“He will be a power in age and experience alone,” Neha pointed out. “I remember him from his last waking—he did not enjoy that time, did not stay long—but he was an impressive being while he walked the Earth.”
Meanwhile, Neha is a fan.
Aegaeon had a way with women—though I would not call it charm. It had been too rough for that, too reckless.
Raphael? Why are you so angry at him?
I cannot speak of this, Elena. It is not a promise . . . but a trust I hold dear.
Elena didn’t force the issue; she was a warrior, understood the import of such things.
“The Cadre is missing a member.” Elijah, calm and thoughtful. “It may be that we are being brought back into balance.”
“I will inform you of any further signs of waking,” Astaad said, white lines around his mouth.
Astaad had reason for his tension. Should Aegaeon indeed rise, the Archangel of the Pacific Isles would have to share his territory, as Favashi had initially shared with Alexander. Astaad, however, was in a better position to hold on to the Pacific than Favashi had Persia—while Aegaeon had no doubt ruled that territory at some point during his long existence, the last time he’d woken, he’d held dominion over the lands Michaela now called her own.
Not only that, but if he was as old as Caliane had said, then most of his people had to be dead or in a long Sleep of their own. Maybe that was why Aegaeon hadn’t stayed awake for an extended period the last time. Just long enough to irreparably break a precious gift to angelkind.
“Since we are all here,” Neha said, her hands on her hips, “what is the situation in China? Lady Caliane, you have been there most recently.”
More than one head turned toward Michaela; she ignored the pointed looks. Caliane, by contrast, was too well respected for anyone to ask why she’d stepped in.
“No new infections among those who watch over the territory for the Cadre. The half-consumed discovered by Raphael are all dead—they would not feed, even when sustenance was placed into their hands.”
“So nothing has really changed. Good.” Michaela logged off.
“So nice to have the princess back in the fold.” Charisemnon’s tone was pure poison before his screen, too, went black.
The others followed one by one.
Elena’s face was forlorn when he turned to her. Crossing the carpet, he ran his fingers through her hair. “We did what we could to save the villagers. But they were doomed at Lijuan’s first touch.”
Leaning her head against his thigh, his hand curved over her nape, she looked out at the soft rain that had begun to fall. Manhattan glittered beyond the veil. “You didn’t mention the snow owl.”
“Let us allow Cassandra to Sleep in peace as long as she is able.” The two owls who dozed in one corner of the room, on a low perch that Dmitri had used long-rusty skills to make, rustled their wings as if in a dream. “One more Ancient, the Cadre can absorb, but two?” He shook his head. “It may tip the world into an archangelic war.”
35
His fears proved groundless.
Three days after the meeting, Cassandra’s site was dead calm and Astaad reported the same of his territory. “It is as if Aegaeon had a nightmare and cried out in his Sleep, then laid his head back down.”
Raphael took a silent breath at that. He’d been weighing up how to share the news of the Ancient’s possible awakening with the two people who’d be most affected by it, all the while aware that, by speaking, he would devastate both their lives at a critical time. He would hold his silence now, speak only when a waking was confirmed.
The violent weather systems had also settled, including Alexander’s ice storms as well as the geothermal activity in Raphael’s territory.
“It almost feels like the prelude to a tsunami,” Elena said one night as they stood atop the Legion building after Elena had spent the day getting her hands dirty. “How everything goes still and the water retreats and retreats from the shore . . . only for a huge wave to return and pummel everything to death.”
“Your positive thoughts overwhelm me.” Raphael watched the purple-hued horizon as day fell into night, almost expecting to see the wave crashing.
“That’s me, chipper as a spring bean.” Lightning dancing through her wings, she threw a blade at him without warning. “You gonna tell me what was in that package from Amanat?”
Raphael lobbed back the blade through the frigid night air. “Another portrait of my father.” The words came out even, without emotion. “My mother wants me to have it.”
Tilting her head to the side after slipping the blade back into its sheath, Elena crossed the space between them. “Hey.” A hand pressed to his heart. “Talk to me.”
His pulse speeded up to beat in time with hers. She was now a full immortal, but she remained fragile in comparison to him. Breakable. Lijuan could end her with a single blow . . . yet his Elena would fly into battle at his side. Courage was writ on her soul. As defiant as the stormfire wings she’d clawed from the Cascade.
“My mother remembers all the good about my father,” he said, his mind filling with thoughts of another pair of lovers. “I wonder if she has forgotten the rest, or if she chooses only to focus on the light.”
Time rolled backward.
“That he loved her is beyond question. He was a huge power and women gravitated toward him, but he never looked at anyone else. Even when they were apart for months at a time, he never fell to temptation, never even saw it—I witnessed that with my own eyes.” Raphael caught lightning from her wings. “In that, I am my father’s son. It will only ever be you for me.”
Near-white strands of hair flirting against her neck, Elena reached up to brush her fingers over his cheek.
“But he was also . . . irresponsible.” Laughing and bright-eyed and not as adult as he should be. “A strange thing to say of an archangel, but there was a boyishness to him that I can see clearly when I look back at my memories. He would take me on wild adventures and it was all wonderful—until I fell and broke a wing or a leg.
“I loved the adventures, loved the danger. But it bothered my mother and yet, he wasn’t careful. He loved her desperately, but he wasn’t careful with her heart.” Raphael tried to find the words to explain. “He was always taking risks, always riding the edge. When the madness first licked at his mind, the healers told him to Sleep, that often, a long Sleep cured that which was broken.”
Memories, hard and loud in his head. “I heard them arguing. I wasn’t a child any longer, and I understood. She begged him to Sleep, promised she’d be waiting when he woke. But my father refused to ‘give up on life.’” So stubborn and arrogant and believing he knew best.