Archangel's Legion (49 page)

Have a nap or the Legion will come get you? Like the bogeyman?

Precisely. Except it appears our bogeyman is real.
“You have been gone from the world an eon.”

“Yes.”

Raphael, look at his eyes. They’re starting to gain color. And his hair . . .

Doing as Elena bid, Raphael saw the gray one was indeed no longer so gray. His hair was darkening into black and his irises now boasted a fine rim of blue—the same blue as Raphael’s eyes. “You are now my Legion.” Not a question, the mark on his face a quiet thrum that told him the truth, told him, too, that the Legion waited for his command. “Your first task is to assist my troops in securing the city and fixing the damage to the Tower.”

A quiet nod, his wings folded with military tightness. “Sire.”

“You are their leader. I need a name for you.”

A pause. “I am not the first primary,” he said at last, “but that is what I am. The Primary.”

“All right,” Raphael said, accepting what appeared to be a rank rather than a name. It was becoming clear the Legion was not in any way an ordinary angelic—if they were even angels—squadron. “Tell the Legion they are to obey the orders of Dmitri and Illium as if they were mine or my consort’s.” He pointed out the two men. “I will make the others of my Seven known to you when they return from their tasks.”

“The Legion has heard and understands.”

“I estimate five hundred in your squadron. Is that correct?”

“Five hundred woke to the Sire’s call in urgency. Two hundred and seventy-seven need more time. They will arrive when their hearts begin to beat fast enough for flight.”

Seven hundred and seventy-seven fighters who functioned as a single cohesive and apparently tireless unit, their skills lethal and their healing abilities unparalleled. He’d seen a Legion fighter beheaded, only to rise again within minutes, his head growing a new body while the old disintegrated into dust.

It was an army no other archangel would easily wish to face.

“We’ll need quarters for the Legion,” Raphael said to Dmitri.

“Sire.” It was a quiet interruption from the Primary, and when Raphael nodded at him to speak, the male said, “We do not sleep except when it is time for us to leave the world.”

“Do you eat?” Dmitri asked. “Need water?”

Another pause, akin to those of older angels who sought to mine their memories for a lost answer. “Yes”—a faint sense of surprise in his tone—“when we are awake, we do need fuel, but we can fight for many days without sustenance or rest.”

I’ll work out the logistics,
Dmitri said mind to mind. “Though you may not need a place to sleep,” he said aloud, his words directed at the Primary, “you should have a place where you can be with your men and women—” A frown. “I see no women.”

“We are the Legion,” came the incomprehensible answer.

Eyebrow raised, Dmitri continued. “You’ll need a place where your men can gather at least.”

“Yes,” the Primary said after another pause, his mind seemingly not yet having shaken off the shackles of his long Sleep. “We do not . . . do well if cut off from the group so soon after waking.”

“There are two warehouses next to each other not too far from the Tower,” Dmitri said. “We normally use them for storage, but they can be cleared for temporary accommodation if”—a glance at the Primary—“that wouldn’t be too basic an environment? They’re nothing but large spaces with four walls and a roof.”

“No, such will do well.”

Raphael knew the warehouses could only be a short-term solution. Even with the members of the Legion rotating in and out, the combined space wasn’t designed for over seven hundred winged beings. “Now that you’re awake,” he said to the Primary, “how long do you plan to stay this way?”

“Until it is time to Sleep again.”

Okay, he takes the win for most cryptic statements.

Biting back a smile at Elena’s dry assertion, Raphael said, “We’ll build you a living space suited to your requirements after the repairs to the city and the Tower.” Raphael owned a massive chunk of Manhattan, far more than most people realized, and it made sense to have this force around the Tower. “In the interim, you are welcome at the Tower. You are my people now.”

Epilogue

S
adness had been the pulse of the city for five days
follow-ing the war, as they watched flower-covered bier after bier leave for the Refuge and buried hunters and vampires who’d fallen. Elena hated funerals—not hard to figure out why—but she’d attended every single one, as had every other fighter who’d survived and wasn’t confined to a sickbed. It had hurt.

