Feather (Angels of Elysium Book 1)

by Olivia Wildenstein

  Her boy. Had she had sexual relations with an angel? “Is he . . . yours?”

  Her forehead grooved. “I raised him from the time he slipped out of his mother, screeching at the top of his little lungs, so yes, in a way . . . in many ways, I consider him mine.”

  “You were there at his birth?”

  “Mikaela decided to have it at home, and I assisted the midwife.”

  How was this possible? How could a fallen angel create life in her womb? Was it a fluke, or was what I’d been told about Nephilim untrue?

  It must’ve been a fluke, because Ophanim didn’t lie.

  Mikaela. I rolled her name around on my tongue. “Was she a good mother?”

  Muriel’s pupils eddied. “There’s a bite to the air tonight.” She tightened the belt on her blackberry-colored cashmere bathrobe. “How about we continue this discussion over a tisane?”

  I desperately wanted to say yes, but remembering the late hour and my manners, I said, “You’d surely rather return to bed.”

  “And I will. After our tisane.” She smiled. “Come.”

  I trailed her back down to the marble foyer and through a door carved into the wall beside the base of the stairs. A narrow passageway opened onto a pantry organized around an oval table cinched by six metal chairs and a wall of glass cupboards filled with fine china.

  Muriel pulled a kettle off its base and filled it in the copper sink.

  “Can I help?” I asked.

  “Just take a seat, chérie.”

  I pulled out one of the chairs, its legs grinding against the yellow tiles beneath it. As the water heated, Muriel extricated a polka-dot porcelain teapot from a cupboard, then bent over a drawer filled with colorful canisters. She selected a yellow tin box festooned with lavender lines.

  “Do you like chamomile?”

  “I like everything.”

  Smiling, she popped the top off the box, poured dried buds into a strainer, then grabbed two teacups with the same polka-dot pattern as the pot, and set everything on the table. As the tea steeped, she went back for a large round tin. She removed the lid, and a buttery aroma wafted straight into my stomach.

  “Chocolate sablés,” she said. “I made them this morning.”

  I dipped my hand inside the tin and fished out a cookie. When I bit into it, I swore I could hear the arias twittered by our rainbow-winged sparrows. I committed its taste to memory to conjure it up in Elysium. Perhaps, my diet would consist of only chocolate shortbread and macarons.

  I must’ve moaned, because Muriel smiled as she poured the tea.

  “I cannot think of any word to describe how incredible these are.” The hard, crumbly treat melted on my tongue.

  “They’re my grandmother’s recipe. I could teach you how to make them?”

  “I would love that,” I said before remembering I’d be gone by tomorrow. I curled my fingers over the warm porcelain. “I mean maybe. I’m not sure I’ll be allowed back inside this house anymore.”

  Muriel lifted her cup and blew on the billowing steam. If she was curious as to why I’d be barred from the Court of Demons, she didn’t ask.

  “So . . .” I said. “Mikaela?”

  “Ah, Mikaela. She was a”—her cheek dimpled as though she were biting the inside of it—“complicated woman. One day, she’d be giddy with happiness, the next, she’d hide out in her bedroom. Jarod’s uncle referred to her as bipolar, but I believe her mood swings were rooted in something deeper . . . something from her childhood. She rarely spoke about it, but right after Jarod’s father passed, she contracted this fever that lasted days. As I sponged her forehead and administered medication, she would moan that they’d taken her wings and hadn’t that been enough? Why had they taken the man she loved?

  “She rambled on about a place called Elysium and then about another called Abaddon.” She took a sip of her tea. “It’s one of the names for Hell,” Muriel explained, thankfully mistaking my shock for confusion. “It was at this point that I realized she must’ve incurred a strict religious upbringing. Perhaps, in a convent? I tried to find out, but she would drift in and out of consciousness, and after her feverish episode, she was never quite the same.

