Archangel's Legion gh-6

by Nalini Singh

  No smile now, tension in that flawless jawline. “You have no right to make judgments of me.”

  “You gave me that right when you flew into my city and attempted to fly into the arms of my consort.” She folded her own arms, having secreted away her knife before first speaking to Tasha. “You should know the latter is an impossibility.”

  “You’re very certain of yourself for a mortal.”

  Elena didn’t correct her on the whole mortal issue. As far as she was concerned, it wasn’t an insult. “If I’m certain of one thing, it’s that I love Raphael and he loves me,” she said simply, that truth the very foundation of her life.

  “Yes, there is that, isn’t there.” A dazzling smile. “I’m sorry if I’ve caused any discomfort. I’ll remain in the city to assist in any way I can in the coming battle.”

  “One of my people will escort you to the guest quarters,” Raphael said.

  “Thank you.” Stepping out with those quiet words, the other woman made a flawless takeoff into the midnight sky, a younger angel falling into flight with her.

  “She thinks I’m ridiculous,” Elena said, eyes narrowed, “and that you’ll fall for her soon enough.”

  “Do you believe the same, Guild Hunter?”

  “I believe if Tasha continues sniffing around, I may get annoyed enough to slice off her wings—while smiling sweetly, of course.”

  “Of course.” He opened his arms, and she walked into them without hesitation. “My beautiful, fierce, bloodthirsty Elena,” he murmured into her hair, a smile in his voice. “Tell me about these velvet arrows. I am quite fascinated.”

  Laughter bubbling out of her, she rose on tiptoe to kiss that smiling mouth and knew that, as with the bloodstorm, Tasha and her ilk had no weapons that could ever sever the connection between her and her archangel.

  * * *

  The world was swathed in the heavy dark of early morning when Raphael went up to the Tower suite he shared with Elena, not tired, but wanting the touch of his consort, their kiss earlier the only contact they’d had. He needed more, needed to drench himself in the life and warmth of Elena, parts of him yet raw from the icy power that had sought to infiltrate his body.

  He’d have fought the urge had his senior angels not all reported in to say they believed they’d contained the reborn threat in their regions, though they’d do further sweeps to make certain. Manhattan, too, was calm, and with three of his Seven at the Tower, he could be assured nothing would slip through the cracks should he step away for an hour or two. Right now, it was Aodhan who stood lead in the operations center–turned–war room, with Illium as backup.

  Elena was asleep facing the center of the bed when he arrived. Stripping, he slid in and tucked her close. She sighed, threw her leg over him in an unconscious possessiveness that made his tension melt away, and didn’t stir again. Stroking the fluid muscle of her thigh, he was considering how most pleasurably to rouse her when there was a knock on the doorway of his mind.

  Sire.

  Sliding out without disturbing his hunter, he pulled on a pair of black pants before walking out onto the balcony off the bedroom. His spymaster whispered out of the shadows, midnight wings folded tight to his back.

  “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.” He slid the mirrored door quietly shut behind him to block the cold from getting in, Elena’s body yet sensitive to the bitter temperatures.

  “I find I am eager to return home.”

  “Mahiya is now at the Tower.” Part of Raphael’s power came from his Seven, and Charisemnon was underhanded enough to attack that which each male held most dear in order to break them down. In Jason’s case, that position was occupied by the princess he’d brought home from Neha’s land. “I did it for her protection, but it’ll be more dangerous here very soon,” he pointed out. “I give you leave should you wish to move her to a safer location.”

  “Our place is here,” Jason said without hesitation. “My Mahiya wouldn’t wish to be stowed out of harm’s way while her friends and family fought.”

  Elena, Raphael remembered, had said exactly the same about Jason’s princess, his consort and the other woman having formed a budding friendship. “What news do you bring?” he asked, accepting his spymaster’s decision without question, for his Seven knew their own minds—and he was dead sure Jason spoke Mahiya’s true opinion. His spymaster and the princess had quickly become an impregnable unit.

