Missing were Neha, Favashi, Charisemnon, and Caliane. “You had contact with your mom?”
“She is about to arrive.” Raphael began to move, Elena moving with him.
“Let’s wait, greet her,” Elena said after a thought. “No harm in everyone here knowing you two are a unit.” Caliane might’ve once been an insane mass murderer, but she appeared sane now—and full of remorse for the atrocity she’d committed in her madness. And she’d stood by Raphael since the instant she awoke from her long Sleep.
Raphael shook his head. “I am not Caliane’s son at this moment—I am the Archangel of New York. I wait for no one.”
Damn subtle archangelic politics, Elena thought to herself. She’d learned so much but countless things could still trip her up. Because Raphael was right—he couldn’t be seen to be waiting for his mother to arrive. And what the hell was he doing now?
“Are you heading toward Michaela?” she asked sotto voce. “Good God, why? If you want someone to stab you in the back, I have plenty of knives.”
His laughter caught Michaela’s attention, her head angling toward them. “Titus and Michaela are the closest to us,” he murmured. “It is simple courtesy—and I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to examine her more closely.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think you can tell just by looking at someone if they gave birth a year ago.” The idea of Michaela birthing a child was still a hard one for her to accept. “She was probably just playing a game, or maybe she was Sleeping off Uram’s poison.” That was a possibility Elena hadn’t previously considered and it made just as much sense as the secret birth of a baby that might or might not have been impacted by the same poison. “Her figure certainly hasn’t changed.”
Then they were too close to risk further discussion. Mere seconds later, Titus greeted Raphael with a back-slapping hug that made it clear to the room at large that he considered Raphael an ally. Then, as Elena gritted her teeth, Raphael touched his hand to Michaela’s in a polite greeting between Cadre.
Titus, meanwhile, was gripping Elena’s forearm in the way of warriors—though he’d tempered his strength, likely as a result of a mental reminder from Raphael. The warrior archangel had accepted Elena as a fellow warrior to the extent that he sometimes forgot she wasn’t as physically strong as an archangel. “Ellie,” he said, using the nickname she’d asked him to use. “When is your next block party?”
His booming true voice filled the room, the enthusiasm in it making her grin. “Maybe after we sort out this whole possible mass bloodlust situation,” she said and, forearm shake complete, forced herself to turn to Michaela. “Archangel Michaela,” she said politely. “It has been many moons.” The words were a stock phrase Jessamy had taught her. She felt like adding: I hope it’s way more moons to our next meeting.
“Guild Hunter,” Michaela responded.
The other woman probably thought she was delivering a subtle put-down by referring to Elena’s occupation rather than her status as Raphael’s consort, but Elena would never be insulted by being referred to as a hunter.
And Raphael would never be insulted on her behalf.
“Your markings are astonishing, Raphael,” Michaela said in a much warmer tone, her sultry voice pitched just right. “I confess I had no idea of their impact from seeing the images broadcast by the media.”
Leaving Raphael to handle Michaela, well aware her archangel would never have the extreme bad taste to be seduced by that viper, Elena focused on Titus. “I was looking forward to seeing your own markings, Titus.”
The Archangel of Southern Africa had developed gold markings across his massive chest, but tonight, those marks were covered by a gold breastplate, the designs etched into the breastplate almost as intricate as the carvings that decorated the hallways and walls of this complex. As with Alexander, the back of the piece was made of thick but pliable leather.
“Ellie, for you, anything.” Titus was back to using the softer tone he consciously adopted in social situations. “I hope we will not always be in meetings.” His scowl made his opinion of meetings clear. “If so, I will spar with Raphael. You may watch.”
Before, Elena might’ve taken that permission as condescension. Now she understood that Titus would spar with her, too—if he wasn’t so sure he’d rip off her arms when fired up by battle fever. “I’ll take you up on that,” she said. “Galen still speaks of all that he learned in your armies.”