by Nalini Singh
“Funny man. Fingers, neck.”
When he obeyed, she said, “Listen. To your pulse and mine.”
As with most living beings, Raphael wasn’t aware of his pulse in the course of normal day-to-day life. It took him a second to tune in to the sensation. “Our hearts are beating in time.” In perfect synchronicity.
“It can’t happen all the time, or we’d be constantly out of tune with our surroundings.” A kiss pressed to his skin. “Must be a resting-state effect. I like it.” The eyes that lifted to meet his were liquid silver, haunting and immortal.
But her kiss . . . it was Elena. Mortal, courageous, untamed.
She would not be taken by the Cascade, would not be broken. Raphael wasn’t so certain about himself. Because the frigid cold of his new power, it was seeping deeper and deeper into his cells with each day that passed. The more he owned it, the more it became a part of him . . . and the more he had to fight to be Elena’s Raphael.
Yet without that power, he could not make enough wildfire to defeat Lijuan.
For she would rise into her reign of death.
Cassandra had foreseen it. And Cassandra was never wrong.
26
They flew first to Amanat, their plan to rest the night, then head to China in the morning. Because Elena needed to conserve energy, after the Tower jet landed at a major airport in Kagoshima, she got into a helicopter for the rest of the journey to Amanat, while Raphael rode the wind.
The sunlight danced off the fire of her archangel’s wings as they moved over Kagoshima’s green and mountainous landscape. He was far enough not to be affected by the chopper’s blades, close enough to respond should the craft suffer technical difficulties. It didn’t matter how often she saw him fly, she felt the same sense of possessive awe—he was hers and he was magnificent.
“Does it burn?”
Startled, she glanced at the pilot, not sure she’d heard him correctly through the headphones. One of Caliane’s people who’d returned to her after his lady rose again, he’d told Elena he’d spent years flying commercial jetliners before switching to helicopters. His skin was as deep a hue as finest dark chocolate and as smooth as silk.
He was old, this one. Old enough that vampirism had begun to refine his features into a kind of ethereal beauty that no mortal would ever possess. The odd thing was, Dmitri was older, but he remained as hard-edged as always. So could be, the change wasn’t inevitable. Maybe, each vampire subconsciously influenced the shape of their features.
Dmitri, of course, would always want to look like a hard-ass.
“Burn?” she asked, as a family of wild horses raced the shadow of the chopper on the ground.
“The fire on Archangel Raphael’s wings.”
“No.” That was no secret. Little Seth had touched Raphael’s wings, the sight caught on camera by a resident in a nearby building. He’d no doubt find himself the focus of childish curiosity in Amanat, too.
Caliane’s beloved home was no longer a Sleeping city, and its people had begun to have children. The first born would be toddlers by now. Maidens become maids often carried a child propped on their hips, while warriors and others flew babies into the sky to soothe them when they wouldn’t stop crying.
Most of the children were born of mortals or young vampires, but two angels had also recently given birth. As far as Elena was aware, Amanat was the only place outside of the Refuge where you could see angelic children. And that was because it was a closed city. The only people who could penetrate its shield were those welcomed by Caliane.
Raphael’s eyes met hers across the distance that separated them and he pointed down. When she followed his gaze, she found the local band of monkeys waving and hollering up at them from their perches in the forest outside of Amanat. Laughing, she waved in return; she was certain the band recognized her and Raphael.
The cheeky creatures hooted and clapped and no doubt made a racket.
And there, in the distance, was the shimmering shield that encased the jewel of Amanat. It glowed a pink-tinged blue in the soft pre-sunset light, eerie and beautiful. Looking at that symbol of enormous power, Elena was hit by the realization that Caliane could do it all over again—simply disappear into Sleep, taking her people with her.
The chopper began to descend, the landing site within walking distance of Amanat but not so close that the noise would breach the city’s peace.
“Thanks,” Elena said after they were on the ground. “You coming into Amanat with us?”