  “While Lijuan has always been treated as a demigoddess by her people,” Jason said, the swirls and curves of his facial tattoo barely visible in the dim light, “she now truly believes herself a god. Furthermore, she has begun to regard the others in the Cadre as lesser.”

  “Caliane?”

  “Her position on the Ancient remains unknown, but my instinct is that she plans to ignore your mother until she believes her power has developed to the point where she can kill Caliane in a single engagement. Though,” Jason added, “I have no doubt that you are right in your request of your mother—should Caliane leave Amanat vulnerable, Lijuan would strike at once and with vicious fury.”

  Raphael nodded. “My ability to harm Lijuan threatens her delusion of godhood.” That understanding eliminated any hope of a peaceful resolution. “Her offensive forces?”

  “On the verge of leaving her territory. If she uses both modern means and winged flight to get them here, she’ll be ready to strike within the next four to five days.”

  “I think it’s time to recall Naasir.” His mother wouldn’t need the vampire while Amanat was safe under her shield, and Naasir was a berserker fighter on the ground. Then there were his more subtle talents, every one of which would be needed with so many of their winged fighters out of commission. “The question is, do I recall Galen and the Refuge squadron?” His weapons-master would be a lethal asset in combat, but it would leave Venom alone to protect Raphael’s Refuge stronghold.

  “With her delusions of being a deity,” Jason pointed out, “Lijuan may not feel she needs to obey the rule that places the Refuge out of bounds of war. We can’t risk her viewing your stronghold as a weak target.”

  “You’re right.” Especially since Lijuan and Charisemnon might not be the only threats. Every archangel had forces in the Refuge—pulling Galen and the squadron could well make Raphael’s stronghold too tempting a target for one of the others. Not only that, but the people who looked to him in the Refuge would see any such move as an abandonment, while still others would interpret it as a sign of weakness. And the fall of the stronghold would demoralize his Tower troops, for many had family within those walls.

  No, Galen, Venom, and the squadron must remain to guard against a possible Refuge strike. Raphael would have access to Galen’s warrior mind, and Venom’s slyly inventive one, through the constant communications link between the Tower and the Refuge stronghold.

  Jason, Naasir, Illium, Dmitri, and Aodhan, they were a formidable force. He knew each would fight with the fury of a thousand ordinary fighters. But as he’d pointed out to Elena, Lijuan, too, had men and women of power by her side. Even with the assistance Elijah had pledged, Raphael’s troops would have to fight with cunning and intelligence to balance the enemy’s greater numbers and strength.

  That, however, was a conversation that didn’t have to take place right this instant.

  “Go to your princess, Jason,” he told his spymaster. “We’ll talk of the rest come dawn.”

  He felt the door open at his back even as Jason took off in silence, a winged piece of the night, and turned to hold out his arm. A sleepy-eyed Elena came into his embrace, the satin of her robe cool against his skin. “Jason?”

  Enclosing her in his wings to protect her from the cold, he said, “He brought the news we expected.”

  The sleep faded from her expression as he told her what Jason had shared. “I know this is a fight between immortals,” she said, “but I think you’d be remiss not to accept those from the Guild who want to join in the defense. This is a Guild city, too, home of ou
r HQ.”

  Raphael had, in truth, not thought of the hunters, dismissing the mortals from the field of battle as too weak, too easily broken. As Elena had once been broken . . . but before that, she’d fought with such heart as even an archangel couldn’t fault.

  “Ask Sara to join us in the war room tomorrow morning—she can disseminate the news to her hunters.” He paused. “Ask Deacon, too.” The mortal male was a genius with weaponry, could well come up with innovative strategies on how they could best utilize the weapons at their disposal.

  “Can we go out, meet Lijuan’s forces midway?” Elena asked, thinking like the warrior she was. “Rather than letting them hit the city, I mean.”

  “Dmitri, Galen, and I gave the option serious consideration, but with our forces weakened, we’re already in a compromised position. Should our people fall in battle over the sea, we may not be able to retrieve them in time.” Meaning loss after loss. “Inside Manhattan, in comparison, we can set up a defensive perimeter, giving us a secure base from which to launch our attacks.”

