Archangel's Heart(77)

Breathless when he finally released her, she tried to muster up a scowl. “You got my gown all dusty.”

“I’ll brush off the dust.” He ran a hand over her breast, down to the curve of her hip, the action protected from view by the way he’d curved his wings around them.

Her toes curled. “You were faster than fast,” she said as he folded back his wings. “I didn’t even feel the whistle of wind passing over your wings.” Glancing at where Aodhan stood some distance away, giving them privacy and watching out for threats, she called out, “Aodhan! Did you have any idea Raphael was heading for us?”

Shaking his head, Aodhan made his way back to them through the golden grass. “Your wings are of pure silence.”

“One hell of an advantage.” Elena reached out to play her fingers through the white fire of them—they did feel solid in a sense, but there were no feathers. It didn’t burn, was cool to the touch, and . . . “It tastes of you.” Like the crashing sea and the wild wind and power that tasted of life.

Fingers still in her hair, Raphael shook his head. “It tastes of us.”

Her eyes widened before she nodded. “Yes.” The wildfire that lived in him, it was formed of both of them, a strange alchemy no one who knew could understand. “I don’t think Lijuan could hurt your wings if these were your wings during a battle.”

“An intriguing idea, but unfortunately, I can’t control when they come and go.” His jaw tensed. “Lijuan is far ahead of me in that sense, appears to be able to take her noncorporeal form at will.”

Elena clenched her stomach, Aodhan going motionless beside them.

“The Cadre has decided that Zhou Lijuan is alive?” he asked.

Raphael shook his head. “We have decided nothing.” It was a gritted-out statement. “The answers are all there, hashed out in the first ten minutes. Favashi to take over Lijuan’s territory with Caliane offering assistance. But we must have consensus for this decision and Charisemnon is refusing to budge. He insists we leave Lijuan to run her territory as she sees fit.”

Elena bared her teeth; she wanted to stab the Archangel of Northern Africa in the eyes.

“Unfortunately,” Raphael said, moving his hand to curve it around the side of her neck, “we cannot cut off his head and just vote on his behalf until it grows back, or one of us may have tried it by now.”

“Is Charisemnon the only holdout?” She began to run her hand on the underside of his fiery wings.

A long exhale before Raphael said, “He is the most recalcitrant. Astaad continues to struggle with interfering in another archangel’s territory but is unwilling to let things go on as they are, especially given Jason’s information.”

His Legion mark sparked with white fire, glowing bright for a second, and when the mark settled, Elena felt feathers under her touch. His wings were once more white gold, but the left wing bore an astonishing scar of darker gold created when she shot him back during what might’ve been the scariest moment of her life.

He’d bled so much, this man who wasn’t supposed to be able to be hurt.

“Enough about that.” Tugging her close, he pressed a kiss to her temple. “Did you two discover anything?”

Elena forgot all about Lijuan and bloodlust and stabbing out Charisemnon’s eyes. “Aodhan.”

Reaching under the straps that crisscrossed his chest over his leathers, providing a brace for the double sword sheaths he wore on his back, Aodhan pulled out first the blade stick he’d borrowed, then the miniature. He held on to the former, putting the latter on the open hand she held out.





24


How could anyone have painted Elena so quickly?

An instant after the question passed through Raphael’s mind, he realized the woman in the miniature wasn’t Elena. Her eyes were a shimmering turquoise, her skin a darker gold than Elena’s. Her face, too, was narrower, more hawk than hunter. None of it took away from her startling beauty—or her startling resemblance to Raphael’s warrior.

“I think we can safely say that you are on the right track, Elena-mine.”

Hand trembling, Elena stared at the tiny canvas.

“If I may, Ellie.” Reaching for the miniature, Aodhan took it, turned it over, then lifted the blade stick with his other hand.

“Don’t damage it,” Elena cried out.

“I promise, I won’t. But sometimes, the artists will write of the subjects on the backs of these miniature pieces.”

A very careful insertion of the tip of the blade stick, an expert lift . . . and Aodhan had separated the miniature from the frame. Frowning, he looked down at the tiny writing on the back. “Majda,” he said. “I think that’s what it says.”