21

Elena swallowed the knot in her throat, glanced around. The works on this level were of the earth—clay and stone and other natural materials. Again, she thought it was an exhibit she’d enjoy, but they had places to be. Next came an exhibit of precious metals and gemstones, tiaras placed beside necklaces and next to rings so dazzling they threatened to outshine Aodhan.

Attracted to the dazzle, she and Aodhan both stopped to peer more closely at a number of the pieces. Beside most were cards that had a lettering she didn’t understand. “Can you read that?”

Aodhan stared at the letters, lines forming between his eyebrows. “I should be able to—we learned it in school. But it has been an age since I have used it.” He scanned the text again. “I’m fairly confident it says this ring is a borrowed item, not a permanent part of the Gallery. The owner has lent it to Lumia.”

Elena made a face. “I could understand that if this was a public museum,” she said. “But why give it to people who’ll just hide it away?”

“I believe there is a certain cachet in being able to say that a piece of art you own was deemed acceptable for Lumia’s archives.”

“Ah. Bragging rights. Got it.” She looked at a necklace that was ropes of lustrous white pearls placed on a blue velvet background, thought that Sara would’ve liked to see it. Her best friend liked pearls—and even though she now owned the real thing, she still wore the imitation pearl bracelet Elena had given her for her twenty-first birthday.

“Ready for the next level?”

She nodded at Aodhan’s question.

Metal sculptures, paintings of every kind, pencil and charcoal sketches, a collection of feathers that spanned every shade from pure white to gleaming obsidian—and included a feather of deepest magenta that she was certain came from the inner curve of Jessamy’s wings, the exhibits kept surprising them, delighting them.

“Do they have one of your feathers?” she asked Aodhan, having not spotted it in their quick walk-through.

“I don’t know. Perhaps—if someone picked one up and handed it in.”

And then, finally, they were at the bottom of the Gallery.

Not quite believing they’d made it, Elena looked around, but there was definitely no more staircase. Only a floor that was a sunburst of golden filigree over white marble, the design so spectacular that Elena released the zip on her dress so she could move more freely and went down on one knee to run her fingers over the artistry of it.

When she looked up, it was to see that Aodhan’s wings had turned golden, his feathers reflecting the room. Tapestries shimmering with golden threads, sculptures created of gold, paintings done in shades of gold, old-fashioned lamps with golden casings, a graceful carved settee upholstered in golden velvet and with a frame of golden wood, and ornately framed mirrors that reflected the gold to turn the entire space into a burst of sunshine.

“It’s happy,” Elena whispered. “Does that sound strange? This exhibit, the way it’s set up, it feels happy. Alive.”

“Art is meant to evoke emotion—but the emotion is not necessarily the same from person to person. Where you see joy, I see a delighted pride.” His wings brushing the floor as he deliberately lowered them, as if to experience every aspect of this room, Aodhan stared at a painting that was all thick, textured paint, the shades of gold within it endless.

Though the painting had no structure, it reminded Elena of the sea, a crashing wave of color under a sky glowing with the hopeful tones of sunrise.

“Come look at this, Ellie.”

Rising to join him, she lifted her fingers to touch the paint, found it as thick as it appeared. “You think there’s actual gold in this paint?”

“Yes.” Aodhan’s eyes, the shattered light of them, glowed with endless reflections as he turned from the painting to look up. “But that’s not what I wanted you to see.”

She followed his gaze, gasped. She’d noticed the chandeliers attached to the bottoms of each part of the staircase as well as the pathways that led to each exhibit, but the overall effect was only now apparent. All those chandeliers created a shower of shimmering light, scattering a dazzling rain over them and turning this room into even more of a dream.

“Okay,” she whispered, “the Luminata might hoard art, but they sure know how to show it off, too.”

Leaving Aodhan to his contemplation of an intricate tapestry that had caught his eye, she wandered around trying to take in as much as possible. It was unlikely she’d have a chance to return—because, open as it was to all Luminata, she couldn’t see the older members of the sect hiding any secrets here. And even this beauty couldn’t compare to Elena’s need to unearth the truth about the woman with hair of near-white who had looked so much like her that the Luminata found the resemblance eerie.