  “What about the rest of the city?”

  “I don’t think this is about sacking New York or causing carnage. Lijuan wishes to display her power—to do that, she needs to take the Tower and either kill or subjugate me to her will.” Soft, heavy snowflakes hitting his wings. “Inside.”

  Not arguing, Elena walked in and, dropping the robe, jumped under the comforter.

  He kicked off his pants and slid in beside her, running his knuckles from her breastbone to her navel. “To reduce the number of possible casualties, I’ll be ordering the evacuation of all humans except Guild personnel who wish to stay.”

  Her eyes widened. “All of Manhattan? How can that be done?”

  “Illium has taken the lead in the planning and tells me he foresees no problems.”

  “Some people won’t want to leave.”

  “They won’t have a choice.” Cupping her between the legs without warning, he caught her gasp with his kiss. “Enough talk of battle. Right now, I need my consort.”

  The stark statement melted Elena’s bones. Closing her fingers over his nape as her flesh grew warm and damp against his fingers, she tugged him down for a slow, sipping kiss, as if they were two people on a first date . . . but for the fact that he had his hand between her legs, and his thumb was brushing across her clit in a slow, erotic tease.

  Wrapping her leg over his hip, she played her fingers through his hair and continued to kiss him soft and sweet. “Come inside me,” she whispered, needing the intoxicating physical connection.

  He removed his hand to shift over her, his wings spread in magnificent display. “You are wet for me, hbeebti.” It was an intimate murmur in the dark, the blunt head of his cock pressing against her sensitive entrance.

  “So wet for you.” She shivered as he began to push inside her, thick and hard and insistent, her hands splaying on the tensile muscle of his back.

  One arm braced beside her head, the hand of his other possessive on her breast, he molded her flesh with erotic confidence and continued to push inside. The intense slide of heated steel across her delicate tissues made her moan, her back arching.

  He paused the inexorable pressure to claim a kiss, his tongue tasting her deep, before holding her gaze and thrusting the final thick inch into the tight clasp of her body. They both shuddered, locked together as close as two bodies could get—then his mouth touched her throat and her lips his shoulder, as his hand slid off her breast to caress her thigh.

  It was a slow, tender dance, their bodies rocking together as they kissed and touched and murmured to one another in the dark. “Knhebek, Archangel,” she said at the end, pleasure a languorous ripple in her blood and her lover’s skin rough heat over her own.

  “Elena.” The masculine groan made her clench around his cock, the hot pulse of his seed marking her in a primal claim.

  Wanting to watch his pleasure, she lifted her lashes . . . and felt her breath leave her lungs in a rush, Raphael’s wings edged by an intensely beautiful flicker of haunting white fire.

  38

  The next day, after a three-hour warning to permit people to gather what they needed, angels hovered over every major route out of Manhattan as an army of cops made sure residents left in an orderly fashion. Normally, the Tower didn’t mess with the civilian force made up of mortals and vampires, but, as with everything else in this territory, the organization fell ultimately under Raphael’s authority, and he’d exercised his power.

  Not that the police officers were averse to what they were being asked to do. One of Elena’s cop friends had put it best: “After our briefing this morning about the hurt Lijuan’s planning to bring down on the Tower, and seeing those fucking nasty reborn things scuttling on the pier, I wouldn’t want my family in Manhattan.”

  The cops’ next task would be to maintain order in the surrounding boroughs and make certain no one crossed back into Manhattan.

  Fear lingered an acrid taint in the air during the evacuation, but the sight of grim-faced angels overhead and equally lethal vampires on watch in the evacuated parts of the city meant no one stepped out of line—especially after Illium picked up a pair who had thought to burglarize an empty building and dumped them into the freezing waters of the Hudson. He left them there for the maximum survivable time, their eyes panicked and lips blue.

  “Next time,” the message went out, “we will not retrieve those consigned to the water.”

  There were no further incidents.

