Archangel's Heart(137)

A rush of air behind her, then Majda’s voice. “Thank you,” she said, the tone holding a tremor that wasn’t of fear. “I never thought I would one day fly out of that hellhole.”

Her husband chuckled. “Such stories we will have to tell, my love.”

It made Elena’s heart melt, that even after decades in hell, they spoke to one another that way, touched one another with care. Will you call me Elena-mine when we’ve been together two thousand years and you’re annoyed by the size of my knife collection?

The firelight of Raphael’s wings brushed hers as he passed. First, as I would be responsible for having given you the majority of those knives, how could I be annoyed? And second, I will always call you Elena-mine. Vivid blue eyes holding her own gaze even as he leaned down to grab Gian. Nothing in this world or the next can change who you are to me.

He went up the steps first, with Majda and Jean-Baptiste following, Elena in the rear just in case one of those doors to the Gallery hadn’t been painted or tiled over from the other side, and was still in use. No way was she allowing anyone to ambush them now.

But the shaft remained silent and they exited into the hallway to find it empty.

Elena was a little disappointed. She’d been ready to shoot bolts into the lying mouths of the Luminata, both the pious bastards who treated mortals as commodities and the ones who’d been aware of what was going on in the deepest recesses of Lumia, yet had done nothing to stop it.

“I’ll show them luminescence,” she muttered as she stalked down the hallway at Raphael’s side, her crossbow held to her left but cocked and ready to fire.

They made no attempt to conceal their presence and the first Luminata they met in the hallway gasped and ran toward them. “Gian!”

“Silence.” Power honed to a lethal blade, Raphael’s voice commanded absolute obedience. The Luminata, a small man with hair of darkest brown and huge, dark eyes, bowed his head, but Elena had caught the secondary layer of shock in his gaze.

These assholes really weren’t used to being given orders by anyone, not even the Cadre.

“Gather your brothers,” Raphael said, the words an archangelic decree. “All must be in the Atrium by the time the Cadre gathers or their lives are forfeit. Go.”

The now white-faced Luminata ran.

Raphael gave the same order to others, until any “brother” they passed was either running to tell others or hurrying in the direction of the Atrium. Turning to Elena, her archangel spoke but he’d stolen all her breath, her blood such a loud roar in her ears that she couldn’t hear him. His eyes were liquid blue flame, the Legion mark on his temple sparking with wildfire, his wings still rippling white flame.

And she knew. “The Cascade changes have rooted.” It came out a whisper, terror clutching at her heart—because this being, the one who looked back at her, he was other in ways her Raphael wasn’t. As if he was growing into a plane of existence where she could not follow.

His responding shrug cut through the sudden fear, it was so natural. “We will test it later. For now, we need Ibrahim in the Atrium. I have told Aodhan and Laric to bring him there. Xander and Valerius will assist.”

“How did they know?”

“Xander came to ask you if you would play a blade game with him, stayed when he realized what was happening.” A faint smile. “It appears the boy is ever more in love with your skill with sharp objects.”

“Figures. Men only ever want me for my weapons.”

Raphael’s laughter caused the already shocked Luminata around them to stare in disbelief, but when Elena checked behind them to make sure her grandparents were following—yes, still weird to think that—she found them both smiling.

It was Majda who said, “Jean-Baptiste has a predilection for knives as well.” A soft voice, almost breathy in its husky sexiness, but it was clearly not an affectation, simply the way her vocal cords produced sound. “He had quite a collection.”

“My consort has never met a blade she doesn’t love.” Raphael’s contribution had Majda’s and Jean-Baptiste’s smiles growing even wider.

“Not true,” Elena said. “No rusty blades—except, of course, when I want to carve out the eyes of vicious monsters.” She locked gazes with Gian, who was already looking better than he had in the torture chamber he’d created.

Bastard was strong.

And this time, he wasn’t quick enough to hide his true self: hate foamed in his eyes, though those eyes weren’t on Elena but on Jean-Baptiste.

Elena heard movement behind her, followed by a sharp word in a feminine voice, the language the same one she’d heard in the town. Her grandfather held his peace, but she could feel his simmering rage.