34

Night was a black cloak around him as Raphael flew home, the city winter-dark though it was only early evening. It had taken teeth-gritted control on his part not to check in on Elena every ten minutes after he left her—and then she’d messaged him, his hunter who knew him well enough to understand his need.

The contact had held him through his time dealing with the vampire kiss that had been flexing their muscles. It had been the wrong time for them to act out—and for the area’s angel to fail in his duties to keep the vampires in check. Raphael had been in no mood to go easy on anyone.

When he spotted lights on the Tower roof, he headed that way in case Elena had chosen to wait for him up there as she did at times—most often in the company of one or more of the Legion, or Illium. Once in a blue moon, it would be Dmitri or Venom—and they’d usually be throwing verbal knives at one another.

He often thought the three had come to enjoy their barbed interactions too much to ever be any friendlier.

Closer now, he saw colored lights strung all along the sides of the roof; the snow had also been brushed to the edges of the large space to leave a clean area in the center. Chairs surrounded a brazier that burned hot . . . lighting up a face he hadn’t seen for far too long.

His wings sending up a flurry of snow as he landed on one edge, he closed them back then stalked across to meet his weapons-master halfway. “Galen.” He clasped the other man’s opposite forearm in the way of warriors, their other arms coming around each other’s shoulders, the embrace warmed by centuries of loyalty and of battle beside one another. “This is a surprise.” His weapons-master was based in the angelic stronghold of the Refuge and ran all of Raphael’s interests there.

“We thought we’d take advantage of Aodhan being in the Refuge.” Galen’s pale green eyes were bright even in the night, though his hair appeared brown rather than the true red it was under sunlight. “He’s happy to handle my duties while I make this visit.”

“I am glad to see you.” He looked past Galen’s shoulder to spot Illium, Venom, and even Jason on the roof. The others must’ve called his spymaster when Galen landed in New York.

“Where is Jessamy?” He wanted to speak to her about Cassandra, see if she knew more than what Andromeda had imparted to Elena.

“Your consort has kidnapped her to parts unknown.” Galen ran his fingers through his hair, the amber amulet that hung from the metal band he wore around his upper-left arm aglow in the firelight that reached them. “I was told not to wait up.”

“They’re going to Sara’s!” Illium called out after catching their conversation. “A girls’ night, Ellie said, while we have a gathering here.”

Raphael’s hand curled into his palm, but this—having so many of his Seven together—was a rare gift. Elena was giving him a silent message: Enjoy this night, Archangel. With the Cascade unleashed once more, we can’t know when it’ll come again. The rest can wait a few more hours.

Putting a stranglehold on the fury of his worry, Raphael joined his men just as the rooftop door opened to admit Dmitri and Janvier. Also with them was Deacon, the weapons-maker husband of Elena’s best friend—and a mortal who reminded Raphael of the man Dmitri had been when they’d first met. The same quiet confidence, the same dedication to his family, the same way of interacting with Raphael—as a friend.

Raphael would mourn Deacon when he was gone.

So, he thought, would Galen. His weapons-master’s face had lit up more brilliant than the winter moon. “Deacon! Don’t say you have it already?”

Dark-haired, with eyes of dark green, Deacon reached into the scabbard he wore across his back and, giving a slow smile, pulled out a heavy broadsword that gleamed with the colors of the lights ringing the roof.

Galen, hard as granite and not known for emotional displays, looked near to tears. Taking the broadsword with reverent hands, he moved away from the main group and began to put the blade through its paces. It sang like music in the air, the balance so tuned to Galen’s hand that it would never sing as well for another.

“Well,” Janvier drawled, “I guess that puts me in my place.” Hands on his hips. “I’m never entering a room with you again, mon ami,” he said to Deacon.

The weapons-maker removed the scabbard from his body. “Give Galen the scabbard when he’s done, and he might realize he’s not imagining a Cajun accent near me.”

Laughter filled the air, along with insults and rejoinders.

“We’re only missing Naasir and Aodhan,” Dmitri murmured to him.

Raphael nodded. It was difficult to gather all his Seven in one place at one time. The last time had been just under a year prior to Aodhan’s departure, when Raphael had taken advantage of the peace to send Andreas to the Refuge, alongside Trace, Janvier and Ashwini, and Nimra and Noel.

