As for Jason, his princess was tougher than she looked. Mahiya was working in the infirmary. It turned out that she’d quietly studied with Tower healers in the years since it became clear Lijuan would rise again, was skilled enough now that she could take care of minor injuries, leaving the healers free to concentrate on the more critical ones.
Then there was his consort.
He’d last seen her with a streak of dried blood on her face and a tear in the reinforced leather of her jacket where a sword had come dangerously close to her neck. He knew she was in Central Park right now, among the troops. He wondered if she’d realized how very regal she was in her own way—not in the distant mode of an empress, but in the calm, capable way of a warrior queen.
She would ride with him into battle until the end.
Archangel. As if he’d conjured her up by thinking of her, the warm steel of Elena’s voice filled his mind and all at once, the power in his veins felt a touch less cold, a little more human. Do you have some time? I think it’d do our troops good to see you.
I will be there soon.
He returned his attention to his Seven. “You have your tasks. Rest if you’re able, put in place that which you can, and ready your fighters for what is to come.” It would be the most terrible battle of them all, of that he was certain.
Vivek had managed to sneak more of his bugs into Lijuan’s area, and the images that had come back to them—scattershot though they’d been—showed a flesh mound of impossible size. Many of the angels and vampires on it were barely injured, and yet sat in place, ready to be consumed by their goddess. Not all had the dead eyes that spoke of a lack of freedom.
“I can’t understand why they follow her even after they’ve seen what she’s become.” Aodhan’s quiet voice, the angel calling in from a sentry position near the port. “It is no longer a question of loyalty. It is a question of honor.”
The most beautiful of the Seven, his skin a thing of light, his hair strands of shattered diamonds, said, “Sire, had you become as she is now, I would not have stayed loyal. I would’ve understood that the archangel I loved, the archangel to whom I had sworn fealty, was gone. I would’ve mourned your passing, and then I would’ve battled to end the horror that you had become.”
“It’s why you are in my Seven.” His men were not automatons, did not follow him without thinking. “Lijuan has never liked too much strength around her.” There was one exception to that rule—Xi.
Xi’s ability to think for himself as well as his previous track record in looking after his troops was why the general’s current slavish devotion surprised Raphael. He didn’t know if Lijuan had done something to Xi that led him to follow her even when she fed on fighters he’d promised to lead with integrity and care, or if he’d always had that weakness inside him, but the question was moot in any case.
They were facing an army that had swallowed the poison pill and passionately believed that Raphael and the rest of the Cadre were a threat to Lijuan because they did not accept her as their goddess. And, after all that they’d already done, they had no choice but to follow Lijuan to the end.
For it was the victors who would write history.
“I’m going to meet Elena in Central Park,” he said. “Dmitri, take a break.” His second had either been in battle or in the war room nonstop. “Trace can cover for you while you rest.” The vampire had been in India when hostilities began. Flights had been grounded in the aftermath of what was happening in Neha’s land, sea crossings a slow and treacherous risk. Yet Trace had made it home in time to join the previous battle.
“He’s one of the few men I’d trust in the position.” Dmitri pinched up the shoulder of his T-shirt, lowered his head to sniff at it. “I need a shower at least. Those dead eyes release putrid decaying blood when decapitated.”
“I’ll hold the watch here until Trace arrives,” Galen offered, his red hair a shaggy mess around his head and streaks of soot on his arms. “Go bathe. You stink.”
“You’re not exactly a fragrant rose yourself, Barbarian,” Dmitri muttered.
A snort from the speakers. “Don’t speak to me about bad smells until you’ve been covered with half-fried reborn flesh.” Venom’s languid voice. “Your wife threw a grenade into a knot of them that scuttled toward us like crabs even while on fire.”
Dmitri grinned in a way that would’ve shocked those who had never seen the man under the deadly thousand-year-old vampire. “That’s my Honor.”
As his Seven began to speak among themselves, taking a minute or two to feed their souls, Raphael walked to the balcony and took in his abused city. Smoke snaked into the sky from areas where groups of reborn had been spotted and eliminated. To the left was a huge scar in the landscape, barren and black.
It was a small mercy that the insect incident hadn’t been repeated.
In all likelihood, Charisemnon could only make so many at a time before his ability flatlined. As far as Raphael was aware, the only one of them whose Cascade power was limitless was Lijuan—and that because she fed off others. Raphael’s healing and Charisemnon’s disease creation both had a limit.
Not that any of them were taking the latter fact for granted. A group of wounded soldiers did nothing all day but zoom in on any suspected enemy movement in the streets no matter how small. They’d discovered multiple reborn and three vampiric stealth operatives, but no insects.
Spreading his wings, he took off into the dusty, smoky sky.
It took him time to reach his destination. His troops were scattered all over the city; whenever he saw a group on a rooftop, or gathered in the street, he landed and spoke to them. He couldn’t speak to each and every member of his army, but he knew word would travel through the ranks. It would matter that he cared enough to check in with junior vampire soldiers and senior squadron leaders both.
Rising into the air after a short stop to speak to a young ground unit, he sent a message to his army. You have courage, and you have heart. This is our city and we will never surrender it. But for now, if you can, rest. We must be ready to strike when the battle begins again.
He saw movement on several rooftops, noticed a number of gunners lay down their weapons and begin to stretch out their shoulders. The Tower had already sent out the same instruction, but it was different coming from their archangel. He knew the watch would remain constant, that no one would fall into a deep rest, but any break was a good thing.
He made it to Central Park five minutes later.
The ensuing conversations were much the same as those he’d had on the journey here. All knew that their status was dire, but again, there was no talk of defeat. They spoke only of skirmishes won, or ideas they had for future operations.
He listened to all of them.