Archangel's Legion(82)

“Got it!” Managing to catch a throw that would’ve otherwise hit the center of the cheering crowd, she fired it high and to the left . . . where it was intercepted by an angel with eyes of splintered green and wings of icy sunlight. When he rocketed the ball toward Illium using his left hand, the blue-winged angel tumbled head over feet from the force of the powerful missile before thrusting up his hand with a grin, ball firmly in his grasp.

Elena and the other three players exchanged looks and silently retired from the game, their chests heaving as they took a seat on the edge of the nearest roof, happy to watch Aodhan and Illium showcase their extraordinary skills in the air. “Have you seen them do anything like this before?” she said to the angel beside her, an older squadron commander she’d never seen laugh before today.

“Not for two centuries.” The solemnity of his response was erased by his roar of approval when Aodhan scooped up the ball as it actually hit the water and fired it back over his shoulder without looking, his body and wings turning him into a living diamond under the piercing winter sunlight.

Stunning, Elena thought, just as her phone vibrated with an incoming message from Sara. Illium caught the ball before it would’ve hit the roof of a car crossing a nearby bridge, but his body appeared to be on a collision course with a bus. Someone screamed, but the blue-winged angel executed a perfect turn through the girders of the bridge to launch a throw that sent Aodhan flying backward with the might of it.

Ransom is taking bets on which of the two “pretty boys” loses the ball first.

Elena grinned and messaged back: Put me down as backing Illium to win. Aodhan’s too well behaved to expect Bluebell’s more sneaky moves.

Turned out she was wrong. Aodhan seemed to know Illium’s tricks inside out and vice versa. By the time it ended in a draw caused by the recall of both players to the Tower, the city had well and truly awakened to the fact that there was an extraordinary new angel in their midst. The horrifying news of a bloodred Hudson had been relegated to a secondary news item, the entire city—heck, the entire country—in fascinated discussion about Aodhan and, of course, the game.

Every single channel had roped in a baseball commentator to discuss the angels’ technique, and speculation was rife about a possible rematch, with the Manhattan-based reporters smug as cats in the cream as they said, “Watch this space for further news about our angels.”

“I’d say Illium’s ploy was a success,” she said to Raphael later that night, in the privacy of the large bath in their Tower suite. “Aodhan’s appearance topped it off.”

“He surprised all of us.” Raphael no longer looked as “other” as he had after the river ran red, but every so often she’d hear a hint of those strange whispers in his voice. “Why are you sitting so far?” he asked now, his arms spread along the tiled edge of the tub the size of a small pool. “I assure you, I haven’t been overcome by the urge to make the dead walk.”

Floating across to him, she rested her hands on his thighs below the waterline. “The power, it’s holding?” No matter if it freaked her out, he needed to grow stronger if he was to stand against the others.

A darkness in the cerulean blue, shadows shifting under the sea. “No. It filled me to overflowing, but it has drained away ever since. I will return to myself by dawn.”

“Damn.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, quite. If I need to wait for another extraordinary event to taste such strength, we may, as you put it, be screwed. Especially given the other factor.”

Eyes going to his right temple, she said, “Show me,” having kept her silence in Amanat for fear his enemies would get wind of what might be a sign of fatal weakness.

Raphael removed the mask of glamour to reveal the speck, except it was no longer a speck. It had spread in a fine line over the bone, become about an inch long. And—“Raphael.” Heart stuttering, she touched her finger to his skin. “It’s turned a deep, deep red.”

Terror sought to squeeze the breath out of her chest. Fighting it, she found her voice again. “It doesn’t look swollen or infected, though, more like ink beneath your skin.” Except, unlike his spymaster, Raphael didn’t have a facial tattoo. “Do you feel anything?”

“There is no weakness, no sense of sickness.” He ran the back of his hand over her breast, his knuckle touching her nipple. “It’s done no harm thus far.” Both hands sliding down her rib cage to her waist, he brought her over his thighs, his erection rubbing against her, the blunt steel making her nails dig into his shoulders.