by Nalini Singh
Illium's voice broke into Dmitri's assessment of the injured angel. "I think our honored second is stalling. Why does the memory of the steel hand in a velvet glove that is Favashi make you gnash your teeth?"
"It's not the memory of Favashi that aggravates me." Dmitri scowled. "It's the memory of my own stupidity." The female archangel had nearly manipulated him into becoming her personal weapon.
Dmitri had no argument with being the blade of the person he loved--he was lethal and there was honor in protecting that which was precious to the heart and the soul. He did have a problem with being used for a fool. "It took me far too long to see through her machinations." He ate another grape. "At least Michaela wears her self-interest and narcissism openly, while Favashi pretends to be kindness and grace while having the soul of a cobra."
Aodhan shook his head. "She did nothing a male archangel wouldn't do in seeking to secure a strong immortal to his court. It is wrong of you to compare her to Michaela."
Dmitri knew Aodhan was right; immortal politics didn't permit any but the ruthless to survive. In truth, Favashi and Michaela had little in common beyond their gender. Yet the whole idea of manipulating strong immortals into service continued to irritate him. "We all serve Raphael of our own free will. You'd think the lesson would be clear."
Hair glittering diamond bright even in the muted light, Aodhan said, "You forget, Dmitri. Raphael is yet considered young. We are an experiment--most of the old ones expect you in particular to rise up and rebel any day now."
Aodhan had always been closest to Illium, Dmitri over five hundred years old when Aodhan was born. So he hadn't realized until now how much he'd missed the angel. Aodhan had always seen the world through an incisive lens, something that was visible in his artwork.
"Sometimes," Dmitri said, "I think I'll never understand angelkind." A thousand years he'd been by Raphael's side--with minor deviations along the way--and still people refused to believe that theirs wasn't only the relationship of an archangel and his second, but a friendship.
"You aren't alone," Aodhan said. "I think some of the old ones have become so insular, so ensconced within their coterie of like-minded friends, that they no longer grow. They are like the butterflies Lijuan kept pinned to her walls."
In contrast, Raphael lived in the center of one of the world's most vibrant cities, his Seven traveled continents on a regular basis, and, critically, both Dmitri and his sire had fallen for extraordinary women whom angelkind did not truly understand.
One old angel had said, "Your wife is beautiful," to Dmitri, a puzzled look on his face. "But why did you marry her? Would she not have served better as a concubine?"
The only reason Dmitri hadn't ended the other man's life then and there had been the true confusion in the question. The angel had no comprehension of love, and that was a tragedy so terrible, Dmitri could offer no harsher punishment. Love had savaged him once, but it had also given him the greatest joys of his life.
The memory of his children's sweet faces might be painful beyond bearing, but no evil could ever steal the tender joy that was the sensory echo of holding them in his arms, of Misha's laughter and Caterina's gurgling smile. And then had come Honor, bringing with her an incandescent light.
"I think you're right about the hidebound old ones," he said to the angel across from him. "Now, Sparkle, are you intending to move or do you concede defeat?"
Aodhan was, in many ways, the most even-tempered of all the Seven. So when he looked up with eyes glowing and power crackling at his fingertips, it was an unexpected sight. Especially given the lighthearted provocation. Then the angel smiled slowly and moved a single piece on the board. "Check. And mate."
Dmitri looked down in disbelief. "No," he said, trying to figure out how Aodhan had pulled off the impossible.
"There, there," said a new voice. "You can beat me and feel better about your skills."
All three of them looked up and muttered various imprecations, Illium's the most creative welcome. Naasir bared his teeth in return, silver eyes reflecting the candlelight.
"How the fuck did you get into the city without alerting any of the sentries?" Dmitri had put the entire security team, as well as the general warrior population, on high alert. This time around, he'd also alerted the Guild to be on the lookout, his respect for their abilities having grown during the course of the battle.
It was all part of a game Naasir had been playing with the others in the Seven for centuries. As a child, when he'd first been brought to Raphael's stronghold, he'd tended to lie in wait below Dmitri's desk or pounce from the top of the bookshelves in the stronghold library, giggling like a maniac when he was found out--or when he captured his "prey."
