Getting up, she slipped her hand into his. “Aodhan’s still coming with us, right?”
“Of course. I made an error of judgment in questioning him, but I wouldn’t compound it by changing his assignment when he remains more than equal to it.”
“Good. Then we’ll figure things out during the trip.” Aodhan might be angry right now, but he was one of the most even-tempered of the Seven. He’d calm down . . . but then again, Elena hadn’t known Aodhan before he was hurt, so she suddenly realized she might have no idea what she was talking about.
“Did he have a temper before he was taken?” While she didn’t know exactly what had happened to him, she’d picked up enough to know he’d been kidnapped, held in captivity. The rest, as with Illium and his father, she had no right to know unless Aodhan chose to tell her.
Raphael’s chuckle was a warm, rich sound in the night darkness. “He is a gifted artist, Elena, one of the greatest in angelkind, though he does not like it when we say thus.”
“Artistic temperament? Okay, yeah, that I didn’t figure.”
“He rarely gives in to it. Illium was always the more volatile of the two, but Aodhan had his moments.”
Elena worked through the idea of a hot-tempered Aodhan, began to smile. “Well, he might be pissed, but you know what?”
“What?”
“It means Sparkle really is coming back.” Artistic temper and all.
“Yes,” Raphael said with a slow smile, “you are right. Our Sparkle is indeed coming back to us.” He raised his head to look up at the stars. “I wonder how long it will take your Bluebell to understand that?”
Artistic moodiness or not, Aodhan was in an even temper in the gray predawn light the next morning when he met Elena and Raphael for the flight to the plane that’d take them to Morocco. The baggage had already been sent forward, with Montgomery having taken full charge of that task.
“You will need gowns,” the butler had told Elena. “The Luminata would be insulted if you stalked through their hallways in hunter gear.”
Elena had scowled so hard her mother would’ve no doubt warned her that her face would freeze into that expression if she wasn’t careful. “I am who I am.”
“Even archangels respect the ways of the Luminata.”
Well, that had shut her up. Who the hell was she to disregard rules the Cadre itself respected? “Damn it, what the heck do I pack?”
The butler’s expression had been as restrained as usual, but she’d caught a glint of hidden laughter. “I will take care of it, Guild Hunter. I will also ensure that you have a gown on the plane that you can change into before you head for Lumia.”
Elena had no idea what she’d do without Montgomery. Probably insult everyone around her without realizing it. “You have to wear formal gear, too?” she asked Aodhan now.
The other angel was currently dressed in warrior leathers of a beaten gold that suited his coloring so beautifully, she knew those leathers had been made for him and him alone. “Once we get to Lumia, I mean.” Right now, she was in jeans, boots, a tee, and a thin sweater with leather straps that crisscrossed her torso.
“I am your escort,” he responded. “I’m expected to be in leathers or other clothing suitable to a warrior.”
“I hate you,” Elena said without heat.
His eyes, those strange, hauntingly beautiful eyes of crystalline blue-green shards shattered outward from an obsidian pupil, warmed. “I’ll let you hold my swords if you’re nice.”
“Very funny, Sparkle.”
His eyebrows drew together over his eyes at her reference to the nickname he was trying to stamp out of existence. “I’m going to kill Illium,” he said, not for the first time. But his eyes, they looked up, as if searching the skies for wings of blue and silver.
Those wings hadn’t appeared by the time they took off from the Enclave. And despite Aodhan’s teasing, Elena did have all her weapons. Raphael had told her that as a warrior-consort, she was expected to have weapons on her. “If Hannah turned up armed to the teeth, that would raise some eyebrows, but everyone is aware of the fact that my consort was and is a hunter.”
That had cheered her up. Especially since Montgomery had made it a point to come out and tell her that the gowns he’d packed were such that she wouldn’t be hindered in a fight should such a fight become necessary.
It was a good thing she’d made herself practice in gowns over the past two years. Her hunter friends found it a hoot to spar with her while she was glammed up, but the lunatics had helped her refine her technique. It was Ransom with his skin of copper gold, eyes of Irish green, and skill as a streetfighter who’d given her a tiny switchblade. “Even if you can’t wear any other blade openly, you can hide this somewhere, use it to cut slits in your dress so you can run, find a weapon.”