  “Jarod was four then. Even though his uncle and I tried to shield him, he became a quiet child, kept to himself. Some days, I’d find him curled against his mother; others, I’d find him sitting on the floor of his closet, hugging his knees against him.” She took another sip, then set her cup down. “Monsieur Isaac—his uncle,” she added in case I didn’t know the man’s name. “He told me to move into Jarod’s apartments since Mikaela had become quite incapable of caring for her son. They lived in the right wing of the house.” She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, probably to indicate where the right wing was.

  “It’s not the wing he lives in now?”

  “No. He took over Monsieur Isaac’s apartments.”

  Apartments? Is that how they called bedrooms here in Paris?

  “Night after night, Jarod and I would fall asleep in separate beds, but morning after morning I’d wake up to his tiny body snuggled against mine.”

  My chest tightened as I imagined Jarod as a child, clinging on to what little warmth and stability he could find.

  “Monsieur Isaac walked in once and flew into a rage about how I’d defiled the propriety of his family. He ordered me to return to my service apartment. Jarod cried for twenty-four hours straight. He cried until Monsieur Isaac came to my room to fetch me and ordered me back into Jarod’s.” A smile stretched over her lips, as though she still savored winning that battle.

  “His mother was still alive then?”

  “She was, but once her husband passed away, she became a ghost in this house, existing but not truly there.”

  Had her husband passed to our world or had he been a Triple like Jarod? And what of Isaac?

  I poured myself some more tea. “I heard Jarod was the one to find her the day she . . . the day she died.” I drank even though the buds had steeped so long the ochre liquid had turned bitter.

  Muriel’s eyes gleamed, but I couldn’t tell if it was with sadness or anger. “We’d just returned from the park where he’d made a friend, Tristan—Jarod didn’t spend much time around children, so this was momentous for him.” Her lips softened before pursing, creating rays of tiny wrinkles around them. “He ran up the stairs to tell his mother, and I chased after him, because he hadn’t removed his shoes, which were full of sand.” Tapping the tabletop with her fingertips a few times, she heaved a deep sigh. “Mikaela was . . . she was”—Muriel inhaled slowly—“bleeding. Profusely. I ran down to call for help. When Amir, Monsieur Isaac, and I made it back upstairs, Jarod’s hands were”—she shuddered—“they were covered in blood.” She closed her eyes, her wrinkles deepening. “And Mikaela had stopped breathing.”

  My saliva turned thick as plaster in my throat. “He told me he killed her.”

  Muriel’s lids flipped open. “He did no such thing!”

  I jerked at her tone.

  “I’m sorry, Leigh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you, but I hate that he still believes he’s to blame. I hate that he still thinks removing the knife was the reason she bled out.” She huffed, fiddling with the collar of her robe. “Leaving it in wouldn’t have kept her heart beating.”

  Even though I’d sensed he wasn’t to blame for his mother’s death, hearing Muriel confirm it loosened the tension coiled around me.

  “After that, Jarod was never the same. Not that anyone expected him to come out unscathed. Who would? He’d never been a sound sleeper, but his night terrors grew so terrible he never slept through a single night. Still doesn’t. Monsieur Isaac told me I shouldn’t worry. That our boy—and yes, I say our, because Jarod had become very much ours by then—”

  “Sounds like he was always yours.”

  Her taut lips relaxed a fraction. “Monsieur Isaac and I were the ones to raise him. Even when his parents were alive, they weren’t very involved. When he wail
ed at night, I would rock him, and when that didn’t settle him, I’d take him out in his pram and roll him back and forth across the cobblestones until the dips and bumps eased him to sleep.” Her eyes glistened at the memory. “Monsieur Isaac, he took care of Jarod’s education. Taught him to read, write, count, reflect. Monsieur Isaac wasn’t known for his patience, and yet with Jarod”—her smile added some brightness to her haggard face—“he had an endless supply. He would’ve moved mountains for that boy.”

  “Jarod respected him very much.”

  “He did. He respected him. Loved him. Trusted him. And Jarod doesn’t trust many people, Leigh.”

  “I suppose I wouldn’t either if I’d lived through what he did.”

  “Especially women,” she added, holding my gaze.

  “Except you.”

  “Except me.”

  She kept watching me, and the intensity of her gaze made me dip my gaze to the yellow surface of the tea.

