything was wrong.” She went to touch a hand to his forearm, stopped herself in time. “You want to look at these paintings or shall we go in?” She figured Xander and Valerius would find them easily enough when they arrived.

“No, I am eager to see the older works.” A small smile that nonetheless lit up his face. “Illium is always teasing me about my liking for ‘moldy old relics.'” The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared.

“You two have been friends for centuries,” she reminded him. “Fights happen.”

“Not like this. Not so he wouldn't come to see me off on a long journey.”

Elena shook her head. “You're wrong. Sara and I didn't talk once for three whole weeks.” It still hurt to think back to that time, to how much she'd missed her best friend, a woman who was her family by choice. “It was a stupid disagreement that dragged on, both of us too young and too proud to say sorry first—but through it all, I
always
knew she had my back, as she knew I had hers. Do you doubt that about Illium and you?”

“No, never.” He looked away from her, to the door in front of them. “Illium has never been so angry before. He doesn't stay angry. Not with me.”

“But you're angry, too,” she pointed out. “No point ignoring that or you two will just fight again. When we go back, have it out with him.” She played a blade through her fingers. “I recommend getting swords and going at it.”

Aodhan's eyes were so difficult to read, but when he faced her again, she thought he might be laughing. “Perhaps you are right. I was . . . closed within for a long time. I think Illium has forgotten who I was before I was broken.”

Pulling at the final door with one hand, Elena found she couldn't budge it. She waved toward Aodhan. “So remind him,” she said as he hauled it open. “But don't forget that all the time you turned recluse, he was also growing and living his life. He's not the same person, either.”

Aodhan didn't reply, but she knew he'd absorb and think about her words. Aodhan always listened and considered—

“Holy shit.” Her mouth fell open.

In her mind, she'd thought the Gallery would be like a museum—the walls hung with works of art, sculptures artfully arranged or lit up in little cubbyholes. She'd pretty much expected the high ceiling because of the second, opaque, dome she'd seen when they overflew Lumia—but she could've never expected this.

The dome was part of the Gallery all right. It was an astonishing display high above her head, the underside painted with exquisite attention to detail and softly lit to showcase the artwork. But the dome was just the start. She and Aodhan stood on a gangway about ten feet wide that went around the entire room. In the center of the room was a plunging hole that
appeared bottomless. In the center of that hole hung a staircase that spiraled down with pathways splitting off on various sides to lead viewers into other sections.

The Gallery was a misnomer. This was a tower of galleries.

The designers had left enough room that you could fly down if you didn't want to take the stairs—though if you took the stairs, you'd see far more of the art even if you didn't step off on every level. On the other hand, it would take forever to walk down—because though she hung out as far as she could without unbalancing and falling into the hole, Elena couldn't see the end of the Gallery.

It kept going and going and going until it disappeared into what looked like shimmers of gold. As if she was looking into the heart of a distant sun. “How deep is this?” she whispered, not really expecting an answer.

Having leaned over the edge with her, Aodhan said, “Shall we find out?” The exhilaration in his tone reminded her of what Raphael had said: there was a reason Illium and Aodhan had become lifelong friends.

She grinned at him in answer but didn't immediately jump. “We can't go straight down—the staircase and pathways off to the different levels create obstacles. We'll have to go floor by floor.” In preparation, she closed the split diagonal zipper over the top of her dress that appeared to be nothing but a decorative detail. It closed by pleating the extra fabric inward, making her gown snug enough that it wouldn't fly up—she really had to give Montgomery and the tailor props for thinking outside the box.

Aodhan pointed to their first landing spot, then they both grinned—she'd
never
seen that look on Aodhan's face—and stepped off the edge. A rush of cool air turned slightly colder by their momentum and they were on the second lower level. It was all freestanding marble sculptures here, the pieces no doubt priceless. Elena, however, was far more interested in exploring just how far the Luminata had dug the Gallery into the earth.

“That spot next.” She pointed to one two levels down. “No obstructions.”

Aodhan dropped.

Laughing, she followed, the shattered light of his wings a
glorious sight below her as he came to a halt in a spot that gave her plenty of room to land herself. Her heart thumped as she glanced around. Two Luminata stood on this level, their hoods down. They appeared to be talking very quietly about a leather-bound book one was holding.

Seeing Elena and Aodhan, they both frowned. It was a very “hush in the library” look.

Elena tried to look suitably chastened before nodding at the next spot to Aodhan and they were falling. This time, they landed by a portrait gallery, an endless number of stunning images on display. So much sheer
beauty
. “Angelkind really won the genetic lottery,” she said to Aodhan. “No wonder they're so jaded.” When this was their normal, it became difficult to admire anyone or anything.

“They are not all angels.” Aodhan motioned to a portrait in their line of sight. “She is a vampire. Nine thousand years of age and considered a beauty to rival Michaela.”

That got her attention.

The woman in the picture had skin of an astonishing pure cream. No blemishes, nothing but a luminous flawlessness. Her nose was aquiline, her eyes a huge, soft aquamarine, and her hair cascades of lustrous red.
True
red. Not orange-red. Not rust-red. Not auburn.
Red.
“Talk about winning the genetic lottery.” The vampire's beauty was the kind that caught the eye and held it, the brain trying to figure out how this person was put together that she was so perfect in every way.

Elena had been caught in that same loop with Michaela once, before she saw through to the female archangel's toxic heart. “But . . . there's something missing. Something Michaela has that this vampire doesn't.” She couldn't put her finger on it, but Michaela just shone brighter. “It's not power, or not only that.”

Aodhan gave her an approving look. “You see it. And though you don't like Michaela, you don't immediately favor Renate.”

Renate.
It seemed the right kind of name for this beauty. “Fact is fact,” she said with a shrug. “And obviously, Michaela knows Renate doesn't hold a candle to her at second glance, or Renate would've met with an unfortunate accident long before reaching nine thousand years of age.”

“I think you are correct.” Aodhan took in the image again,
his eye clinical. “The fault is not the work's—the artist has captured her perfectly. What is missing is the spark of intelligence. Renate has air in her head.”

Elena blinked. “Bit harsh, Aodhan.”

“I'm not being cruel,” he said. “Fact, as you say, is fact. In nine thousand years, Renate has not sought to improve her mind in any way—it has even been suggested that perhaps she was impaired during her Making, but I once overheard a healer speaking.” He lowered his tone, his head leaning toward her own. “Renate's original master had tests done on her and it was found that she isn't impaired. She simply does not have that inner fire that pushes one to seek knowledge. Neither does she possess any ambition.”

Pushing back his hair where it had fallen over his forehead, light sparking off the tumbled strands, he added, “If she was not so beautiful, she would've had a hard life as a vampire. As it is, she is a beloved pet—and I say that in the truest sense of the word. Her lover of the past five hundred years adores her, but he does not look upon her as a partner.”

Elena whistled. “Nine thousand years and she isn't bored of just existing?”

“My sister tells me she combs her hair a lot.”

Elena's mouth fell open. Swiveling on her heel, she glared at him. “Since when do you have a sister?” she hissed under her breath. “Nice of you to share with me.”

He actually looked a little abashed. “I don't often think of her,” he admitted. “Imalia was seven hundred years old when I was born. We only ever see one another when our parents summon us both home.” A shrug. “She is a near-stranger, though she is not unkind. If I were to ask for her help, she would give it without hesitation. But we were born too distant in time to be true siblings.”