It feels like a ghost is haunting Lumia.

Skin pebbling, she decided she and Aodhan should head to the library next. Though what had Gian and Ibrahim called it? The Repository of Knowledge, that was it. That, too, was a public space, but with so many millennia of knowledge there, it was possible there were secrets that had fallen through the cracks, small clues she might be able to string together to form a coherent picture.

Not just yet, however. Leaving the Gallery too quickly would betray her impatience, arouse suspicions. And Aodhan was enjoying this. Happy to wait for him, she eventually found herself looking into a glass cabinet in which lay a tumble of golden artworks in miniature. Tiny sculptures, paintings, jewels, all of it sized for dolls.

Delighted, she took out her phone—which she carried around out of habit—to grab a few shots for Eve. She knew her youngest sister would enjoy zooming in to see all the different objects. It was only after she slipped away her phone that she realized this place was probably “No photography allowed,” but oh well, at least she hadn’t used the flash.

Leaning in closer, she smiled at the cheerful way this space had been organized. Someone in the Luminata had a sense of joy, understood that art didn’t always have to be in perfect lines. She was about to move to the other side of the case when her eye fell on something half hidden beneath a tiny bust of a hawk-nosed man. It was the edge of what looked like a small painting.

The surround was aged gold, but there was a miniature canvas within, and from what she could see, that painting was of someone with long hair of near-white. It could be nothing, a truly ancient archangel or vampire, or just a blond woman whose image had faded over time, but Elena’s heart thundered. She couldn’t walk away without seeing it. But no matter how carefully she looked, she couldn’t see a way to open the case.

She didn’t realize Aodhan had noticed her preoccupation until he came up right next to her, their wings overlapping and the bare skin of his biceps almost touching her own arm. “Ellie, what is it?”

Elena glanced around before whispering, “You think this place has security cameras?” There’d been none in their suites, or in the hallways, but this Gallery held treasure after treasure.

“I would bet my wings it doesn’t,” Aodhan said. “Many angels believe such technological intrusions disrespectful to the contemplative space required for art. The Luminata are highly likely to fall into that category.”

Breath coming a little too fast and shallow, she touched her fingers to the case. “There’s a miniature painting right at the bottom with a portrait inside that I want to see.”

“Which one?”

She tapped her finger on the glass to point it out. “Under the bust.”

Aodhan’s expression sharpened as he realized what had caught her interest. “I can break the seal.” His tone was as quiet as hers had been. “But the damage would be obvious.”

Shaking her head, Elena looked up, the lights of the chandeliers now frustrating because they blinded her to anyone who might be watching them, or who might be heading to this level. “No,” she said after looking back down, spots of black light dancing behind her eyes. “We can’t risk the Luminata becoming suspicious—if they figure out I’m searching for information about the unknown woman, I think they’d bury any other clues that might’ve been inadvertently left lying around.” She was pretty certain the miniature, if it was a clue, had been overlooked because it was so small and part of a jumble of other objects.

Aodhan’s eyes remained golden, reflecting all the metallic surfaces here. Like glittering fire. And again, she remembered Illium’s words about people wanting to own Aodhan. “Give me a minute,” he murmured. “Any case such as this will have an official way to open it so the archivist can rearrange the objects within.”

Though it almost physically hurt her to do so, Elena wandered away from the case to look at a collection of gold-handled hand mirrors that Aodhan pointed out to her. If anyone was watching them, it’d appear as if she’d gone from one fascinating object to another. Nothing unusual. And lingering on this level could hardly be unexpected—it was a room designed to captivate.

The tiny hairs on her nape prickled the entire time, her skin tight, so when Aodhan spoke her name softly, she nearly burst apart. Turning with deliberate laziness, she strolled over to him. “Success?”

“I need a very thin blade, the thinnest you have, with the narrowest tip.”