  “Do you know that he’s never dined in a tête-à-tête with a woman?”

  I studied the pattern of blue dots on my cup until they began to superimpose. “Probably because he doesn’t like food.”

  She leaned forward in her chair. “No, he just doesn’t like the company of most women.”

  “He doesn’t much like my company, Muriel.”

  “I don’t believe that.” She placed her dry palm over my hand. “He’s never let a woman venture upstairs either.”

  I studied her knuckles that were as fine as her fingers. I didn’t want to sully the image Muriel had of Jarod, so I didn’t share the reason he’d had for herding me into his bedroom. I didn’t tell her that it had been to make me squirm.

  “He hates my beliefs. Hates what I am,” I said instead. Which didn’t surprise me now that she’d told me about the only other celestial example he’d had.

  She released my hand, dragging hers back across the table. “What you are?”

  Heat snaked into my neck and cheeks. Why couldn’t I have picked other words? Or spoken none at all for that matter? “I have a strong faith, and he hates it.”

  “Jarod abhors religion—every religion.”

  “And I understand, but not all pious people are the same.” I supposed my wings hadn’t been a very convincing factor in this argument. I bet he hated all winged creatures, be they butterflies or angels. I drained my cup, then pushed away from the table and stood. “Thank you, Muriel. For the talk, the tea, the cookies, the kindness.” I tried to fit a smile onto my lips, but it wouldn’t hold. “He’s lucky to have someone like you in his life. You’re a saintly woman.”

  She tipped her head up and watched me. Even though Jarod wasn’t biologically hers, there was something in the way they observed a person that was very much alike—a quiet, profound surveillance, as though they were looking at the soul instead of the envelope encasing it.

  “To love isn’t saintly . . .” she said at last. “To love is natural. Have you ever loved someone?”

  Eve surged inside my mind. She’d known Jarod was an impossible case, which was why she’d suggested him. Had she known why? Had her archangel mother imparted classified information to make sure her daughter didn’t waste her time?

  My lips must’ve puckered because Muriel said, “No one?”

  I thrust Eve into a dusky recess. “The girl you met yesterday. Celeste. She’s like a sister to me.”

  “What about parents?”

  “I don’t know them.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “A parental figure, then?”

  “I had many teachers. Most were nice.”

  She watched me in that silent way of hers again. “It’s late. You should sleep here tonight.”

  I could just imagine Jarod’s expression if he returned and found me in his home. He’d probably say, See, you’re incapable of leaving. It probably shouldn’t have made me smirk, but for some reason, that reason surely being extreme exhaustion and moderate immaturity, it did.

  “Celeste will worry if I don’t come home,” I ended up saying.

  Since I was twenty, the Ophanim no longer cared about my whereabouts.

  I’d never realized how alone I was, and that realization erased my smirk. I’d always believed belonging to a community was enough, but a community wasn’t the same as a family.

  Muriel, whom I hadn’t even noticed getting up, wrapped me in a hug. “You’re a sweet girl.”

  Sighing, I nestled my chin in the crook of her shoulder and let the sweet-butter scent clinging to her cashmere robe ease the residual tightness in my chest. What would it have been like to sneak into someone’s bed after a nightmare instead of having to self-soothe by counting the stars in the elysian firmament?

  “Come by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll teach you how to make sablés.”

  “I’d really love to, but I can’t,” I said, extricating myself from her arms.

  “Then, the day after.”

  “Muriel, I . . . I can’t come back. Jarod wouldn’t want me to.”

  She frowned.

  Before she could ask me for an explanation or challenge my assertion, I strode out of the little pantry through the cool marble foyer and burst into the courtyard with its ruined angel. I finally understood why the little boy had maimed her. How I wished I could show him we weren’t all like Mikaela, but he would never be receptive.

  Besides, I needed to move on before I ran out of time to complete my wings. I had no desire to become a Nephilim.

  I bit my lip and was still denting the fleshy tissue when I exited onto the street and someone called out, “Mademoiselle!”