A slight widening of the pilot’s eyes before he inclined his head and body as much as his harness would allow. “I would be honored to walk together with an archangel and his consort but I will be doing a return trip. Here is my passenger now.”
Walking toward where Raphael had landed was a woman with brunette curls and pearlescent skin. Vampire. No human had skin like that. “She’s definitely not one of Caliane’s maidens.” No filmy gowns or pretty dresses for this woman. She was clad in a razor-sharp black skirt suit paired with spiked red heels, a smartphone to her ear, but the real difference was in the sense of danger that clung to her.
Another old one. Older than Dmitri. So old that she made Elena’s teeth ache.
“It was before my time,” the pilot said, “but legend is that Celesta did enter Caliane’s court as a maiden. Our wise lady soon realized she did not have the temperament for it. She is far better utilized as a huntress.”
“I’m guessing she stayed outside Amanat while the city Slept.”
“Lady Caliane sent Celesta on a hunt before she took the rest of our people into Sleep.” His jaw worked. “She sent me away, too. She has said that we are strong and she knew we would survive without her—I am glad to have grown and come to her with skills needed for this new world, but I would not have her leave me behind again.”
Such devotion . . . it wasn’t so different from what Lijuan’s people felt for her. Elena’s skin prickled. Not at the pilot’s loyalty, at her renewed awareness of how hostile China remained to anyone who would stand against their goddess—even when their goddess made shambling reborn who fed on flesh.
That cold thought chilling her blood, Elena saluted the pilot before she jumped out with her head lowered and ran to join Raphael. Celesta had stopped beside him, was bowing deeply. There was nothing obsequious about it; Caliane’s huntress managed to infuse the act with respect without making herself appear weak.
Spice hit Elena’s nostrils, hints of cinnamon entwined with bark, earthy and hard. Celesta’s scent was shockingly intense, mature in a way that coated the back of Elena’s throat. Archangel, you have any idea of her age?
When I was a boy, Celesta told me stories of my mother’s first court. Out loud, he said, “Why are you bowing to me, Celesta? I distinctly recall you throwing me into a pond to cool down after I indulged in a childish tantrum.”
The huntress’s lips twitched. “It has been many years. I thought perhaps, the archangel you have become would not remember the highly unsuitable babysitter who sometimes watched over you.”
“You are not a woman anyone forgets.” Raphael gripped Celesta’s forearm in the way he did with his warriors.
Smile deepening, the vampire moved into Raphael’s embrace. “Consort,” she said afterward, with another bow. “I welcome you and Raphael to Amanat. My lady awaits.”
“Good hunting.” Elena inclined her head in a way Jessamy had taught her indicated deep respect; she knew that unlike Raphael, she couldn’t simply tell this deadly woman not to bow to her—with an immortal this old, it could be counted as an insult. Better she respond in a way that meant something to Celesta.
Stupid angelic etiquette.
Celesta’s responding smile seemed genuine. “I am presumptuous, but it pleases me that the wild little boy I taught to string his first bow has a fellow hunter for a consort,” she said before continuing on to the chopp
er.
“Why haven’t I met her before?” The earthy darkness of Celesta’s scent clung to the air.
“My mother’s favorite assassin and fixer—I believe that is the mortal’s term—has been in Charisemnon’s court until a half year past.”
Elena’s respect for the other woman took a nosedive. “Oh.”
“Celesta knew her lady would need spies in the most terrible places when she woke.” Raphael tugged on a strand of Elena’s hair. “Why do you think she waited so long to return home?”
The respect blazed again—at twice its original strength. “It’s official. I have a girl crush.” Her eyes turned to the chopper as it lifted off. “She’s got balls of steel if she embedded herself in that den and stayed.” Charisemnon had caused the Falling, killing five of New York’s angels. Not content with that, he’d created a virus that infected and killed vampires.
Raphael’s wings stirred in a susurration of sound. “If you are good, I will tell you bedtime stories of Celesta the Knife.”
