Archangel's Legion(59)

Archangel. Archangel. Archangel.

The voices around him continued to repeat that single word until he said, “Silence!” in a tone no one except Elena had ever disobeyed.

The voices cut off.

Rising above the field once more, his body unbroken and of the adult he now was, that splintered, scared boy long gone, he gave a second order. “Show yourselves.”





19





In answer came a sea of whispers, the actual words inaudible.

“Raphael.”

It was unexpected, that feminine voice. And it was one so familiar, he’d know it even in death, the wing that brushed over his own warrior black and vivid indigo kissed with midnight blue and the haunting shade of the sky just before dawn.

When he turned toward the sound of her voice, he saw that Elena’s body was translucent beside his, the colors of her like running water. Death rubies ringed her neck, cherry-dark gemstones created of his hardened blood.

That was wrong. Elena would never wear such.

“What the—” Reaching up, she tore off the necklace with a shudder, the blood gemstones falling soundlessly to the green, green grass. “Where are we?”

“The field where I fought my mother.” He took her hand, and it was warm, alive, though she remained formed of glass.

“It’s beautiful.”

Looking through her eyes as the dawn sun played over the verdant grass, bathing the trees in a golden glow and highlighting the flowers he’d watched bud, then bloom, he saw the truth of her words, but for him it remained—would always remain—a place of pain and death and loss.

“My mother walked away, her feet crushing the flowers, as the insects licked at my blood.” The tiny creatures had died, his blood too rich. Then had come the birds, curious about this winged being on the ground. “The birds sat with me for hours, brought me berries as if I were a fledgling fallen out of the nest.” He’d forgotten that under the weight of the horror. “I couldn’t eat for many days, my jaw and facial bones in splinters.”

“This is a very sad place.” A single tear rolling down his consort’s cheek. “You should wake up now.”

His lashes lifted to see the skylight above their bed, the moonless sky luminous with stars, but that wasn’t what he wanted in his sight. Turning, he wiped away the tear that marked Elena’s golden skin as she lay with her eyes open beside him, and he thought he should be surprised that so young an angel had managed to invade the dream of an archangel—but this was his hunter, who had never done what she should.

“You were in my dream.”

She spread her wing so it covered him, her hand on his shoulder. As if she would protect him. “It was sad and terrible and beautiful, what I saw in you there.”

“It was like that the day I fought my mother. Sad and terrible . . . and beautiful. She sang to me in the sky, did I tell you?”

A shake of his consort’s head, her hair wild silk under his hand.

“Her voice is a gift and a weapon, a sound so pure it can break a heart or heal it.” He’d seen angels fall to their knees, overcome with the wonder of Caliane’s song, their eyes shining wet. “That day, she sang a song she used to sing to me in childhood and I wanted to forget the reason I had tracked her.”

For that haunting fragment of time, he’d seen not the monster Caliane had become, but the mother who had kissed away his childhood hurts. “The sky fractured with wonder . . . then it fractured with power.” It had been an uneven battle from the start, the child not yet full-grown against an Ancient.

Elena pressed her lips to his biceps, her body a warm kiss against his own. “The whispers in your dream, did you hear them as you fought your mother?”

“No, I was alone with Caliane.” Then simply alone.

“I wonder who they are?”

He didn’t remind her it had been but a dream, for that would’ve been a lie when he felt the strangeness of it in his blood. “Sleep, Elena. We have a long journey ahead.”

She didn’t speak, but he knew she didn’t sleep, either, not until dawn touched the horizon. And he understood she continued to fence with the bone-chilling fear he’d seen in her eyes as she stood in the bathroom attempting to wipe away a spot of dirt that couldn’t be erased. It was a fear sad and terrible in what it demanded from her . . . and beautiful in what it said of who he was to her.


• • •


The first thought in Elena’s mind when she woke was of the speck on Raphael’s temple, fear a dull gnawing in her heart. Shoving the ugly feeling into a tiny corner where it didn’t threaten to paralyze her, she concentrated on making a mental list of Raphael’s strengths. He’d executed an archangel millennia older and Made an angel, for Christ’s sake—no disease would ever get the better of him.