Archangel's Heart (20 page)

“Jessamy told me.” No one knew of any other child born to parents who were both archangels. Elena had even asked the Legion, received—for the Legion—an unusually straightforward
answer:
He is the only one. His birth resonated through the world until we heard of it in our long sleep
.

“Ah, the Historian.” Affection and respect in the Luminata's tone. “She does her vocation justice.”

Together, the two of them walked to take in a small painting that was all white golds and intricate curves.

“I am Donael,” he murmured. “My apologies for the tardy introduction. It is not often we meet new people in Lumia.”

“I can imagine,” Elena said, even as impatience screamed in her.

“In the outside world,” Donael said, his eyes once more on the painting, “I knew the artist who created this. He was old even then, may have gone into Sleep now.” A long pause before he spoke again. “Lijuan was like me, like all our other friends. Nothing in her indicated she would one day become an archangel. She wasn't precocious in any particular way—ah, I had forgotten that.” He smiled. “I taught her to fly better. She was as wobbly as a baby bird.”

“
That
,” Elena said dryly, “I can't imagine no matter how hard I try.”

A soft laugh. “But think of this, Consort—in ten thousand years, you will be tempered and strong and there will be young angels who cannot imagine you as a fledgling angel, and mortals who cannot comprehend that you were once one of them.”

Elena just stared at him. “Damn, that's a scary thought.”
Ten thousand years
. Hell. Who would she become in ten thousand years?

“I do not think you need to fear the future,” was Donael's response. “You will never walk the path alone.”

“No, you're right.” Her archangel would always be by her side; he'd pull her back if she faltered and she'd do the same for him. “Who walks with the Luminata?”

“We are brothers but each path is unique.” Donael's smile was beatific, no hint that he found his choice lonely. “Will you contemplate this part of the Gallery today?”

Unclenching her gut with conscious effort, Elena could no longer fight her urgency. “No, I'm afraid I have to run—I promised to spend time with Xander and Hannah and I've been down here all this time. Will I see you again?”

The Luminata seemed pleased to be asked. “I will make myself known. I hope you do not think me presumptuous, Consort, but it gives me pleasure to speak to someone so very young. You are not scarred with life.”

Elena felt her face set itself into harsh lines, the response one she couldn't control. “A false impression,” she said, her mind filled with the drip, drip sound of blood falling to the floor from Belle's mutilated body. “We are all scarred by life. And mortals die where angels recover.”

A moment of heavy silence before Donael released a long breath. “I am foolish. A mortal lives an immortal lifetime in a mere century or less. That their scars are quicker to form makes those scars no less painful.”

No, Elena thought. It didn't. Angry at this man for stirring up the nightmare that lived always inside her, she nonetheless knew his opinion was hardly an isolated one. Most older immortals simply didn't “see” mortals.

She dug up a more pleasant expression because at least Donael was willing to accept that he might be wrong. “I look forward to speaking with you again.” Joining Aodhan on those words, she said, “I'm going up to see if Xander's arrived. Do you want to come?”

His nod was immediate. “I think I have drunk up too much of this room. I must clear my senses to fully appreciate it once more.”

As he spread his wings, Elena thought about doing a vertical takeoff, realized she'd be weakening herself for no reason. “We could take the stairs for a few flights,” she suggested. “It'll let us look a little at the galleries we winged past on our way down.”

Aodhan closed his wings in silent agreement, then the two of them walked to the stairs, while Donael appeared lost in artistic reflection. But when she looked down two flights of stairs later, she saw him looking up, as if attempting to track her passage.

Chills rippled over her skin, goose bumps appearing on her arms.

“D
o you know anything about Donael?” she asked Aodhan after another flight. “He said he's the same age as Lijuan.”

“Yes,” Aodhan murmured. “I know only because . . . I was told once.” He added nothing to that for almost a minute and she didn't have to guess hard to realize it was Remus who must've whispered the knowledge to him while trying to break him.

“I was told of an angel many millennia old who held enough power to be
the
Luminata,” he said at last. “And not only that, an angel who was far enough along on the path to luminescence that he was held in awe by the others.”

Elena wasn't so sure about the latter. Donael had seemed confident and serene in his choice to be Luminata, but she'd felt nothing otherworldly around him. “So how come Gian's the head guy?”

“Because Gian is better at playing politics.” Aodhan's tone held an unfamiliar bite of cynicism. “Even in this place meant for finding the deepest truths of existence, such manipulation can turn men's minds.”

“Yep, I can see that.” She peered over the edge of the hanging staircase, no railing to stop her, but Donael was too far away to
glimpse now. “A man who's lived that long,” she said after drawing back, “is probably very good at controlling his expressions.”

“Yes. I wouldn't trust your senses with him or any of the Luminata.”

Elena nodded. She might only be a “baby” angel, but she'd learned lessons in her mortal life that stood her in good stead in the immortal world. One of those lessons was that, sometimes, the worst dangers wore a pretty or “trustworthy” face. Slater Patalis had been as handsome as sin.