Naasir had been tiny then, as small as Misha had been when he died. Four in human terms, but he'd lived three decades by then. Still, he'd been a child. A feral one, but a child nonetheless, and the game was one of the few things he did that was free from the rage inside his small body. So Dmitri had let him play, Raphael in agreement with his decision.
As Naasir grew from babe to boy, he'd found it funny to sneak into places where he shouldn't be--on one memorable occasion, he'd decided to infiltrate Lijuan's dining room. He'd apparently been seated at the head of the table pretending to eat a live pet cat when the Archangel of China discovered him. Lijuan, relatively normal back then, had found the incident amusing, and Naasir had escaped with his life.
It had been one of the few times Dmitri had come down hard on him, managing to drum it into his head that Lijuan and the others in the Cadre were dangerous. He'd never forget what Naasir had said to him when Dmitri yelled that he didn't intend to bury another child and that Naasir needed to have a care for his life.
"Am I a person, Dmitri? Will you be sad if I die?"
Hardened and cruel though he'd become, the innocent question had shaken him. "Yes," he'd said, as honest in his answer as Naasir had been in his question. "You are a person. You are Naasir. I'll lose a piece of me if you die and it's a piece I'll never get back."
Naasir had stared at him for a long time before coming over to hug him. "Okay, Dmitri. I'm sorry. I didn't know I was a person before."
As a result of the fact that Naasir had grown up under Dmitri's care, their relationship was unlike the relationship he had with the others in the Seven. Naasir still obeyed his every order, still asked him questions a child might ask a father. Dmitri often thought the sliver of humanity that had survived in him until he found Honor, had survived because of the tiny, feral boy with silver eyes who had pelted out to see him when he returned to the Refuge after an absence.
The same way Misha had run to him after his trips to the market.
It had torn his heart to pieces each time Naasir did the same, but Dmitri had caught him in his arms without fail, unable to bruise the spirit of the wild boy who didn't know that Dmitri was meant to be without heart, without hope.
That boy had never lost his delight in his favorite game.
These days, Naasir liked to sneak into cities and territories. Not only did the penchant make him the best scout in Raphael's forces, but Naasir's abilities were an excellent test of a city's defenses. The fact that it amused him was a bonus.
Coming down to the carpet in a movement as graceful as a cat's, the vampire who wasn't quite a vampire grabbed a large plate that held an entire chicken. "The sentry on the building with the blue lights almost caught me," he said, ripping off a drumstick after sniffing at the meat and making a face. "She's good."
"Do we have holes in our defenses? If so, they have to be immediately plugged."
"Only if the scout is someone better than me."
Dmitri relaxed. Naasir's skills at covert infiltration were unmatched, part of the reason he'd led the small team of saboteurs during the battle. "I just received a message from Janvier." It had come in while he spoke to Aodhan about angelkind's inability to comprehend certain truths. "He's heading this way." The news, the vampire had indicated, was bad.
; "Is his hunter with the Cajun?"
"Not tonight."
Having finished off the drumstick, Naasir crunched the bone in a way that made Illium and Dmitri both wince. "One day," Illium said, "you're going to get a bone shard stuck in your gullet."
Naasir shrugged and tore off the other leg. "Let's play chess."
"Last time we played chess," Illium replied dryly, "you threw the pieces out a Refuge window and down into the gorge."
"I'm better at it now." Naasir growled, but it wasn't anger, simply an emphasis on his words. "Caliane is trying to civilize me."
Having accepted the piece of meat Naasir held out, like a lion sharing with his pride, Illium said, "How is that progressing?"
Naasir gave some meat to Aodhan, too. He never did that with Dmitri because, in his mind, Dmitri was another predator who would be insulted by the offer. Dmitri wondered if Illium and Aodhan realized Naasir saw them as younger cubs who had to be fed by the top predator. He was the same with Venom. Not Jason or Galen, though. Jason, like Dmitri, had been an adult while Naasir was a child. Galen wasn't that much older than Naasir in angelic terms, but the two had never known one another as children.
