Feather (Angels of Elysium Book 1)

by Olivia Wildenstein

  Whatever happens? “You mean, if you beat me?”

  Her body went a little rigid. “Yeah.”

  Odds were, she would. I sent a tiny prayer to Elysium that Jarod would be cooperative. Or at the very least, not overly uncouth.

  “You should get going,” she said, standing.

  Sucking in a lungful of courage, I speared my arm through my bag and rose. I’d changed into a purple dress that downplayed my curves. Outside the guilds, I felt normal, but within the celestial quartz walls, I felt like my body was too heavy, my breasts too large, my hips too wide, and my stomach too soft.

  “Here goes nothing,” I murmured as I trailed Eve out of our bedroom and back into the Atrium to find an Ophanim willing to take me through the Channel. Until my wings were complete, I couldn’t travel through the guild portals without assistance.

  Fletchings were still swanning about the courtyard, feasting and drinking from the banquet laid out in Asher’s honor. Asher who was still conversing with the Ophanim. I’d assumed he wouldn’t have hung around after delivering his message.

  Flanked by Eve, I walked over to our winged superiors. “Sorry to interrupt your conversation, but I need transport to the guild in Paris.”

  “Greer?” Ophan Mira said. “Can you take Leigh through the Channel?”

  “Of course.” My etiquette professor smoothed a hand over her form-fitting gray dress.

  Like me, she was on the heavier side of the angel spectrum. Eve once joked that she must pull muscles in her wings when she flies. Her remark had cost my friend a feather even though she insisted she hadn’t meant it as an insult.

  “I was just about to depart,” Asher said. “I can take her.”

  Color flooded my cheeks. Sweet cherubs, an archangel was going to escort me through the Channel?

  Greer’s hands coasted off her frock. “Are you certain, Seraph?”

  I shot my gaze to Eve whose wings seemed to take up a little more space. If only I could duck behind them.

  “Yes.” Asher’s turquoise gaze slinked over my bag. “All packed up, I see.”

  I squeezed my bag against me, hoping I’d stashed my undergarments at the bottom. If they were sticking out on top, I would die. Especially considering I had a great fondness for lace and silk.

  As Asher commended the Ophanim for their impressive work, Eve enfolded me in a bone-crushing hug. “Go get those hundred feathers.”

  I forgot all about my embarrassment then, my mind wholly focused on Jarod Adler and his Court of Demons. I reassured myself that no demons actually lurked there.

  At least, no real ones.

  Demons, the sort humans pictured in their minds, horned beasts who sucked out your soul with their fangs and clawed through your flesh with their talons, thankfully didn’t exist.

  “Shall we?” Asher asked.

  Shaking the image of bloodied, sharp extremities from my mind, I pressed my friend away. “Love you, hon.”

  Her eyes sparkled like the waterlilies bobbing in the fountains. “Me too.”

  Was she about to cry?

  “Hey.” I picked up her hand which felt cold in spite of the angel-fire irrigating the Atrium’s walls, maintaining the temperature at a pleasant seventy-two degrees year-round. “We’re going to see each other in no time.”

  Her red lips wobbled with a smile.

  I hugged her again and then I turned around and followed Asher toward the Channel.

  He clasped his hands behind his back. “You two are very close?”

  “We’ve been friends since we were five and were assigned the same bedroom. Believe it or not, we never switched roommates.”

  But that would change soon.

  So much would change soon.

  “So, Paris, huh?” Asher asked as we turned a corner into another pale hallway bathed in glittering night. “Who’s your sinner, Leigh?”

  I glanced up at him. “A man called Jarod Adler.”

  He halted so suddenly my heart jounced against my ribs.

  “What is it, Seraph?”

  Leather whispered over his tanned skin as his chest expanded. “He’s a Triple.”

  Had he assumed I would earn the hundred feathers Eve had mentioned in increments? “He is.”

  He stared fixedly at me for so long that I heaved my bag further up my shoulder.

  “Why did you take on a Triple?”

