Archangel's Heart(83)

He’d posed with the ecstatic performer, made Elena take a photo.

From what she could see, this marketplace, like Times Square, was a permanent installation, little shops set snugly against one another with sloping roofs that extended several feet out to provide shade for the goods displayed in front of the shops. Sunshine rained down on the entire area, but some clever town planner had left room for a number of large trees that provided shoppers with shade, meaning they’d linger.

Circling the largest tree was a wooden bench on which she glimpsed men and women sitting and chatting as they drank something. Fresh mint tea, she hoped, her mouth watering at the memory of the taste that was an integral aspect of her impression of Morocco.

The marketplace wasn’t only a single street but set out in a ragged wheel, the spokes uneven in length. At the end of the longest spoke, the one that went to the very western edge of the town and had no homes around it, she glimpsed—and caught a whiff of—a tannery. Other stores or industries that created noxious fumes or smells were probably also located near that edge, similarly to how larger cities separated out their industrial districts from retail or residential areas.

The people below all looked up as Elena and the others passed, but no one waved. In fact, they seemed to go oddly immobile. Angelstruck? No, Elena thought. Those humans who were so in awe of angels as to become enthralled into a frozen state by their presence were rare.

The reaction could just be surprise: the Luminata wouldn’t often—if ever—fly out here, since their whole deal was to find their way to luminescence by contemplation while encased in their pristinely controlled environment. Haggling with mortals and being faced with the harsh realities of life didn’t exactly fit into that, no matter how you cut it.

It had to be the guard squadron that got supplies and anything else Lumia might need. But the guards were angels, too. So why this disturbing reaction? And where were the town’s own resident angels?

Continuing on past the marketplace, their entire group flew to the very edge of the town, where once again, the homes became farther apart and green fields became a mainstay. Tasha was at the leading edge, and when she turned, the rest of them followed suit. Elena wasn’t sure if everyone wanted to land, but she had no intention of leaving here without speaking to the townspeople.

With that in mind, she angled her way toward the marketplace once they got closer to the center of the town. The flyers in front of her kept going before someone glanced back and started a chain reaction. By the time she came down on her feet in the center of the marketplace—by the tree circled by the wooden bench—it looked as if everyone had decided to join her.

Elena glanced up at the dusty blue of the sky and hoped Aodhan wouldn’t feel compelled to land. He might be okay with small touches from those he most trusted, but he’d hate the marketplace, be hurt by it. Better for him to stay aloft and alert her if there was a problem.

A rush of sound as the angels landed . . . and then shimmering quiet.

That ghost that was haunting her, it walked over Elena’s grave again. Because it wasn’t surprise she glimpsed on the faces around them. No, it was a far darker emotion, one that pushed bone white against skin that shaded from deepest browns to sunny golds, and that made people’s breath come in ragged beats.

Fear?

Wings folded back tight to take up as little space as possible, she watched the other angels begin to explore. Nearest to the landing area were fruit and spice stalls, with other goods spreading out behind them. Instead of walking on, Elena shifted to under the canopy of the sitting tree as if she just wanted to be out of the sun, and tried to tune into the whispers around her.

She didn’t know why she was wasting her time—she didn’t speak or understand Moroccan Arabic beyond a few words that her mother had passed on to her, those words ones Marguerite’s own mother had spoken often to her. That Marguerite remembered anything at all was a miracle, given how young she’d been orphaned.

But the words Elena’s mother had remembered were almost all ones of love, ones a doting mother would say to a cherished child. Marguerite had been loved, deeply so, that truth a distant but potent memory that had allowed Elena’s mother to survive foster care with her soul undamaged.

“. . . Raphael . . .”

The single word sliced right through her preoccupation.

Looking to her left, she caught the eyes of the slender teenage boy who’d been speaking. Maybe fifteen or sixteen at the most, he paled under the light brown of his skin, his hazel-brown eyes going huge. “What about Raphael?” she said with a smile.

If anything, the boy paled even further, while his friends looked at her as if just waiting for her to pull out a crossbow and punch a bolt through the boy’s heart, leaving him broken and bleeding on the dry earth.