"I told Caliane that trying to civilize me is like trying to civilize a jungle cat," Naasir said with a shrug. "We pretend to like people until we get hungry and want fresh meat." A glance around, a glint in his eye. "I honestly do like you all. I haven't thought about eating you for at least two centuries."
Aodhan looked at the vampire. "I am relieved," he said in a tone as serious as Naasir's.
"Really, Sparkle?" Naasir moved out of the way with quicksilver speed before Aodhan's very well-aimed bishop would've hit him dead smack in the center of his forehead, the vampire's laughter as wild and gleeful as when he'd been a boy who'd managed to startle Dmitri by grabbing on to his leg under the desk.
Dmitri was rescuing the bishop when Janvier appeared in the doorway. Naasir hauled him into a back-slapping hug, the younger vampire returning the embrace as enthusiastically. When they drew apart, Naasir took a sniff of Janvier. "You smell of our hunter. Where is she?"
"Resting." Janvier's smile faded. "I have some bad news."
13
Ashwini knew she should stay home, sleep, but her body wasn't hurting, while her heart was in agony. After giving Janvier the holster she'd had made for him, she waited until he'd driven off before she left her apartment building again, having arranged to borrow a car from her doorman's cousin as she'd done a couple of times before. She figured the money might as well go to a young couple raising a family as to a rental place.
"Thanks," she said when the stocky blond handed over the keys. "I was planning to jump on the subway to your place, but Nic told me you were already on your way."
"I needed the drive and it wasn't like I was asleep." Yawning, the twentysomething male stretched, bones popping one after another. "Anyway, I better get back home before my wife decides to divorce me for leaving her alone with the baby." A good-natured laugh. "The lungs on her come from her ma, no doubt about it."
Ashwini frowned when he turned to head to the nearest subway station. "Hop in with me," she said. "I'll drop you off on my way out."
He scratched his head. "You sure? You paid for it fair and square--more than fair."
"It won't take me out of my way," she lied. "The company would be nice."
"In that case, I won't say no."
He was good company. Easygoing and besotted with his wife and baby both. Listening to him patter on about the two of them distracted her for the time it took to drive him back to his apartment building. Once there, she saw him stop in front of the stoop to wave up at the silhouette of a woman in a third-story window, her arms rocking a baby.
Ashwini sat there for another minute and she didn't even know why until she saw the silhouette change, mother and child joined by a masculine form, stocky and with arms that went around them both. Wrenching her eyes away from a scene that would never be a part of her own life, she drove off.
It was stupid to do this, she knew that. Once she was outside Manhattan, the drive would take eighty minutes or more there, the same back, and she planned to wake early to attend the autopsy. But a night without sleep wouldn't kill her, and her gut pulsed with the remorseless tug she felt only during the worst episodes, when neither medication nor therapy would fight the monsters. Oddly, Ashwini's voice, reading from a piece of classic literature, had proven the best panacea when things began to go downhill . . . as was happening more and more frequently.
She reached her destination just under an hour and a half later, was welcomed by a familiar nurse, his red hair combed in a simple style. All the senior staff knew Ashwini had permission to visit at any time.
Carl's face made it clear her instincts hadn't let her down. "How bad?" she asked.
"Most severe end of the scale."
"Did anyone unauthorized go into the room?"
Shaking his head, Carl said, "I double-checked. The episodes are simply getting worse, Ash."
It was a fact she'd admitted to herself three months back. "Have you told Arvi?" Unlike her, he refused to face the truth even a blind man could see.
"Yes. He's here, but you know your voice is the only one that seems to help." Blue eyes sad against the freckled paleness of his skin, he spread his hands, palms out. "I would've called you, but it was so late and with your injury . . ."
"It's all right, Carl." Leaving the nurse at his station, she strode down the thick gray carpet of the hallway toward the corner suite, the walls around her hung with elegant pieces of art, and the arched window at the end reaching the floor. It allowed sunlight to pour in during the day while showcasing the hedge maze that was part of the extensive gardens.