As Elena laughed, a voice older than Celesta’s entered his mind. Come home, my son. The hope in it was a painful thing, for he would never again think of Amanat as home. The last link that tied him to his mother’s beloved city had broken as he lay bleeding on a forgotten field far from civilization while his mother walked away, her feet light on the grass speckled with his blood.
We are on our way, he said in response, because as his hunter had pointed out more than once, Caliane was trying. She’d come back sane. And she’d been staunch in her support of Raphael since then.
He knew his consort’s response to Caliane was colored by her own deep grief. Her mother could never come back, could never try to make it up to her. And so his tough consort was far softer on Caliane than Raphael would ever be—he remembered the pain too well, remembered Caliane’s madness as hundreds upon hundreds of tiny graves.
He’d helped dig those graves.
Days spent on a task no angel ever wanted to do, for children were a gift.
Instead of rising into the sky with Elena, he took her hand, and they walked through the waving grasses that separated the landing area from Amanat.
Elena ran the fingers of her free hand across the tips of the grasses. “There’s such beauty here,” she murmured. “Sometimes, I think Caliane has the right of it—just put a bubble around our city and dare anyone to try and get through.”
But she was shaking her head even as she spoke. “Except what about the rest of our people, those scattered across the territory and the world? How could she have left so many behind? Was it because of her madness?”
This, too, was true—that while Elena was soft on Caliane, she saw his mother’s flaws. “I worry, Guild Hunter,” he murmured. “About the madness that took my mother and my father. It is in my blood.” Indelibly a part of him. “There are indications it may be brought to life by the surge in power during a Cascade.”
“Don’t worry, Archangel. I’ll shoot you between the eyes if you show signs of impending psychotic delusions.” The near-white canvas of Elena’s hair was licked with orange-red as the setting sun caressed her, her eyes liquid silver that burned. “Then I’ll drag you to Keir. If he can’t help, you’ll be putting us both into Sleep. I’ll figure out a way to make you.”
“I am most assured.” Lifting their linked hands, he kissed her knuckles, while behind him his wings trailed over the grass, leaving a dance of fire that didn’t scorch.
“I’m serious.” She ran her fingers through his hair, locked her gaze to his. “I’ll never let you fall. We do this together.”
She was a young immortal, with no power when compared to him . . . but he knew she would keep her word, hold him to account, not let the cold of immortal power win. “Always,” he said.
A fierce kiss before she turned her attention to the shield less than fifty meters away. “Shall I?”
“My mother will be most disappointed if you do not.”
A wicked grin. “Also, I want to show off.” Light burst out of her back and in the colors of sunset sparked wings as extraordinary as his consort.
“Elena, they are no longer pure white-gold and lightning.” Color had begun to bleed out into the fire. Black at her back that faded into indigo, deep blue, and the whispered shade of dawn. The same colors as the wings he’d been forced to amputate to save her from further pain—but lightning danced through them now, violent and beautiful.
Instead of looking back to see the change, she touched the fingers of her free hand to his jaw. “No brooding. We survived. And I got retractable wings out of it. I’m not sorry.”
“Neither am I.” If he hadn’t done what he had, made the choices he had, she might not have returned as his Elena, with her own memories and thoughts and emotions. “But I will never forget slicing off your wings.” It would haunt him forever, that image.
“I know it was a fucking nightmare.” Both hands on his face now. “But those wings were dead already. Because of what you did, I was able to turn into a butterfly.” She frowned. “Okay, I suck at metaphors, but you get what I mean.”
“You are a butterfly with warrior’s wings.” He kissed her hard, holding that image in his mind, of her emerging from a chrysalis into a being of beauty and strength.
Light lived under Elena’s skin when they parted.
At last she looked at her wings. “Guess these are my colors and I’m determined to have them.” A satisfied look in her eye, she ran her fingers through the energy.