  Heat replaced the chill that had swamped my veins. “Oh. Uh.” I bit my lip. “Because I’m missing eighty-one feathers.”

  His expression softened, a smile tipping the corners of his mouth. “I’m flattered.”

  My fingers froze on my bag strap. “You are?”

  “I am.”

  He didn’t touch me, but the warm blood pumping underneath his skin did. It penetrated every fiber of my being, solidifying my resolve like cooling metal.

  I backed up before I could do something reprehensible like stroke Asher’s glorious wings, which were, again, on full display. The romantic in me hoped he’d deployed them in my honor; the realist sensed they were spread because we were approaching the Channel, and he would need them to fly me out of the guild.

  “Don’t spend too much time trying to reform a Triple,” Asher finally said. “They are Triples for specific reasons.”

  I swallowed. “I know.”

  He dipped his chin into his neck as though he didn’t quite believe I understood what I was getting myself into.

  It was silly, but I bristled. “I’ve never failed a mission.”

  It wasn’t like me to boast, but I wanted him to stop looking at me like I was the naivest angel in the human world. I strode ahead of him into the square room filled with bright white light. When he joined me, the space, which was no larger than an elevator shaft, suddenly felt snugger than a shoebox.

  He held his palms out, and I glided mine on top. His skin bled fire into my hands, whisking away their clamminess and replacing it with a prickling burn.

  He murmured words from the celestial tongue that made lilac smoke gather and twist around us. Tightening his grip, he snapped his wings, and we rocketed up into the beam of elysian light.

  Chapter 6

  When we reached Guild 7, a perfect replica to the one I’d just left behind, two women were already waiting for us by the Channel, probably warned of our imminent arrival by Ophan Mira. They greeted me succinctly before lavishing Asher in attention. They were clearly there for the Seraph and not an insignificant Fletching.

  Wait till I become his wife . . . Whoa. My snark made my even strides falter. Where had this confidence come from?

  Asher glanced at me through the curtain of golden hair that framed his face. “Are you okay, Leigh?”

  I stared at him wide-eyed, praying he couldn’t discern my delirious thoughts. “I’m fine. Thank you, Seraph.” And then I turned my attention toward the blonde with apple-green wings. “Ophan Pauline, could you show me to a free bedroom so I can put my things away, please?”

  “Biensûr. Suis-moi.” Even though she spoke in French, my brain automatically translated her words. Of course. Follow me. “Don’t forget to speak our language while you’re here. It’ll make Parisians a lot more accommodating.”

  I committed this to mind. Before leaving, I turned to Asher. “Thank you for the lift, Seraph.”

  “The pleasure was all mine, Leigh.” His incandescent smile replaced the concern that had wafted over his features at the mention of Jarod’s name.

  As I trailed Ophan Pauline down a grid of quiet hallways, I looked up at the strip of elysian sky burning with stars, the only other source of light beside the fire-veined quartz.

  She led me into a bedroom similar in design to mine but smaller—four bare quartz walls, a domed skylight, an en suite bathroom, and two queen-sized beds made up with white linens. “How long do you think you’ll be staying with us?”

  “Depends how my mission goes.”

  She pressed on one of the walls, and a closet door popped open. “Myriam ascended last mon
th, so this room is yours for as long as you need it.”

  “Thank you.” As I walked over to the bed and set my bag on it, I felt her stare at me. I glanced over my shoulder wondering what warranted the attention, since my wings were magicked away.

  “Your hair color is very . . . different.”

  Different was never a compliment. “Just like my wings,” I sighed.

  “What color are they?”

  “Silver.”

  “And?”

  “Just silver.”

  Her lids pulled up higher. “Can I see them?”

  I magicked them into existence.

  She circled around me taking them in. I hoped the color, or lack thereof, would keep her gaze away from my feather shortage. “Incroyable. I’ve never seen a Fletching with pure Verity wings before. You must be one heck of a pure-blood.”

  “Or the angels who made me used up all the color on my hair.”