Chest tight as they went up another flight, she said, “So?”

Aodhan's only response was a slight nod.

Exhaling in a rush, Elena spread her wings. “Okay, I've had enough stair climbing.” From this height and configuration of exhibit levels and staircases, she could drop down then wing her way back up, making it appear as if she was simply taking in a lower level before flying up.

Aodhan waited for her to spread her wings and fall before he followed. He'd clearly figured out what she planned to do, mimicked her exactly—as if, as her escort, he'd been warned of her intent. They winged up beat by beat, no air currents here to ride. Reaching the exhibit where they'd originally found Hannah, they saw she was still there, only on the other side of the staircase.

Xander stood next to her, Valerius having taken a seat on a beautifully carved wooden bench not far away. It was clearly meant to offer a place from where to contemplate a particular piece of art, but the general was currently polishing his sword, which he usually wore across his back.

Cristiano was seated on the ground, playing a knife through his hands as he chatted to Valerius.

Elena felt her lips tug up at the corners. Yeah, she could only take so much of museums and galleries, too. “Xander,” she said as she walked closer. “You enjoying the Gallery?”

The young male flushed a little, reminding her once again of Izak. “I'm afraid I am more fond of the physical arts.” He turned red almost as soon as the words were out.

It took her a moment to figure out why.

Laughing, she patted him on the arm. “Don't worry, kid, in this company, we understand you were talking about knives and swords and fists.” Michaela, on the other hand, would've
probably eaten him alive for that slip. “Even Hannah has her specialty weapon.”

“My paint knives,” Hannah said proudly. “I can sever a jugular with one now.”

Xander stared at the elegantly gowned woman as if she'd grown another head. “But you're a consort.”

Scowling, Hannah waved a slender hand at Elena. “So is she.”

“Yes. But she was a hunter first. You were an artist.”

Elena just pointed at Aodhan, renowned for his artistry and the fact he was a warrior both.

Swallowing, Xander nodded. “I meant no offense.”

So young
, Elena thought, struck once again by how a being could live a hundred years and still be a youth. Angelkind, she'd come to learn, developed at a different pace, children remaining children for decades, their brains and bodies maturing in line with the eternity they were intended to survive.

Sweet Sameon, whom she'd met soon after waking and with whom she talked at least once a week, was still much the same little boy though several years had passed. It would take up to ten years for him to show distinct development. It made Elena an anomaly that she'd lived less than any angelic youth, and yet was very much an adult.

Human lives burned hotter, faster.

“None taken,” Aodhan said, as Hannah added, “In truth, a few years ago, you would've been right—I didn't believe I needed weapons. But”—sadness a heavy note in her voice—“the world is changing.” She reached out to touch her fingers to one of Xander's hands, her nails painted a translucent shade that caught the light. “You know that better than anyone.”

Xander glanced away, blinking rapidly.

Elena felt for him. He'd lost his mom and dad in a single strike. That he'd discovered his grandfather was awake might cushion that loss, but not enough, never enough. Some hurts were forever.

Leaving him to get himself under control because pride was pride and grief didn't always need an audience, she moved to stand next to Hannah. “What are you looking at now?”

“An illustrated manuscript.” She traced the beauty of the graceful script through the glass. “Stunning, is it not?”

“Hmm. I've seen better.”

Hannah glared at her. “When will I get to see the Grimoire?”

“When you go to the Refuge.” The only reason Elena had seen the ancient book Naasir had found for Andromeda was because the couple had come to New York a year earlier. Normally, the Grimoire lay in Jessamy's keeping at the Refuge Library, but as the one who'd unearthed it, Naasir had exerted his right to travel with it.

According to him, he'd had to “fight” Jessamy for it, in the end resorting to stealing it out from under her nose and leaving a note in its place promising its return.

Jessamy had threatened to strangle Naasir.

He'd just looked smug and pointed out it was Andromeda's Grimoire, on loan to the Library. Andi, in turn, had told him to behave, though she'd been laughing at the time. The memory of Naasir's unrepentant smugness—and of the possessive, wild kiss he'd taken from Andi, leaving his mate breathless—had Elena grinning despite the tension in her gut.

“Hey”—she nudged Hannah's shoulder with her own when her friend pretended to ignore her—“at least it's not entombed in Lumia, accessible to only the rarest of the rare.” With the corner of her eye, she noticed Aodhan speaking to Xander, saw that the young male was paying attention.

Valerius stayed in his seat, his attention apparently on his sword, but Elena had no doubt he was aware of every possible threat in the room. Those eyes missed nothing.

Cristiano appeared more lax, but Elena had come to know the vampire during her friendship with Hannah, knew he was as dangerous as Aodhan. The man might give off a lazy vibe, might've once told her he liked nothing more than sunning himself like a cat, but he could move lightning fast when necessary.

“Yes.” Hannah glanced around, grooves forming around her mouth. “I appreciate the idea behind the Gallery. So many of our people's treasures would've been lost or damaged without the stewardship of the Luminata, but I cannot agree with the limited nature of access to it.”