It was thus, both of them afire, that they walked through the shield and came face-to-face with the woman who was the template from which he’d been cast.
27
Caliane was no longer the oldest Ancient awake in the world—the Cascade had been stirring up many things, including Sleepers who had lain dormant in secret places for eons upon eons—but she was unquestionably one of the two most powerful.
She wore a gown of cerulean blue with bejeweled clips on the shoulders and sleeves that flowed down into cuffs embroidered with delicate care. Her skirts floated to brush the earth, her midnight hair soft waves down her back.
Seeing her this way, regal and elegant, no one would believe that she was a warrior angel. Her voice was renowned in angelkind, but Caliane could make music with her blade, too. The wings of purest white that sloped gracefully down her back were capable of split-second turns and rapid acceleration in battle, and her fighting leathers were as well-worn as his. She had been his first teacher when it came to the sword.
His mother was a woman of many faces, the one she showed him today luminous with maternal warmth. “My son. My Raphael.”
He bent his head and she pressed her lips to his forehead, her hands on his biceps. “My heart sings to hold you thus, to see you standing strong and alive before me.” She turned without warning to take Elena’s face in her hands. His hunter’s hand clenched on his, her body stiff. Caliane had softened toward Raphael’s “most unusual consort,” but she didn’t treat Elena as a mother did her child.
Today, however, she pressed her lips to Elena’s forehead and said, “And you, my son’s heart, I feel joy to see you walk into my city as a warrior once again.” She reached for Elena’s hair, running the short strands through her fingers and examining the tiny feather at the end of one.
“There is nothing I despise more than those who seek to see a strong woman fall.” With that cutting denunciation, she broke contact. “Come, you must be hungry after the journey. We will break bread, and I will tell you what has been happening across the water in China.”
That sounds creepily ominous.
Even more so because my mother isn’t known for being melodramatic. Caliane did not speak in twisted truths and mysterious lies. We knew this wouldn’t be easy—Lijuan is no simple foe.
They followed Caliane deeper into Amanat.
His mother’s city had its own micro
climate, warm and temperate no matter if snow fell outside. Flowers bloomed in window boxes and trailed down walls of aged stone. Lush grasses grew against foundations. Vibrant green vines crawled up the sides of the houses, some blooming with tiny flowers. The colors of Amanat scented its air.
Elena took a suspicious sniff. “I’m in danger of fainting from the fresh air. Where’re my exhaust fumes, my mishmash of cooking smells, that special eau-de-subway?”
“You will endure,” Raphael said solemnly.
“I dunno, it’s strong stuff.” She stepped off the path, her intent to examine a particular vine. Don’t worry. I’ve practiced—no more accidentally putting trees on steroids.
Caliane came to a halt, her expression indulgent when she turned to him. “You will build her a new greenhouse?”
“It was her favorite part of our home.” Even more than her weapons, Elena cherished her plants. Today, she shifted away from the vine to say something to a passing maiden . . . and the vine began to bloom. Not in huge bursts, but in small, secretive flickers.
Caliane went motionless, the utter stillness of a very old being. “More secrets, Raphael?” A chill in the air.
Raphael made a decision at that moment—whatever her flaws, Caliane would never betray him and, by extension, Elena. “We do not know all of who we are after our waking.”
“Such things for one so young . . .” Caliane’s voice was soft. “This isn’t good, son of mine. Power grows with age because age tempers us, makes us calmer, better able to weigh our decisions. Lijuan is a case in point—she gained too much power too quickly, lost herself inside it.”
Raphael wondered what his mother would say if he told her of the cold storm inside him, insidious and vicious and hungry.
* * *
• • •
An hour later, after he and Elena’d had a chance to “wash off the road dust,” they met Caliane in a leafy candlelit courtyard deep in Amanat. A table covered with a crisp white tablecloth and weighed down with food and drink sat in the center. Caliane’s people had whispered away to leave them in privacy under a velvet blue sky studded with stars.