It was a bleak truth. Alexander had killed in battle, as had Raphael and many of the others. Some of their number had murdered in cold blood, but none had unleashed wholesale slaughter. Caliane had wiped out the thriving populations of two cities.
She’d spared the children, but their fragile hearts had broken under the trauma. Most had simply curled up and died. Angelkind had fought to save those tiny human lives and failed. Raphael’s palms curled inward, his skin remembering the calluses that had formed from digging grave after grave.
It hadn’t been in penance for his mother’s horrific crime. Nothing could be penance enough for that.
“Such an action is a burden that will haunt you through time.” Caliane spoke with no self-pity, with potent directness. “Atonement is an impossibility. The ghosts of the lives I took have become my constant shadows. I hear them in the gray hours before dawn, when the world is quiet, and I have no answers for them when they ask me why they had to die.”
Raphael’s shoulders bunched, his gut tight. This was the first time he’d heard his mother speak of her terrible act, the first time he’d understood that she’d not only come out sane after her long Sleep, but with all her memories intact. In the bleak lines of her face, he saw the truth: his mother remembered each and every soul she had condemned to the pitiless ocean.
“But what I did,” she continued without mercy to herself, “would pale in comparison to eliminating the people of an entire territory. We would not survive the weight of the dead on our conscience. The Cadre will fall and Lijuan will rise again from beneath the bones of her dead.”
Raphael stood in a pool of silence, the screens around him showing faces gone motionless. Each of the archangels had responded quickly to his request for an emergency gathering.
Michaela had done so from deep in Hungary, the face that had been the muse of artists through the ages even sharper in its beauty. She’d lost weight. Where others might’ve appeared haggard, she looked refined down to the very core.
Astaad had called from a Pacific isle, his skin damp and his hair windswept, his goatee rougher than usual. He’d been the first to make the connection and they’d spoken privately for a minute or two. “I’ve had to clear this island of all its citizens—my own abode here is in the process of being dismantled.”
It turned out that the calm waters around the island had become violent to the point of causing tidal waves. Astaad had already lost ten people who’d been caught unawares by the first wave, and was taking no chances.
Neha, the archangel currently closest to Raphael, had responded to his request from the room she most often used for these meetings. But while she wore a sari and sat on a throne, her hair was not in an elegant bun but simply braided. The braid sat over one shoulder, the black strands entwined with copper thread. Kohl rimmed her eyes.
Titus, Alexander, and Elijah had all appeared at the same moment.
Now, Caliane’s closest compatriot in the Cadre stirred. “I hear you, my friend.” Alexander’s golden hair glinted in the early evening sunlight where he stood, a general at rest. “Wiping out China is not a viable option unless we fail to contain the spread of this contagion.” New lines in the face he turned to Caliane. “If that is the case, we have no choice and must bear those deaths on our souls.”
“If the Cadre is agreeable,” Neha said, “I’ll send a medical team to begin the examinations.” A pause before she locked gazes with Raphael. “I can take over your aerial sweep so you can assist on the ground, but China is currently yours.”
“I would be glad of the help.” Whatever their differences, he had no argument with Neha’s commitment to the goals of the Cadre. “I cleared the medics at this citadel and sent half of them to check on the leadership in the next major hub.” He’d also made sure they had a heavy escort and that those escorts were clean of infection. “The other half are in the process of examining Riva’s closest advisors and associates.”
“We may hope this isn’t widespread.” Astaad stroked his damp goatee. “You say the tainted vampire disappeared for a number of hours. It seems he must’ve been taken to a secret place to be infected. The contagion may not be in the air or in the soil.”
“I am in agreement with you.” Riva’s infection had been a purposeful act.
“As only Raphael has the wildfire,” Elijah murmured, “our options are limited.”
Discussion ensued. The final consensus was unanimous: should the healers discover that Lijuan’s scourge had only affected vampires who held cities and not their angelic brethren, the vampires would be pulled out. The angels who remained would commit to a checkup once a week as a safeguard.
And if angels were shown to be infected . . .
None of them wanted to face that, not until it was unavoidable.
* * *
• • •
Four days later, and the official count of infected commanders was at five. All vampires. After Raphael used wildfire to eradicate the scourge in their bodies, he ordered the exodus of all vampires who’d been sent into the territory by the Cadre. That included the senior vampires of Favashi’s court.
All of Lijuan’s people chose to stay and as they were of this land, and already loyal to Lijuan, with no need for her to take control of them in other ways, there was no reason not to permit the decision. As a precaution, however, any vampire in a position of power was demoted to a lower rank.
Angels would now run the cities, with Gadriel taking over Riva’s citadel.
The Cadre also decided to speed up their rotation cycle after Raphael reported the signs of rising bloodlust. Michaela was meant to follow Raphael—she was actually down to do a double shift, as she’d been unable to make her last rotation. Titus had agreed to cover for her. Prior to that, she’d talked Charisemnon into taking her place.
Raphael was expecting the call he received from her the night before he and Elena were scheduled to make their last flight over China. Exhausted from the long day, the two of them had just showered in preparation for a late meal in their rooms, when the screen in the living area chimed.
Elena paused in the midst of pulling on her pajama shorts to throw clothes at him. He pulled on the loose sweatpants and T-shirt, sealing the wing slits shut with the ease of long practice before he answered the call, while his consort stayed out of view.
“I need to return to my own territory,” he said the instant Michaela’s face appeared on the screen. “That is nonnegotiable.”
Elena, having tugged on her tank top and shorts, began to sharpen one of her knives.
“I know.” Michaela’s rich brown skin held a shimmer that turned her sensual beauty ethereal. “I was hoping you could speak to Lady Caliane on my behalf.”