  She smirked. “Do both your parents have pure Verity wings?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve never seen their wings?”

  “I’ve never met them.”

  “They’ve never visited you?”

  “No.”

  It wasn’t completely unusual for parents not to seek out their children until they ascended. Some didn’t want to get attached in case their progeny failed to reach the celestial city. Even though I was curious about them, there was pain mixed into that curiosity, and that pain dimmed my desire to meet them.

  If I ever mothered, I’d live in the guild with my Fletching. Or at least, I’d try to. It wasn’t allowed, but perhaps if I was a Seraphim’s consort—There I went again, dreaming outsized dreams.

  “I should get back to our honored guest, but it was a pleasure to meet you. Leigh, correct?”

  “Oui.”

  “If you need anything, come find me.”

  “Thank you, Ophan.”

  Once she was gone, I hung up my clothes, showered, then stood in front of my closet, debating whether to sleep or get dressed for the day ahead. Jarod’s face flashed behind my pupils. Who was I kidding? There was no way I could sleep. I looked up at the lightening cobalt sky, estimating dawn was near. Jarod would probably not be awake yet, but leaving this early would give me time to study the lay of the land. I had no idea where the guild was compared to his house.

  I donned a knee-length black skirt and a long-sleeved black top which had been cleaned so often the fabric had become a little droopy and fell off one of my shoulders. I tried to center it, but as I slid my feet into black heels and grabbed my bag, it slid askew again. Oh well. Perhaps, the French would find it stylish.

  Careful about not making too much noise, I treaded lightly toward the sound of gushing water, my stilettos clicking on the stone. Just like in our guild, the walls of the Atrium were covered by rampant flowers. Instead of honeysuckle, pink roses bloomed here, which gave the space a slightly different aspect and smell to ours. A difference accentuated by the statues at the heart of the seven fountains. As I studied the quartz carvings of the celestial beings, the pungent fragrance coupled with my lack of sleep and firing adrenaline made my head spin. Meeting someone new and going on an adventure with them usually thrilled me, the same way starting a new book did. This morning, though, dread superseded my excitement, because so much was at stake.

  Borrowing courage from the statue of an angel brandishing a golden shield, I strode through the Atrium and into the half-moon foyer where I unlocked a glass compartment from the wall of lockers by scanning my fingertip. Inside was a thin wad of bills that could be replenished as long as the sum demanded wasn’t outrageous.

  I stashed the money inside my handbag, and then, stealing one more breath of celestial air, I drew open the door and stepped into the unknown.

  Chapter 7

  After the door of the guild clanged shut, I pirouetted to take in my surroundings. The sky was dark, but the street wasn’t. Smooth cobblestones framed by sidewalks too narrow for pedestrian use glistened underneath the row of antique cast-iron lanterns jutting from the limestone façade of two-storied houses.

  A man sucking on a cigarette was hosing down the sidewalk in front of his bakery, seemingly the only other soul awake at—I checked the time on my phone—4:15 AM.

  I smiled at him, which won me a “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

  The scent of warmed butter wafted from inside the lit bakery where a woman with puffy red cheeks was rolling out a long strip of white dough.

  My fascination made the man proclaim in rapid French, “We make the best croissants in all of Paris. They’ll be ready in two hours.”

  My stomach rumbled. “I’ll be back later then,” I said, starting down the curved, cobbled street.

  “We sell out before eight.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at him. “I’ll be back before eight, then.”

  I brought up the map application on my phone to check where I was—Cour du Commerce Saint-André—and then I input where I needed to go—Place des Vosges. I discovered it was a half-hour walk through a neighborhood called Saint-Germain that reminded me of the East Village with its labyrinth of quaint streets.

  When I burst out of the maze and onto a quay overlooking the river, my lips parted. Carved limestone ended in slate rooftops that glistened as wildly as the current sweeping through the city. I suddenly wished I wasn’t in such a hurry to close my mission. The thought dampened the splendor around me, and then the sight of two homeless people cocooned in sleeping bags and panels of cardboard reminded me that not all was beautiful in the human world.

