Archangel's Heart(100)

Nodding jerkily, he prepared two buns with expert hands, then half wrapped them in greaseproof paper, providing an easy way to hold the hot items as they ate. Elena dug into her pocket and placed enough local currency on the counter to cover the cost—the night before her and Raphael’s dawn departure from New York, she’d rung Sara and asked if the Guild could convert some dollars for her; she knew it held a small amount of all types of currencies.

Izzy had picked up the money for her and dropped it off at the Enclave. Because while plastic might be fantastic, a hunter always carried actual cash for moments like this.

The cook’s eyes went huge at seeing the money.

Shaking his head, he began to push it back with a trembling hand. Elena just took the food and gave one bun to Raphael. “Try it,” she said after taking a long sniff of the aroma. “If you don’t think it’s delicious, I’ll swallow my favorite blade.”

The cook made a small, choked sound.

Ignoring the overwrought man, Raphael took a bite and gave a decisive nod. “There is no need to swallow your blade, hbeebti.”

Smiling, Elena took a bite of her own bun before they walked on, leaving the stunned cook to collapse into a chair behind his setup, a tea towel held up to his sweat-drenched brow. From the corner of her eye, Elena saw a nearby shopkeeper run over and pat his shoulder before collecting the money and putting it in the little tin in which it should go. Her eyes, too, were wide as she handled the money.

These people don’t expect us to pay for what we take. Raphael’s mental tone was frigid, though his expression remained unchanged.





31


Yeah, looks like the Luminata don’t believe in a fair transaction. Elena’s own anger was a cold pulse inside her—immortals had so much, had centuries upon centuries to gather wealth. These people weren’t dirt poor, but they weren’t rich, either. Not by any calculation. They were just ordinary citizens trying to eke out a life.

With Lumia so close, they should’ve had a thriving economy supported by custom from the stronghold. Instead, it appeared Lumia preferred to bleed them dry. Though . . . They have to pay enough for the goods they take that the town doesn’t go under—because Lumia needed the town—but I bet you it’s nothing close to market value.

Having finished their first snack, Raphael bought them juices made fresh by another roadside seller working from what looked like a semipermanent cart. He paid with a coin that had the juice man’s throat moving convulsively as he swallowed. “What was that coin?” she asked after taking a drink of the cold, refreshing liquid.

“Angelic currency, accepted worldwide. He can exchange it for his local currency at any exchange house or bank—and the coin I used will equal triple the cost of the drinks.” A brush of his wing over her own. “I’m afraid, Guild Hunter, that I assumed you knew about it and just preferred to use local coin.”

Frowning, Elena said, “You know, I have noticed those coins over the years but I guess I had no reason to pay attention.” A pause, before she lowered her voice and leaned closer to him. “You think it’s a good idea to pay with that here? I’m not sure he’s going to get fair value from whoever it is that does the exchange.”

“Angels do not handle the exchange,” Raphael told her. “Mortal financial institutions are kept apprised of the exact value of the coins—and they understand what will happen if they short anyone. Each coin is linked to a particular archangelic territory, and all transactions are monitored via a computer network that, in my case, connects back to the Tower.”

“I should’ve known.” Raphael had always been one of the archangels most in step with the world. A lot of that was because of Illium—the blue-winged angel was fascinated by technology.

Having finished their juices, they put the disposable cups in a nearby trash receptacle, then walked deeper into the market, taking in the reactions all around them while maintaining their impassive fronts. It was about ten minutes later that they discovered a hole-in-the-wall operation that was selling what looked like fresh-made tagine, each creation in its own tiny clay pot with the characteristic conical lid.

The kitchen, busy with two fast-moving bodies, was behind the large square window from which a smiling, dark-eyed woman passed out the food, prettily painted chairs and tables set out on either side of the restaurant window.

“Do you think your mom and Tasha would like some?” Elena asked, standing in line behind the stooped shoulders of an elderly couple who’d clearly not noticed the angelic pair behind them.

The counter clerk, meanwhile, was trying frantically to mouth at the couple to move away—at least until Raphael shook his head at the hyperventilating woman. “I will ask.” A pause before he said, “Mother tells me she convinced Tasha to go a short distance and bring them back mint tea and a plate of sweetmeats. They don’t need anything else for the moment.”