The finest honor we can do the fallen is to bring our city back to life, until children play in the parks and lovers walk in the streets while angels soar among the skyscrapers and the blood kin share the kiss of life without fear. We must not forget what they died to protect.

Words a still badly hurt Aodhan had spoken, at the funeral of a vampire commander he’d considered a friend, and words they’d all taken to heart. In the past forty-eight hours, the rebuild of the city had kicked into high gear, and that was going a long way toward healing the wounds, though Elena knew it would take time for the emotional—and physical—injuries to heal.

She’d been lucky, so damn lucky that all her close friends had made it out alive, here and in the Refuge—the fighting there having ended the instant word filtered back of Lijuan’s defeat. Of the injured, Ransom and Ashwini were the worst off, but they’d both be okay. Ransom had taken a crossbow bolt in the leg in the final battle, his femur snapping, while Ashwini had been slashed pretty badly with a sword across her chest. The other woman now held the Guild record for most stitches in a single sitting and was trying to avoid answering the one question to which every hunter wanted to know the answer.

If she and Janvier weren’t together, then what was he doing playing (wow-mama-sex
ay
) nurse at her apartment, hmm?

The silliness of wondering about Ash and Janvier’s relationship gave the tough, often stoic men and women of the Guild a much-needed emotional outlet, and if the jokes segued into more solemn conversations, that was good, too. Day by day, hour by hour, they were all finding a way to deal. For Elena part of that had meant a visit with Eve and Beth both, as well as a long squeeze-cuddle of a snuggly Zoe, a video call with Sam, and a visit to a hospital earlier that morning to fulfill her promise to a little boy who wanted to fly.

Today, she stood on a building across from the Tower with her archangel, the two of them having met there to get an overview of how the repairs were going—they’d both been working with their people until now. “Oftentimes,” Raphael had said, “an archangel must stand above those he rules, but there are times when he must stand beside them.”

Now, he turned to her, his leathers dusty from the work. “Astaad contacted me earlier. Once we are in a position to welcome guests, he has indicated a willingness to visit.”

Elena had no arguments with that, the other archangel having done the entire world a giant favor. It had been approximately fifteen minutes after they’d returned to the Tower after the retreat of Lijuan’s troops that Raphael had received a very polite call from the Archangel of the Pacific Isles. “Raphael,” he’d said, “I wished to let you know I destroyed the cargo planes heading in your direction. I cannot believe Lijuan would attempt to fly such unclean creatures over my territory.”

As it turned out, the holds had been stuffed with the last of Lijuan’s hideous reborn so far as anyone knew. “Tell him to bring Mele along,” Elena said, thinking she might actually start to enjoy this whole hostess deal if she kept getting to pick guests she liked. “Oh, you’ll probably get an official update from Elijah, but I was talking to Hannah and she says they’ve dug out the final few stubborn reborn from their territory.”

“Good. Our territory is also clean, and I think I’ll speak to Eli about certain ongoing safeguards to make sure that doesn’t change.”

Elena nodded and drew in the crisp, bright winter air as the sounds of horns drifted up from the cabs below. God, it felt good to have her city back again. It might be a little battered, but hell if anyone was going to keep it—and the people who called it home—down. “I can’t believe the Tower repairs were done so quickly.”

The winter sun creating that illusion of white fire across his wings she wasn’t sure was an illusion at all, Raphael walked to the edge of the building. “It’s the symbol of my power.”

As such, Elena thought, it could never appear weak.

“Of course,” Raphael added, “the Legion is an extraordinary workforce.”

“Yeah.” His consort came to stand beside him, arms folded as she scowled at the sight of two Legion fighters landing on a Tower balcony. “You’re sure they’re not secretly planning to take over the city?”

“Yes, I feel it inside.” Stroking his knuckles gently down the side of her face, the heavy bruise she’d taken on her jaw during the final fighting yet healing, he said, “You feel it, too, my suspicious consort.”

She unfolded her arms. “It’s like a tiny but steady pulse at the back of my mind, this awareness the Legion belong to us.” Eyes of silver-gray turning to him, face solemn. “I know if I think a little too hard about the Primary, he’ll appear in front of me, ready to do my bidding. And while I might be starting to get a handle on the consort thing, I’m not ready to deal with that kind of power. It’s yours.”