Galen and Naasir had helped Andreas and his caretaker team settle in then left to spend time in New York with the others of the Seven. It had been a necessary and important month—an archangel could rule with his power alone, but an archangel bonded to such strong vampires and angels as Raphael’s Seven had a critical advantage. More, Raphael valued his bonds with his men, and if he’d learned one thing from watching his mother, it was that such loyalty was a treasure not to be squandered and taken for granted.

There was a reason Eli looked to her in respect to this day.

It was also good for Andreas, Janvier, and the other strong vampires and angels in his territory to have a taste of what it meant to run his Refuge stronghold. Andreas, in particular, was old and powerful enough—and now had enough experience at the task—that he’d need less of a team the next time Raphael asked him to step in.

The trust Raphael had shown in assigning him the critical duty had further solidified the strong angel’s loyalty. As for Nimra, she was both powerful and one of his calmest angels, and Andreas valued her counsel. Even Nazarach had been known to speak to her when he needed advice. Janvier, Trace, and Noel had skills to back up Andreas and Nimra, and all were blood-loyal to his territory.

Technically, Ashwini was much too young to have been shown the secret of the Refuge that protected angelic young and held the histories of angelkind. But Janvier’s wife was a most unique vampire. She had the third eye, could glimpse the future—though, thankfully, her gift was not a thing of madness as Cassandra’s had been.

While in the Refuge, she’d been a popular guest invited to many homes. All of whom were hoping to be bestowed a glimpse of what was to come. And every so often, Ashwini would let something drop. It was never on purpose, Raphael knew. That was what made her so very likable—she was swayed neither by power nor by wealth, and when the words came, you knew they were honest.

She’d visited the home of Aodhan’s sister, Imalia, at some point—and halfway through the cake she’d been served, had said, “Your lover should really start building that crib. It takes time, you know, even for people gifted with their hands. And he’s such a perfectionist.”

That prophecy had been politely ignored—especially after Ashwini told another angelic couple to fit out a nursery, and a third angel to learn to play music because his daughter wouldn’t go to sleep without it. Everyone had thought she’d made an embarrassing mistake.

Angelic births were rare. Three in close proximity? Ludicrous.

Yet today, Aodhan cradled his nephew’s fragile body in his arms, while two other babes slept in the Refuge. Needless to say, Ashwini had an open invitation to any territory she wished to visit.

Galen finally came to a stop. His hair windblown and his face flushed, he moved to shake Deacon’s hand. “It’s even better than I imagined. Are you sure you don’t want to become a vampire? I have connections.”

“I am quite sure,” Deacon said with the smile of a man deeply content with his life. “I’ll create to the end of my days, then I will sleep in peace.”

Illium hefted a bottle of champagne over his head. “We have this stuff for those of you whose taste buds can stand it,” he said with a shudder. “There’s also fancy blood from Elena’s café, beer, and a bottle of truly excellent Scotch.” He held up the latter with a grin. “What’s your poison?”

The drinks were poured, conversation began, and Raphael sat down to spend the evening with a group of men he’d trust at his back no matter what the battle. However, not thinking about Elena and the changes wracking her body? An impossibility.

On the Tower floor directly below the roof, Elena called her grandfather while Jessamy went to get her cloak. The historian had long come to accept her wing malformation, but as with Laric, she took care never to reveal it to ordinary mortals.

Angels could not be seen as fallible.

For angels were not like mortals and never would be.

“Better that I wear a cloak than be the cause of a reign of blood,” Jessamy had once said when discussing her reasoning. “Let the world believe me so haughty an angel that I do not think mortals deserve a glimpse of my wings.”

Those wings were startlingly lovely, a luxuriant magenta that flowed into blush then purest cream. Jessamy wore her wings openly in the Refuge, and when the sunlight fell on the fine filaments, they lit up from within exactly like the glow of Jessamy’s soul. The historian and teacher of angelic young was the kindest, gentlest angel Elena had ever met.

“Beth is fine,” Jean-Baptiste told her after picking up the call. “She’s reading stories to Maggie.”