  I crossed the bridge over the river that forked around l’Île de la Cité. The tiny island was even more quiet than the neighborhood I’d just left behind. Once I reached the other riverbank, though, there was noise. Not much at first—the occasional car or truck—but then I reached a larger street called Rivoli, and music spilled onto the sidewalk along with small groups of inebriated patrons. I sidestepped them, edging ever closer to a square dotted with lush trees. I scanned the buildings girdling the public garden until I located the stone mansion, which I’d flown from New York, in the middle of the night, to seek out. Although its entrance was shaded by an arcade that ran the length of the sleepy street, my digital map indicated this was Jarod’s headquarters.

  I crossed the road and dipped under the gothic archways toward enormous blood-red doors. If this weren’t a mobster’s domain, I might’ve found the color appealing. Instead, I found it ominous.

  The porte-cochère clicked open, and two men dressed in tuxedos exited. I held perfectly still, trying to blend into the shade of a stone column, but both men noticed me. A lone girl out and about at this hour would surely draw anyone’s eye.

  Where one lost interest fast, the other kept looking. Although his hair was shot through with silver, his skin was smooth. “Vous êtes perdue?”

  My mind translated his words: Are you lost? “Non.”

  His pale blue gaze narrowed on me.

  “Tristan!” his friend called out, drawing open the door of a black chauffeured sedan.

  “I’m looking for Jarod Adler,” I said quickly, hoping the blue-eyed man could somehow help me.

  “What do you want with Jarod?” he asked in French.

  “I’d like to discuss a . . . project.”

  The man smirked. “What an interesting choice of word.”

  Was it? “Could you introduce me to Monsieur Adler?”

  Tristan’s friend grumbled. “Bon, tu viens ou pas?” Are you coming?

  “Non,” Tristan responded, keeping his gaze on me. “I suppose I could introduce you.”

  When his gaze dipped to my breasts, I folded my arms.

  “Well, I’m leaving,” his friend said and shut the car door.

  “Is Jarod awake?” I asked Tristan.

  “Can’t host a party asleep.”

  A party? I supposed that explained Tristan’s fancy attire. “So, this isn’t a bad time to speak with him?”


  “Sweetheart, if Jarod doesn’t want to talk to you, he won’t.” My eyes must’ve gone a little wide because Tristan added, “Relax. He’ll definitely want to talk with you.”

  “What makes you so certain?”

  “He likes pretty, soft things.”

  Was he talking about my cleavage, which he was still ogling, or me as a whole?

  He winked at me. “Come. I’ll take you into the devil’s lair.”

  A chill slunk up my spine. What had I gotten myself into? “I’m not really dressed for the occasion.”

  “Don’t fret about your outfit.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “No one keeps their clothes on for very long beyond these doors.”

  I gulped, which made the man chuckle.

  “I, uh . . .” I clutched my cell phone harder. “I probably should come back later—”

  “Nonsense.” Tristan swung his attention toward an unmarked silver plaque—not a plaque, a buzzer into which he pressed his finger.

  Asher. Celeste. I repeated their names inside my mind until they ran together like watercolors and formed a single one. Asherceleste.

  Chapter 8

  I stepped over the raised threshold and into an enormous paved courtyard centered around a fountain that held the statue of a woman, draped in a one-shouldered gown, spurting water. It was pretty, too pretty, for a mafioso haunt.

  “You’re not here to murder him, are you?” Tristan’s voice made my gaze snap off the fountain.

  “Of course not.” A steady beat filled my ears. At first, I thought it was the sound of my heart, but then, a languid, high-pitched voice mingled with the thumping, and I realized it was music.

  “Just checking. Don’t want to get in trouble with the boss. Should’ve checked sooner but I was . . . distracted.”

  I slid the palm that wasn’t still wrapped around my cell phone over my skirt to rid my skin of its clamminess.

  “You have a slight accent. American?”

  Did I? “Yes.”

  He led the way toward yet another door. “Where in America?”