Mahiya, Elena thought, I owe you one.

Reaching up to the hair she’d twisted into a roll at the back of her head, she removed one of the blade sticks. She was careful to keep the movements ordinary, everyday, nothing but a woman fixing her hair. Palming the blade stick while appearing to slide it back in, she passed it over to Aodhan by placing it on the very edge of the case, near the thick metal rim. Then she turned and, blocking the case and Aodhan’s hands with her wings, pointed out the carvings on the bottom of the staircase to this level.

“Look at that.” She didn’t have to pretend wonder. “They’ve utilized every surface.” Because the carvings weren’t on the area, they were attached to it.

A slight movement against her wings, as if the case was being lifted up . . . just as a pair of large wings was silhouetted against the lights of the chandeliers above. A gust of wind hit her face as one of the Luminata came to a hard, firm landing on the floor.

Folding back wings of dark gray scattered with feathers of white dotted with gray, the heavyset male with pale skin tanned to light gold looked more than a little abashed. “My apologies.” He bowed from the chest, his thickly silver hair falling over a face that appeared no older than her own. “I would not have landed so enthusiastically had I known others were present.”

Elena forced a smile through her thundering heart. “This place does encourage enthusiastic landings,” she said, stepping forward a little. “Aodhan and I landed there.” She pointed to the far end of the starburst on the floor and the man’s head swiveled in that direction as she’d hoped.

Elena couldn’t glance back at Aodhan, check it was done. Instead, she went to the Luminata’s side. “And,” she said, “I’m pretty sure the tips of my right wing almost brushed one of the paintings. Shh.” A finger lifted to her lips.

The Luminata’s dark gray eyes were warm when he met her gaze, his face not traditionally handsome in the angelic way, but compelling all the same. “You are truly unlike any consort I have ever met.”

She tilted her head to one side. “Have you met many?” Currently, there were only two: Hannah and Elena.

A small nod. “I am as old as Lumia, I sometimes think. My hair is a family trait, but these days, it also tells the truth of my years on this earth.” Tucking his hands into the wide sleeves of his robe as Ibrahim had done, he smiled. “But for once I am not the oldest in this place. Not with Caliane and Alexander in attendance.”

A slight rustle announced Aodhan moving about, but he didn’t speak and the Luminata didn’t interrupt him. Likely out of respect for quiet contemplation of art. Lowering her voice, as if she, too was being respectful of Aodhan’s apparent absorption in a piece, she made herself continue the conversation in spite of the clawing impatience in her gut. “Were you alive when Lumia was built?”

A gentle laugh, a shake of his head. “No, I am not that old. An exaggeration on my part earlier.” He paused, lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes. “I was born in the same year as the Archangel Lijuan.” He released a breath. “We were playmates once upon a time, though that time is shrouded in the hazy mists of memory.”

Elena felt her eyes widen.

Intellectually, she knew Lijuan must’ve once been a child. Emotionally, however, it was difficult to accept that fact. “What was she like then?” she murmured and, when the Luminata’s face gained a subtle tension, added, “It’s just . . . I have difficulty imagining her as anything but the archangel she is now.” Insane and power-hungry and terrifying in her delusions of godhood.

Her companion’s expression softened, turning a little distant at the same time. “It was so long ago, Consort.” His voice was lyrical, that of a storyteller. “I remember, she was a small girl. One of the smallest in our class. And so clever. A nimble mind.”

Strangely, Elena could see that. No one could ever say that Lijuan was anything but fiercely intelligent. “Did you guess who she would one day become? I’ve heard people say Raphael burned with power from the instant he was born.”

“Those people are right,” the silver-haired Luminata confirmed, “but perhaps it is also true that he was watched far more closely for signs of power than other angelic babes for he was the child of two archangels.” Dark gray eyes locked with Elena’s, and unlike Ibrahim’s innocent peace, they held a darker, older wisdom. “You must know, Consort, such a pairing is beyond rare—usually lasting only for a short period. Even rarer is a child born of that pairing.”

“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.