“Jessamy and Galen have flown in for a visit. I’m taking Jess to Sara’s for drinks and conversation.”

“Good. Don’t feel guilty for living your life, child.” Rough words, so much unspoken. “Enjoy your friends, enjoy the world.”

Elena thought of the tiny feather she’d picked up an hour ago. A deep black, it had come from where her wings grew out of her back. Wings that had begun to feel heavy again, her back aching under the pressure. “I will,” she said to her grandfather, her heart a knot.

Ten minutes later, she and Jessamy rode through the gaudy and bright and laughing color of Manhattan in back of a converted truck that had no sides to block the view. “How’s Sam?” Elena asked. “I haven’t had a chance to call him this week.” The young angelic boy was one of Elena’s favorite people in the Refuge.

“I had to stand him in the corner last week for throwing pieces of rotten fruit at another boy.” Laughter in Jessamy’s voice. “He planned the whole thing in retaliation for a mud-pushing incident. And of course they are the best of friends who find it all hilarious.”

As Elena grinned, Jessamy looked around, her eyes brilliant with reflected light. “Even when Raphael was a young archangel building his Tower,” the historian said, “there was a life to this place that was both joyful and frenetic.” She watched two angels sweep low through the skyscrapers before swinging back up again. “Now, it burns with energy.”

“I like that it never sleeps,” Elena murmured, her mind on other thoughts of energy. “There’s a discovery on every corner. No restraint, pure heart.”

Jessamy met her gaze across the space between them, her soft brown eyes incisive. “What is wrong, Elena? Will you not tell me?”

Hand clenching on the metal bar above her head, Elena tried to figure out where to begin. In the end, she spoke the dark truth at the heart of it all. “I’m regressing in my immortality.” She told the other woman about no longer being able to speak to Raphael with her mind, about the changes in her eyes, about the feathers she kept losing. “I’m terrified I’ll wake up one day mortal again, my wings lost.”

Distress on Jessamy’s features. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have left the Refuge. When we spoke about the owls and the woman with the lilac hair, I thought it simply a Cascade dream—I was in Amanat then and looking forward to surprising you.” Her wing moved agitatedly under her cloak. “Galen and I must return at once, so I can continue to scour the archives for—”

“Jess.” Elena shook her head. “Andromeda answered the question about the owls and the woman, and from what she said, not much else is known about Cassandra. As for the rest . . . You’ve been digging for years at this point, and all you’ve discovered are mentions of the same legend about ambrosia and an archangel loving true.”

“I’ve never before failed so badly at a research task.”

“You can’t find what’s not there.” Elena knew how hard Jessamy had searched, the countless hours she and Andromeda had spent among the dustiest records. “The last angel-Made was so many eons ago that the Legion can’t recall it. Any records have long since turned to dust.”

A rare frustration in the fine lines of Jessamy’s face. “I am keeping exact records of your transition. No other angel-Made will ever go blind into the future.” Her wing moved again under the cloak. “You’re certain you don’t want me to return to the Refuge?”

“Yes. This is a journey into the unknown. Raphael and I will walk it together.”

Child. The Sleep-heavy whisper fell into her mind.

So, at least one person could still talk to her on the mental plane. Maybe because Cassandra was entering through another part of her mind. The part that dreamed while she slept, only this dream happened while she was awake and conscious.

Yes? She’d made the choice not to antagonize Cassandra—after all, the Ancient only saw as Ash saw; she wasn’t the reason for what was happening to Elena. As for the golden-eyed white owl seated next to Jessamy, it was a hauntingly beautiful creature that lived in an archangel’s dreams.

The second marker in time nears.

Elena straightened. Will someone else die? Can I save them?

Not death. Rebirth. The owl flared its wings. The gift is not yours, child of mortals, and will not give itself to you. The voice was sad and adamant both. Your death is written in the stars. For you must die for the other to live.

Goose bumps broke out over Elena’s skin. How many markers in time are there?

Three.

The drinker of blood lost.

The agony of rebirth.

The last feather to fall.

Three markers. The second was about to happen. And she’d just seen one of her feathers float to the truck bed.

This was not looking good for Elena.