  Jeffrey, Elena was glad to see, moved his family—including Beth—out by helicopter the first day. Beth, by contrast, was hysterical when she called Elena that afternoon. “What if Harrison dies?” her sister sobbed.

  Elena didn’t lie; she didn’t say any one of them would make it out of this alive. Instead, she reassured Beth that the city’s defenses were strong, the evacuation a precaution. After hanging up, her sister marginally calmer, she returned to the young angelic squadron to which she’d been attached, their task to assist in the evacuation of the city’s most vulnerable.

  Not strong enough to carry sick adults or older children across to hospitals outside Manhattan, she carried bundled-up babies and toddlers. The latter, despite their illnesses, grinned throughout each flight, not a lick of fear in their expressions. “Can we do that again?” a four-year-old asked when they landed, his cheeks bright red because he’d wanted to face the wind the entire time, despite her attempts to shelter him.

  Bending down to hug his thin body, the IV port on his left hand appearing far too harsh for his delicate skin, she said, “Yes,” and hoped it was a promise she’d be alive to keep. “After we fight the bad people, I’ll come back and see you again.”

  Then she passed him to the care of the nurse who waited, and she returned to carry across another child, the ambulances—road and air—reserved for those who needed the support of medical machinery. Tower, Guild, police, and corporate choppers were all pooled into the effort, while hunters drove the elderly, and those others who required special assistance, from point to point.

  Most evacuees had friends and family with whom they could stay, and still others were invited in by kind neighbors in surrounding areas. However, for those who found themselves homeless, emergency services—acting in concert with the Tower—had set up temporary but snug housing facilities on Tower-owned land in nearby areas. The latter had been done well before the evacuation was announced, which spoke to the precision planning behind the entire operation.

  Elena had never seen any evacuation proceed with such speed and lack of trouble—but then again, this was the evacuation of a healthy city into equally healthy areas. No natural disaster had blocked supply lines, damaged roads, or hit the workforce.

  Forty-eight hours after it began, Manhattan was a ghost city.

  Flying above the empty streets, the odd bit of paper fluttering on the pavement and a lone dog looking up at her, Elena felt a shiver crawl down her spine. The heart of her city was meant
to be loud and noisy and full of people. Not that she believed they’d evacuated every single mortal—it was a sure bet some enterprising souls had managed to avoid the mass departure, but they were hidden ghosts, the landscape desolate.

  Unable to bear passing over the deserted silence of Times Square, she angled to land at one of the air defense stations, the anti-wing guns primed and ready. Not far from her stood Dmitri, his attention on whatever was being said by a pair of vampires who were experts in using the weapon.

  Raphael’s second looked no different from before he’d left the city, his presence darkly sexual with an undertone of deadly violence. But he’d come back with a hunter wife now at work as part of the combined Guild-Tower operations team—Honor wasn’t yet at full strength, but neither was she an ordinary new-Made vampire, her skin brushed with a shimmer of gold, her eyes a luminous jewel green, her mortal beauty honed as sharp as a blade.

  The other hunter had laughed at Elena’s flabbergasted expression when they first came face-to-face. “I know, I know. It was a bit of a shock to me, too.” A deep smile, Honor still Honor. “But hey, I was Made by an archangel and feed solely from a dangerously sexy thousand-year-old vampire.”

  “Is it weird?” The question was one Elena had only felt comfortable asking because Honor was a friend. “The blood drinking?”

  Honor’s honey gold skin had turned a fascinating shade of pink. “Oh, um, no.”

  “Oh, um, no?” Elena had teased, delighted to see Honor so happy after the horror the other woman had survived. “Dmitri clearly gives good . . . blood.”

  “My husband,” a still pink but laughing Honor had said, her words holding an adorable possessiveness, “gives phenomenal . . . blood.”

  Now, the husband in question finished his conversation with the two gunners and strode over. Even dressed in scuffed black boots, jeans of the same black, and a black T-shirt, his attention totally focused on the city’s defenses, no time for the insidious scent games he usually liked to play, there was something about Dmitri that whispered of sex—the bloody, painful kind.