Tonight it revealed only stygian darkness.
The book was waiting for her on the little hallway table beside the closed door, the soundproofing so good that she couldn't hear anything beyond it.
Arvi sat on a chair beside the table. His head was in his hands, his shoulders slumped and the white of his business shirt stretched across the breadth of them. He'd always seemed so big to her, larger than life. Yet he was only a man, a man who was in pain. She went to reach out, closed her hand into a fist before she could make contact.
Turning, she picked up the book . . . and Arvi's hand closed over her wrist, the leather of her jacket insulating her from the skin-to-skin contact that might have plunged her into her brother's life and his secrets against her will. Chest thick with a thousand unsaid things, she shifted to look at him.
When his shoulders shook, a harsh sound escaping his throat, she turned completely and held his head against her stomach as he cried. Her own tears were locked up inside her, knotted up with fear and anger and loss. But she held Arvi as he cried, her strong, determined older brother who couldn't fix this one thing that had changed everything.
The past. The present. The future.
Janvier.
He could've been her future in another world, another time, when Arvi's rough tears didn't hold pure heartbreak and the knots inside her weren't formed of a terrible, inevitable truth. Because Ashwini would never permit herself to be the one on the other side of the locked door.
No matter what.
*
Raphael walked downstairs long past midnight, his city swathed in a moonless and velvet dark while his consort lay peacefully in their bed. She'd been sleeping with her hand over his heart until he left. Though Elena had gone to bed tired but happy and he didn't expect the nightmares to find her, he didn't like to leave her in the twilight hours. However, Dmitri had made direct contact, and his second didn't interrupt Raphael at such times for trivialities.
A woman is dead, Dmitri had told him, and her body bears hints of Lijuan's hand. Janvier is on his way to the Enclave to give you a report.
Icy fury filled Raphael at the thought of the archangel who'd sought to harm his people in her lust for power. He wanted no taint of her in his territory. That thought uppe
rmost in his mind, he turned at the bottom of the steps and made his way to the library.
The man who stood facing the sliding glass doors that looked out to the Hudson, and beyond it, the million pinpricks of light that was Manhattan, held himself like a fighter, his stance light. He wore a white T-shirt and over it, a holster that crisscrossed his back. That holster wasn't the weathered brown one Raphael had previously noted; the supple leather of this was golden in color, the blades it held distinctive.
Those blades had been lethal in combat.
Raphael was well aware that Janvier, along with Naasir and Ashwini, had done far more behind enemy lines than was known even among their own troops. The three had a way of making it all seem a game, not to be taken seriously. A number of their actions during the battle might have appeared foolish to others, but he'd seen the strategic calculation behind it--distracting, annoying, or frustrating the enemy at a critical juncture could be as deadly a strike as a cleaving blow with a sword.
Turning the instant Raphael stepped into the room, Janvier put his hands behind his back, his stance altering to that of a soldier with his liege. "Sire."
"Janvier."
The other man didn't dally, giving him a crisp, clean report of the night's discovery. "While the final state of the victim's body hints at Lijuan," he added, "the scars and bruises point to long-term abuse.
"As it is, we all know Lijuan can't have regenerated already. Even if she had, she'd hardly be interested in prowling the streets, attacking pets and women--but I also can't see Lijuan sharing this particular power."
Raphael had witnessed Lijuan fly apart into a thousand shards and, regardless of her attempts to convince the world that she was a goddess, he was certain she needed her physical body. He'd injured that body multiple times during the battle and the only reason she'd been able to so quickly erase the wounds was because she'd fed on the life force of her soldiers.
And for that, she'd needed her mouth.
Even an archangel couldn't regenerate the mouth without first regenerating the brain and all the systems of the body that kept that brain alive. Lijuan wasn't dead, of that he was in no doubt, but neither was she a goddess. It would take her considerable time to repair her physical form, especially taking into account that he'd obliterated her using a combination of wildfire and angelfire.