“Yes,” he said, “it’s mine.” Elena didn’t have the experience to manage a force such as the Legion, and more, she shouldn’t have to. Already, she was taking on far more of the responsibilities of a consort than anyone could’ve expected of her so soon into her immortality. “But I hope you’ll give me the benefit of your advice as I learn to deal with my new army.”

A twitch of her lips, her wing sweeping across his in a silent caress. “Try to shut me up.” Leaning into him, she said, “Why you, why us? I keep trying to get my head around that.”

“A question to which the Primary may even now give us an answer,” Raphael said, as the leader of the Legion landed in front of them.

The male’s eyes remained translucent but for that ring of blue, the effect oddly beautiful, according to Raphael’s consort. His hair, though, had turned totally black. His skin, too, was no longer the shade of death, but glowed golden with health, and his leathery wings had become a beaten gold except for the part where they grew out of his back.

There they were a black that echoed Elena’s wings, the color bleeding into midnight blue, which then flowed into the beaten gold. The metamorphosis of the rest of the Legion was slower but no less fascinating a process. Day by day, they were all becoming painted in color—and the palette was the same.

“Sire,” the Primary now said, “you call us.”

“Only you. The others may continue as they are.”

A nod.

“My consort has a question for you.”

The Primary looked at Elena without blinking.

“Why Raphael and me?” she asked, her passionate nature inherent in the intensity of the question. “Why not Elijah and Hannah? They’re older, have been together longer.”

“You are
aeclari
, and the Legion may only serve
aeclari
.”

Archangel?

I do not know this term, Elena.
“Tell us about
aeclari
.”

“
Aeclari
is you,” the Primary said, as if it made perfect sense.

Do you think if I shoot him, he’ll actually answer a question?

Raphael fought his laughter.
I think it’s a case of asking the right questions.
“You’re connected to the power that tried to fill me,” he said, his skin prickling with the awareness of it.

“We are the repository. We tried to pass it to the Sire, but the Sire is not yet ready.”

It was as clear an answer as he could’ve wished for, the whispers making sense now that he’d seen the Legion, understood how deeply they were linked to one another—as if they were one organism with many parts. “What happens when I’m ready? Do you vanish?”

“No. We are then freed to stay in the world or return to our Sleep once more. If we stay, we become alone and separate.”

Raphael considered the other man’s words—and the Primary
was
a man, if one who hadn’t yet fully become—and placed it against what he knew of the Cascade powers gained by the rest of the Cadre. Each had to do with an ability or proclivity inherent to the archangel in question.

“You can only serve a warrior,” he said, and it was no question because he felt the rightness of it in his gut. Raphael had been a warrior in one guise or another throughout his existence, from a stripling in Titus’s army long ago, to fighting side by side with his own forces in the war past.

The Primary paused. “Yes,” he responded at last, in that totally flat tone devoid of emotion. “A warrior who is attuned to the power of which we are formed—of the earth, of life. But the warrior must also be
aeclari
.” His eyes flicked to Elena, giving Raphael the first glimmer of what that term actually meant. “And it must be the time.”

The Cascade happens and Neha calls fire and ice,
Elena said into his mind at the same instant.
Titus moves the earth, Astaad the sea, while creepy Lijuan brings the dead back to life. Meanwhile, my gorgeous archangel, not satisfied with, I don’t know, shooting lightning bolts or something, actually taps into the energy of the planet and calls an army of bogeymen from the bottom of the ocean. Of course you do.

The dry commentary made him wonder how he’d ever walked through life without the wit and laughter of his hunter by his side. He could no longer imagine such a cold, remote existence, the idea of it spawning an immediate repudiation in his bloodstream. Wing to wing with her, he said to the Primary, “Have others through time gained the ability to call you?”

Another long pause, the Primary turning the pages of his memory. “There have been warriors who have become attuned to the power of the earth, of life, and gained strength, but they touched only the edge of what we carry within us. It was not time for us to wake.”