  Chapter 28

  Jarod’s white-haired driver held the door of the sedan open for me. “Monsieur Adler asked me to see you home.”

  My heart, which had become lodged in my throat when Francis had called out to me, began its slow pilgrimage back into my rib cage.

  Was Jarod afraid I wouldn’t leave if someone didn’t physically extract me from his territory? That was probably it. What else could it be? Concern for my safety? I snorted. Jarod Adler was most certainly no longer concerned for my safety.

  Even though owing Jarod any more than I already did was unappealing, walking home in the dead of the night in a pair of stilettos was even more so.

  “Merci,” I said, sliding into the back seat.

  The door made a quiet suctioning noise as it sealed me into a space that smelled of crisp leather but also of Jarod. I rested my cheek against the headrest and watched the moonlit street, wondering where he’d gone off to in the middle of the night. Was it to visit a woman and lose himself in the pleasures of the flesh? I suddenly damned my passion for romance novels for instilling images I would never have thought of had I read celestial texts instead. I shut my eyes, but that spurred my imaginings, so I pried my lids up and focused on the city that glistened like labradorite.

  As we neared the guild, I caught a poster advertising bank loans with two-hundred-euro bills printed all over it, and my mind zipped right back to the sinner I was trying to forget. We weren’t allowed to take anything from humans they didn’t willingly give us, and even though he’d insisted I keep his money, he’d said it after the deed, failing to unbind me from my celestial obligation. I couldn’t afford to lose another feather.

  Could I give the cash to his driver? Would he pay Jarod back?

  I felt a niggle in my shoulder blade as though a shaft were loosening already. Sighing, I decided to visit him tomorrow. I needed sleep to recover from all that had happened and a shower to wash off the grime and blood.

  After thanking Francis for the lift, I walked to the guild, arms wrapped around myself for warmth.

  The guild was calm at this hour. Only the sparrows roosting in pairs on the Atrium fountains disrupted the silence with their honeyed cooing. One of them launched into song upon spotting me, and then the others followed suit. The melody grew, dispelling some of the chilliness in my bones.

  Had these celestial creatures not been so skittish, I would’ve held ou
t a finger for them to perch on, but they weren’t fond of human contact.

  A little like Jarod.

  I sighed, listening to them a while longer before making my way toward the fire-lit quartz hallway, wishing the stone had the power to melt the lingering ice in my veins. As I passed by the last fountain, I thought of the one in La Cour des Démons, and instead of making me sad, it incensed me.

  It was unfair that Jarod had been saddled with a skewed knowledge of us.

  It was unfair that his number could never drop, because the Ishim thought he’d killed a Nephilim.

  I spun on my heels and changed directions. In the Channel, I yelled, “I request an audience with Seraph Asher.”

  And then I waited, clutching my elbows.

  I had no idea how long it would take my message to reach Elysium. I stared into the beam of pure light until my eyes stung. I supposed the archangel wasn’t at my beck and call, but he’d have to show, right? Or would he send an emissary to tell me he was otherwise engaged? I began to pace, wishing I could scale the wall of the Channel and access Elysium.

  I’d never questioned our rules, but at that moment, I began to find fault in them. Why were we separated from our parents? Why were we kept in guilds in the human dimension? Why did we have to relinquish our wings if we wanted to live among humans? On Earth, we aged, perhaps slower, but still our faces wrinkled and our flesh sagged.

  I understood that laws were indispensable to the smooth functioning of a society, but how many of ours still made sense? Hadn’t we—our people and our world—evolved?

  “Leigh?”

  My name made me snap around. Asher stood in his leathers, turquoise wings retracting.

  “I thought Nephilim couldn’t have children,” I said on a single breath.

  The tendons in his biceps pinched. “You thought correctly.”

  “Yet Jarod Adler’s mother was a Nephilim. Which means he’s a hybrid. Which explains why he can see us.”

  Asher remained silent.

  “How is that possible, Seraph?”

  His jaw clenched, and I worried he’d be as elusive as earlier. But I was wrong to worry. His expression softened. “We believe Mikaela was with child before she was stripped of her wings, and by some miracle, the embryo held on.”