The jeweled pins in the elaborate bun in which she wore her hair caught the light, sparkling in beautiful shatters. “When I create works of art, I do it because it is part of me and I
must
create. But afterward, when the work is done, I hope that it'll speak to people, that it'll open up their hearts or their minds. That cannot happen if the art is buried for safekeeping.”

“It's a kind of hoarding, don't you think?” Elena murmured. “The Luminata renounce sex, worldly possessions, all that, but they have this archive of treasures that belongs to them.”

“It belongs to all angelkind.”

“Lip service, Hannah.” Elena glanced down at the exhibits all but empty of life below them. “If a random, nonpowerful angel rocked up and asked to enter the Gallery, do you think he or she would be admitted?”

Hannah bit down on the lush curve of her lower lip, but despite the hesitant act, she was very much a consort in that instant. Contained and graceful, and with a spine that held a pure, unbreakable strength. “I want to think so, Ellie,” she said softly, “but being here, feeling the pulse of this place. It is . . . not right.”

“Secrets have a way of rotting foundations when those foundations are meant to be built on truth and honor.” Her gaze wanted to go to Aodhan, her soul itching to look at the miniature he'd retrieved.

Forcing patience, she kept her attention on Hannah. “You ready to leave, get some air?”

The other woman looked torn. “An oddness to the air or not, there is so much here for me to see. I do not know when Elijah and I will be able to return, not with the upheaval in the world.” She put her fingers to the glass again. “Will you be very angry if I stay?”

“Of course not. This is your jam.”

Hannah sighed. “I will be a very bad friend this trip, I'm afraid.”

“I'd be the same if you threw me into a room full of weapons across the ages.” She frowned. “Speaking of which, where are the weapons? I know for a fact that at least one of Deacon's pieces was never used, but was commissioned to be displayed for its artistry.” Her best friend's husband might be mortal, but
his skill was revered by vampires and angels as well as humans. If he hadn't been so loyal to the Guild, he could've worked only for the immortals and wallpapered his home with money.

As it was, the Guild's hunters always came first for Deacon—hunters, he said when queried about his choice, needed their weapons to stay alive. He'd repair those weapons, create new ones when needed, then work on pieces for immortals. First the weapons meant to be used in combat. Last came the commissioned “art” pieces, or ones he guessed were meant to be displayed.

“I build my weapons to be used, not to be kept shiny and clean and under glass,” he'd said to her the last time she'd been over at their place for dinner. “I only do the odd show-piece because it means the immortal involved owes me a favor—which means he or she owes Sara a favor.”

And the head of the Hunters Guild did occasionally need to call in those markers.

Raphael had gone with her to that dinner, had nodded at Deacon's reasoning. The two men had become friends of a kind over the past two years. Not the type of friendship Raphael shared with his Seven—it was too soon for that—but one that wasn't simply a surface acquaintance. They'd been forced into contact because of Elena and Sara's relationship—after Elena declared that the Archangel of New York would henceforth be attending all social events to which she was invited.

That
had caused a certain ripple.

The funniest had been the day she landed at Guild Academy for a party and Raphael landed beside her. Everyone's jaws had dropped. The sole person who'd bet that Raphael would turn up that night—Ransom—had made a killing. Of course, her archangel hadn't stayed long, aware that his sheer power altered the balance of the situation, put everyone on edge.

It was different with Deacon and Sara: though they, too, felt the impact of his power, they weren't in awe of him, saw him first as Elena's man. Everything else, even the fact he ruled North America, came second.

“It is as when I met Dmitri,” Raphael had said to her after
their third dinner with the other couple. “I knew I had met a friend and it made sorrow fill my veins to know that he would be gone in a mere heartbeat.”

Except Dmitri had been Made a vampire against his will, while Deacon was content to live a mortal life. Elena knew because she'd asked both her best friend and Sara's husband if they wanted to be tested to see if they could become vampires. Not everyone had the right biology for it. Beth didn't.

Sara had hugged her, smiled, then shaken her head. “We're happy to be mortal, Ellie.”

Her hug had held a fierce love; Sara understood that Elena was terrified of the day when Sara would no longer be there. The other woman had made Elena see that her own life was as dangerous, that it was possible Sara would outlive her, but what nothing could change was that Elena was becoming ever more immortal and her best friend, her sister of the heart, wasn't.

As for Sara and Deacon's daughter, Zoe, she adored Raphael, had no fear of him.

Elena had noticed that about her archangel. He terrified adults, but children gravitated toward him, tiny hands patting at his wings, small faces smiling up at him. He'd been known to take Zoe into his arms and fly so high that Sara complained of heart palpitations. But Raphael always returned Zoe safe and sound and so excited she couldn't stop dancing.

“Perhaps the weapons are displayed in a different area?” Hannah's voice broke into her thoughts, had her lost for a second until she remembered that she'd asked about a weapons exhibit.

“Maybe,” she replied. “I'll ask Gian the next time I see him.” It would give her an excuse to talk further to the Luminata. He was the key to the secrets of Lumia.