“I say the same, Elena.” Hannah’s response was made in a voice clear and musical, the two women’s hands touching. “I came to the Refuge especially to see you, you know, but Raphael was remorselessly protective and did not trust me at all. He was right—had I seen your wings up close, I would’ve hounded you until you agreed to sit for me.”
Face alight, Elena drew the shorter woman in the direction of the house, Hannah’s gown of deep bronze brushing against her own. “I was as graceless as a baby bird when I first woke and irritable about it,” she confessed. “I’d have been a dreadful subject.”
Raphael didn’t hear Hannah’s answer, the two women having moved a small distance away, but their mingled laughter floated on the air. “I’m not so sure we’ve done the right thing in bringing together the only two consorts in the Cadre,” he said to Elijah as they followed in the women’s wake.
“Ah, but could we have stopped it?”
Exchanging a glance with the other archangel that would’ve been understood by no other in the Cadre, he led the other man through the main doors, the dinner to take place in the sprawling formal living area/dining room off the hallway. Soaring ceiling, hand-polished floor of rare wood, and arching windows that drenched the room in sunlight or moonlight depending on the time of day, it was a room meant to impress.
Elena had taken one look at it, in the days after she moved in, and said, “We’re eating at the table by the library windows, where I can talk to Your Archangelness without needing a megaphone.”
Did you bring your megaphone, Guild Hunter? he asked, aware of Montgomery and his staff clearing away, having quietly carried in champagne and canapés.
A narrow-eyed glance over her shoulder. Where exactly would I put it in this dress? I couldn’t even figure out a way to wear panties without ruining the line of the slinky thing.
Raphael’s blood heated as Hannah said, “Elijah, look,” her voice potent with wonder.
Grabbing her consort’s hand, the dark-haired woman tugged him to the glorious painting of the Refuge that dominated the far end of the room. It ran across the entire wall and was a study in painful blue and piercing white over rocky gray, but for the wings of the angels flying above the city, each painted in intricate detail.
“This is Dahariel.” Hannah brushed her fingers reverently over wings patterned like an eagle’s, and Raphael knew her admiration wasn’t for the named angel but for the artist who’d captured him on canvas. “And, oh, it’s Galen with three of Jessamy’s little ones.”
“This is the Hummingbird’s work.”
“No, it is Aodhan’s,” Hannah said in response to Elijah’s murmur.
Scowling, Elijah leaned closer to the work. “Where’s the signature?”
“Neither one signs their work in the usual fashion.” Hannah scowled back at her consort. “We must find the clue in the image.”
You are wearing no panties with another male in the room? Raphael ran his hand down Elena’s spine and over her lower curves, searching for lines and finding nothing but firm feminine flesh. You truly aren’t.
Elena’s shoulders shook, deep creases in her cheeks. Oh, my God, you’re scandalized! Eyes tearing up in the effort to fight her laughter, she pressed her hands to his chest and stared down at the floor. Should I tell you I did find a way to wear a knife? In a thigh sheath.
Of course you did. What do panties matter so long as you have your steel.
Stop it! Her shoulders shook harder, the diamond-studded pin that anchored the knot at the nape of her neck catching the light as her touch seared him through the crisp white of his formal shirt. I’m trying to be elegant and graceful and consortlike.
Cupping her nape, he squeezed. Our guests are about to turn.
Refusing to look at Raphael for fear any eye contact would set her off, Elena walked with the other couple into the living area of the large open-plan space.
“This is a lovely room.” Hannah took a seat on an elegant gold settee, as Elena had learned the piece of furniture was called, her wings flowing gracefully around the back support. The other woman’s feathers were a deep, luxuriant cream with blushes of peach on the primaries and appeared so lushly soft that Elena was tempted to commit social suicide, sneak a touch.
“The little tables there,” Hannah said as Elena fought the uncivilized and very unconsortlike impulse, “who was the designer?”
“I’m going to have to fess up and admit ignorance.” Elena showed her empty palms from the opposite settee. “I’m afraid I’d get a D in that aspect of consort life.”