Page 3 of Archangel’s Lineage
It bore a carved hilt embedded with seven polished black diamonds set in a vertical row to represent the seven men who called Raphael their liege and who would lay down their lives for him without hesitation.
“Consort.” Hair brushed off his face in crisp lines, and expression set in what she called his “Archangel” look, he held out his hand.
“Consort.” Grinning, she slid her hand into his.
And had to admit she felt beautiful and strong as she strode out of their suite. That their hand-holding would cause certain angels to have the vapors just made it better.
Why are you smiling that way, Elena-mine? His voice was a sword blade slicing through salt-laced water in her mind.
When she told him, he shot her a laughing look. Then lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back. Her heart, it stuttered. Always did. Always would. Because this deadly man she’d once feared and whose violent power had now become a familiar caress was it for her.
However long their eternity lasted, they’d walk through it hand in hand.
The ground rumbled as they continued on down the hallway of the stronghold Raphael kept in the Refuge. Built of dark gray stone, it was too solid to move in a minor tremor, but the vibration was obvious.
His smile faded. “That’s the third one today.”
“How many does that make over the three days since we’ve been here? Ten?”
“Around that.” Raphael’s hair glinted in the light of the old-fashioned gas lamps that bracketed the front door, an echo of a past time left in place for its elaborate metal beauty.
“We’ve always had the odd rumble or earth shake in the Refuge,” he added, “but nothing this sustained as far as I know—but I can’t say for certain. I’m young in comparison to many others. I’m sure we’ll find out tonight.”
Because tonight, they were to mingle with the rest of the Cadre, the first time since the war that all nine archangels were to be present in one place. The reason for the gathering was a meeting of the Cadre, but of course, immortals couldn’t keep it simple.
No, there had to be a grand ball to “usher in the new post-war age.”
Elena couldn’t remember exactly who’d said that, but it had been one of the grande dames of the angelic world—and by “dames” she meant interfering old busybodies of any gender.
As if they hadn’t been living in the post-war world for over ten years at this point. Though, she supposed begrudgingly, she could see the rationale behind it—this was the first year of actual calm. Every single one of the vampiric uprisings had been dealt with, no one had found any remnants of Lijuan’s reborn or Charisemnon’s poison for over twelve months, and repairs—or reconstruction—had been completed on the last of the major structures that had been damaged or destroyed.
It felt like they could breathe at last.
Yeah, she could see why people wanted to throw a blow-off-the-roof party. So this might not be too bad once they got past the stuffy polite conversation part; she wouldn’t mind dancing the night away with Raphael and their friends. Because pretty much the entire adult population of the Refuge would be there tonight.
Of Raphael’s senior people, Galen and Naasir, as well as Trace, would be joining them for the initial entrance. Archangels couldn’t just show up to this kind of thing; they had to bring an entourage. It just so happened that Raphael’s entourage was ruthless and lethal and as amused by the pomp as him.
Galen’s mate, Jessamy, would separate from them prior to the official entrance. Elena had only yesterday learned that as the angelic Librarian and Historian, Jessamy belonged to no court—and to all of them. Of course everyone knew she was closest to Raphael, but to walk in with him would be a grave insult to the rest of the Cadre.
Junior angelic Librarian, Andromeda—Naasir’s mate—would also peel away with Jessamy. Not for the same reason, however. It was because Andi technically belonged to a different court.
All five proved to be waiting in the courtyard of the stronghold. “Are we late?” Elena glanced at her wrist before remembering she wasn’t wearing a watch. As of the past six months, something in the Refuge had changed, making the devices act wonky. Analog or digital, clocks were a bust.
The scientists were working on figuring out why, but in the interim, Elena’d had to learn to read a sundial—to the great amusement of young Sam, who’d mastered that skill when he was “only a baby!” Never had Elena thought she’d be getting sundial lessons from a grumpy scholar with a giant white mustache while angelic children fluttered around offering encouragement.
Jessamy, her chestnut-brown hair woven into a complicated crown, and her lovely eyes as kind as always, smiled. “No, we are early. It’s been many years since the Refuge hosted a major social event and we’re as excited as the children.”
“Then let us go and horrify the elders.” Raphael’s pronouncement was met with raised fists from Galen, Trace, and Naasir, and outright laughter from Jessamy and Andromeda.
Elena grinned.
3
“Trace,” Raphael added, “I commend you for the pink hair.”
“Magenta. Not pink.” The suave vampire flowed into a bow as slick as the black suit he’d paired with a shirt and tie a bare shade or two lighter. “I lost a bet to Illium.” He sighed as he rose back up to his full height. “You’d think I’d have learned by now, but it was too tempting.”
Andromeda, her freckles dancing across her nose and cheeks, and her own hair a halo of glossy brown curls streaked with bronze for the night, tilted her head toward Trace. “What did he have to do if he lost?”