Only Illium and the Hummingbird existed, their pain a tableau.
Panic scrabbled inside Elena, and when she caught Aodhan’s gaze, she saw the same dread in him. Fault lines already existed inside the Hummingbird. If this blow shattered them open again, it’d break her—and destroy Illium. His anger would eat him from the inside out, killing the heart of their wild Bluebell.
Then something extraordinary happened.
The Hummingbird drew up her shoulders, pinned her son with an unblinking gaze, and said, “This is why that poor squadron leader has been pretending to be so heartbroken he can’t function for most of a day?” She did not sound impressed. In fact, she sounded like a mom who expected them to explain themselves. Right now.
“Er.” Elena had never seen Illium so without words. Reaching back, he scratched at his nape. “I wanted to be here,” he said at last.
A softening in his mother’s expression. “Always watching after me, my son strong and beautiful. When I should be the one looking after you.” Her hand on his cheek again, so gentle. “Will you forgive me this, Illium?”
“There is nothing to forgive.” He turned into the touch of her hand, a son who loved his mother.
“There is much, but we will talk of that later. For now, Elena will teach me how to throw knives.”
It was Elena’s turn to be struck mute. “My lady Sharine?” she finally managed.
“I am not mad.” She shook out her skirts, her voice as haunting and beautiful as ever. “I wish to learn to throw knives so I can sink those knives into Aegaeon’s worthless chest should he dare show his face here.”
Illium’s jaw dropped. Aodhan appeared to have lost the ability to speak.
Elena grinned and bent in a deep bow. “It will be my pleasure.”
43
Raphael had to read Elena’s report twice before it sunk in. The woman Elena was describing was the Hummingbird of old. The one who’d come to tea in his mother’s Refuge stronghold and taken him away for an afternoon of painting. He’d been a small boy with far too much energy and she’d been delighted with him.
She’d let him dip his hands into pots of paint and smear them over canvases. Afterward, she’d helped him color in the white spots, add in more paint and texture, and later, beamed proudly as he presented the art piece to his mother.
That Hummingbird had been a creature of delight and laughter.
She had, however, never played with knives.
Yet Elena assured him the Hummingbird was quite sane, and he wasn’t to worry. She’d ensure Illium’s mother stayed safe while she worked out her anger on various hapless targets of stuffed straw.
I’m also having to hug Bluebell a lot and pat Sparkle on the hand. Sharine’s poor boys are having trouble processing this turn of events.
The tone of her missive would’ve made him smile if the situation in the world hadn’t been so dire.
Less than two days after she’d left for Morocco, he soared in the skies above Neha’s territory, on his way to the agreed meeting point on the China-India border. A portentous weight hung in the air. So many archangels in one place—it was inevitable that it would bleed into the world. The pressure against his skin reminded him of their family home when Nadiel and Caliane had both been in residence. Often, as a child, he’d felt as if his hair was standing on end.
His own power roiled and surged, an instinctive response to the potential threat. Jason had confirmed that Charisemnon had left his territory—at the same time as Titus. The two archangels didn’t trust one another an inch and would not leave their lands while the other was in residence. Raphael had every faith in Titus’s honor. He had none in Charisemnon’s.
Neha was already at the border fort and had been since the fog first descended. The rest of the Cadre as well as the awakened ones were en route. Antonicus had gone half a day ahead of Raphael, wanting more time to take in the situation. Now, Raphael dropped below the cloud layer that hung in the night-dark sky. Stars glittered above the clouds, but below was a leaden gloom through which he spotted wings of bronze.
Michaela, he said in greeting.
The bronze wings angled into a hover, Michaela’s face breaking out in what might’ve been a genuine smile. With skin the color of milk chocolate, a body that held all the curves necessary to bring her targets to their knees, and hair that tumbled down her back in a multitude of brown-gold shades, the Archangel of Budapest had been the muse of artists through the ages. Emperors and kings had worshipped her. Mortals and immortals alike were in awe of her beauty.
Raphael was thankful he’d never felt the allure. The lovers of the former Queen of Constantinople tended to end up dead and buried sooner rather than later. The only significant one to have survived was Astaad’s second Dahariel. Perhaps because Dahariel, too, was a master game-player; he also happened to be a man who never put a woman first—he had other priorities.
It had always been a peculiar coupling: a woman who demanded obsession from her lovers and a man so jaded that he needed ever more extreme acts to feel any pleasure.
Raphael. Michaela’s bronze skinsuit was textured to make it appear as if she were encased in a thin coat of bronze stone. While the neckline was a sedate curve, he’d seen how the back plunged deeply between her wings.
You are well. So soon after giving birth and notwithstanding the exquisite beauty she used to blind others, she had to be exhausted.
It is good to be known as demanding and self-centered. A twist of her lips. Neha didn’t blink an eye when I requested landing clearance for my jet.
Clever. Using the jet would’ve left her with reserves of energy she could use to conceal her weakness. Nothing on the outside gives away your true physical state.
I have worked hard to make it so.
The two of them flew on. Michaela was uncharacteristically quiet.
Raphael thought she must be further conserving her strength, but when she spoke, it had nothing to do with power or the threat in China. I have brought a child into a world where an archangel of death reigns over the biggest territory on the planet. I do not know what awaits my son.
Raphael caught a wind, rode it. We can only live in the time into which we are born. As he’d been born at a time when two archangels, one old, one younger, struggled with the caress of madness.
A hint of a bruised darkness on the horizon, licked with flame. Neha had ordered flaming torches placed along the entire China-India border, as warning to her people not to cross.
Raphael, my friend! Titus’s mental voice was as much a thunderclap of sound as his physical voice.
Raphael looked to the left. Well met, Titus. The three of them flew on without further conversation. All the talk had been done and done again.