Archangel's Heart(136)

Gian flung his fist at Raphael, but no green-gold energy came from it.

“You have lost half your volume of blood and your body is focusing on healing your throat,” Raphael told the other angel in a voice so cold it raised every tiny hair on Elena’s body. “You have no resources to muster an attack. Do not attempt it again or I’ll forget about a trial in front of the Cadre and turn you to dust where you crawl.”

His eyes were deep Prussian blue when he returned his attention to Elena, the otherness of him a heavy presence in the room. You look a little terrified, Elena-mine.

In a good way. She wove her fingers even tighter with his, banishing the chill of violent power and long immortality with the love that lived in her, in him, between them. No matter how scary you get, Archangel, I always want to dance with you.

Majda and Jean-Baptiste returned from the room right then. To Elena’s surprise, both had changed. Her grandfather wore black pants and a simple white shirt that suited his blunt handsomeness. He didn’t have the prettiness developed by some vampires. No, he was like Dmitri—he’d retained a harsh edge to his features that said he was a dangerous man, but vampirism had given him unblemished white skin that needed the kiss of the sun, and hair that gleamed with silken health.

As for Majda . . .

Gone was her grandmother’s gown, in its place a pair of brown pants that she’d rolled up at the bottom and tied tightly around her waist using a belt Elena remembered seeing in the wardrobe. On top, she wore a woman’s shirt, so that must’ve also been in the wardrobe.

And Elena knew without asking that the gown had been forced on Majda by Gian.

Majda’s lips suddenly curved, her eyes bright.

Following the line of her gaze, Elena realized her grandmother had seen Raphael and Elena’s linked hands. “Let’s go get rid of the garbage,” Elena said softly.





42


As Elena slipped out her crossbow in readiness for any possible threats, Raphael grabbed Gian once again, his grip so powerful that Gian couldn’t have escaped it even at full strength. When Elena heard angry murmuring behind her just after they reached the paving area onto which she’d stepped with a quiet “Forgive me,” she looked back over her shoulder and shook her head at her grandparents. “The angels have far more brutal methods of punishment than you could ever imagine.”

“But will they punish one of their own when the victims are no one important?” A deep voice, deeper than it had been before, Jean-Baptiste clearly still healing in the wake of the infusion of archangelic blood.

Raphael was the one who answered. “You are family,” he said, his wings suddenly afire and cuttingly bright in the gloom of the shaft. “It does not matter what anyone else in the Cadre says or believes, I have the right to punish those who seek to harm my family.”

Both Majda and Jean-Baptiste had flinched at the blaze of Raphael’s power, but straightened almost immediately and—after a glance at one another—nodded at Raphael. And they held his gaze as they did so. Holding him to account.

It appears stubborn courage runs in the family line.

You better believe it, Archangel. Elena looked at the pathetic form of Gian. “Fly him up first. I’ll come with you and keep an eye on him while you bring up Majda and Jean-Baptiste.” She didn’t want them up there alone and no way was she going to leave Gian alone for even a second.

Snakes had a habit of slithering away.

One hand still gripping Gian, Raphael circled her waist with his other arm and they lifted off. As she looked down, she saw her grandparents heads tilt back, their eyes glowing in the light coming off Raphael’s wings and their bodies touching. Then Raphael was releasing her and she was winging her way up to the platform at the top of the shaft.

Raphael waited until she caught up and got on the platform before he threw Gian with enough force that the Luminata ended up at the bottom of the staircase. He dropped without saying a word, the two of them in perfect sync.

Crossbow lifted and aimed at Gian’s forehead, Elena didn’t take her eye off the staircase or off Gian’s mewling form. And when the angel began to crawl forward, she didn’t ask what the fuck he was doing. She just shot a crossbow bolt half an inch from the front of his face. “The next one goes through your skull.” It wouldn’t kill him. He was too old. But it’d hurt like a bitch and put him out for a while.

Pale green eyes looked at her with soft confusion in their depths, as if he couldn’t understand why she was so angry at him. Thank God Raphael was the archangel who’d make the call about his punishment—because the bastard knew how to use words, how to use charm, how to twist the world so it was his.