Darrell didn’t lower his own gun an inch until Elena slid hers back into the holster.
“The Guild,” she said to Honey, in an effort to defuse the tension, “will pay for the damage.”
The other woman rolled pretty hazel eyes set in a Botticelli face. “I’ll send them a bill. Now shut the damn door and come in before you get me kicked out of my apartment. I’ll make coffee.”
“Ellie found out about the weapons,” Ransom said to Darrell after the redhead disappeared down the hallway. “We were afraid you were planning to go on a rampage.”
“I thought about it.” A flat statement, his skin several shades lighter than his grandmother’s, eyes a dark gray. “It was when I started working out the best vantage points for a sniper that I locked all weapons except this one in my gun safe, changed the combination blind so I couldn’t open it without a blowtorch, and came here.”
“Whatever your excuse,” Elena said, tone hard because Darrell needed it to be hard, “you should’ve checked in with the Guild—and your gran.”
It was her final statement that got his attention, his eyes tortured. “I knew she’d be able to tell I was in trouble, and she’s so sick. I didn’t want to worry her.”
Elena threw him her phone, unable to forget the trembling of Ms. Flaherty’s hands. “Do it now.”
The smell of coffee filtered into the air just as he finished the call, and Honey padded back to the entranceway. “Y’all planning to come in and visit, or just stand around looking badass?”
Elena grinned, deciding she liked the other woman, just as Ransom folded his arms high on his chest. “I’m always up for looking badass.”
“Except for the hair, right?” Darrell said, a glint in his eye.
Ransom showed him the finger and all at once there was no more tension.
A half hour and a cup of coffee later, Darrell turned himself in to the Guild, ready to undergo a psych evaluation and to actually cooperate with the counselor. It was a small win for the good guys, but Elena would take it. Now she had to fly home and do her best to help Raphael forge an alliance that could mean the safety of hundreds of thousands, the scale of death that might result from an archangelic war incomprehensible.
• • •
After a day that had involved countless subtle strategic moves as he positioned his city in readiness to defend against an attack from an unknown enemy, Raphael stood beside his consort on the lawn of their home, watching Elijah and Hannah come in to land. The other pair had decided to stay at an undisclosed location about an hour’s flight from the Enclave, though they’d notified Raphael the instant they crossed over into his territory.
“It’s like a courtship, isn’t it?” Elena murmured, her flowing gown of blue-green silk a cool kiss of spring in the arms of winter. “Both of you being so well behaved and formal.”
I understand the allusion, hbeebti, but perhaps you can find another term. He brushed his wing over her own, pleased to see she appeared to carry no residual soreness. I have no desire to court Elijah.
Amusement in a face that showed only the faintest touch of immortality, the transition far too slow to protect her from the dangers on the horizon. Yet Elena was not one to sit in safety. No, his hunter would fight beside him, come what may. That was who she was, as he was an archangel who’d battle to the death to protect his own.
“Elijah” he said, once the visiting couple had folded away their wings, “my consort and I welcome you.”
“We are glad to be here, Raphael.” Elijah’s gaze met his before he turned to acknowledge Elena with a formal bow of his head, his aristocratic profile the inspiration to countless sculptors over the millennia of his existence, his hair golden against skin of a paler gold.
Raphael made the introductions, was unsurprised when Elena greeted Elijah with warmth and poise, despite her reservations about “not knowing which fork to use,” as she’d put it. Then, before he could warn her that protocol between two consorts dictated she must call Hannah by her title of Consort until invited otherwise, she smiled and said, “I’m so happy to meet you at last, Hannah.”
Elijah’s consort beamed and held out her hands instead of taking insult, her exuberant black curls swept back with jeweled combs, the ebony of her skin glowing in the red-orange of sunset. The storm clouds had passed with only a single heavy shower and the air tasted of ozone, clean and fresh, erasing any final traces of the blood that had soaked into the earth on which they stood . . . but the scar remained. No one would ever forget the day the angels fell.