“Yes.” He turned to Favashi. “Will you dispute?”
A shake of her head. “Jean-Baptiste’s term of service at Lumia ended four decades ago. He is free to choose his allegiance.”
“The copy of your consort is young, Raphael,” Michaela said, hip cocked, one hand placed on that hip. “She remains within her Contract period, will have to serve it out to whoever owns her.”
Jean-Baptiste closed his hand tightly over his wife’s as Majda’s face went white. Jaw rigid, he said, “Gian Made her by force. There is no Contract.”
His words were live grenades thrown into the room. The Making of vampires was strictly regulated. Each archangel had his or her own rules, but there were rules. Angels couldn’t simply go around Making vampires; they needed the permission of at least one of the Cadre, though that permission might be given once and hold for millennia.
There were meant to be no vampires in the world who did not trace back to at least one of the Cadre, even if the thread was a nebulous one where the Cadre member would not interfere in the vampire’s existence except in very rare circumstances. It had to do with the balance of the world, with blood and with life.
“He lies,” Gian said again. “She is Charisemnon’s.”
This time, Raphael knew they couldn’t simply ignore the words.
Unexpectedly, it was Raphael’s mortal enemy who handed Majda her freedom. “Do you think me a fool?” Charisemnon said to Gian, his voice full of rage. “I will not be used by a mere angel who wishes to meddle in the affairs of his betters. The woman is yours, Raphael.”
Raphael turned to Majda. “Choose your allegiance—you are not under Contract, but you must be under archangelic oversight until you have passed ten decades as a vampire.”
Despite the fact Jean-Baptiste was free and clear of his own obligations to serve an archangel, he came immediately to kneel in front of Raphael. He had his hand clasped around his wife’s, and though it was apparent she didn’t understand the rules, she followed him without hesitation.
“I swear to be loyal. My blood is your blood,” Jean-Baptiste said, his wife repeating the words. “My life is yours to command. I will serve no other but you.”
Raphael nodded at the two to return to their previous positions. “Gian is mine to punish,” he said flatly. “However, the wider question of Lumia remains.”
“Raze it,” Favashi said, exposing the steel core that lived beneath her soft, elegant surface. “There should’ve never been a place on earth that wasn’t under Cadre control.”
Charisemnon nodded. “We are the masters of this world.”
“If I may . . .” The hesitant words were spoken by Donael, the eons-old angel having been hovering on the edge of the circle since the beginning.
Neha looked at him with a coldness that spoke of the poison that was her greatest weapon. “Speak, Donael. I give you this opportunity only because I knew you once as a man of great wisdom.”
Bowing his head lower than Elena had ever before seen one of the Luminata bow to anyone, Donael said, “The Luminata play an important role in angelic society. We are the seekers of knowledge and the keepers of art, and we are the one group that can call the Cadre to a meeting when things reach a breaking point as they have in Lady Lijuan’s territory.”
He breathed deep, exhaled. “Ending us will leave a vacuum. And even should we put all that aside, angels need a space where they can come to find their souls, a place where the mind can be free.”
Elena felt her lips twist at that pretty little speech, but she kept her silence. Surprisingly, it was Hannah who broke it, the other woman having come in with Elijah. “I would speak,” she said quietly. “Not as Elijah’s consort, but as an artist.”
When no one in the Cadre interrupted, she said, “I have been absorbed in the Gallery since we arrived. I found great joy in this place that safely houses so much of our artistic history.”
Elena saw Donael begin to smile. But Hannah wasn’t done.
“However,” she said, “even as I studied the astonishing array in the Gallery, I was aware that few eyes ever get to see these works of art.” A frown lay heavy on her elegant features. “The Luminata have become a more and more closed sect in the time since I have been Elijah’s consort, until ordinary angels do not believe they have the right to come here and interrupt the brothers’ contemplation.”
No smile on Donael’s face now, nothing but an insulted stiffness.
“That is not right,” Hannah said. “If the Gallery is a library of the greatest art produced by our people, then angelkind should be able to visit at will, should be encouraged to visit. It disturbs me that the Luminata seem to consider these treasures their own and that they, and they alone, are the ones who decide which works will be displayed and which won’t.”