“It hurts, but the injuries are healing faster than anticipated.” The woman’s dark eyes went to where Raphael was speaking with two other wounded fighters, one an angel, the other a vampire. “The sire is responsible for that.”
Elena didn’t nod, didn’t need to. Raphael’s ability to heal remained nascent, but it was shaving days, sometimes weeks off the recovery time of the injured. According to Keir, what Raphael was doing wasn’t healing as he knew it. Keir’s current theory was that Raphael was sharing power.
Lijuan, Elena thought, shared death. Raphael shared life.
His eyes met hers across the width of the room at that instant, and she saw pride burning in his gaze, the same pride that filled her veins. For their people, who had survived the unimaginable with their spirits intact; for their city, that had stood strong against an unprovoked attack. There was no need for either of them to articulate that. They saw and understood each other in a way few people ever did, mortal or immortal.
For her, love would only ever have a single face, and it was his.
44
Janvier tracked Keir down three hours into the party. Catching the healer’s eye, he ducked out into a small room off the corridor.
This, what he had to ask, it was a private thing, an important thing.
“Janvier.” Keir’s wings made a whisper of sound in the doorway. “I am glad to see you are not dead yet.”
Janvier tried to smile at the old joke, but the urgency of what he had to ask tore at him too desperately to allow for levity.
Keir’s expression altered, wise eyes in an ageless face turning solemn. “What is it?”
“You can’t speak about it to anyone else.”
“I will not.” It was the oath of a healer. “Not even should the Cadre ask.”
Hope a white-hot flame inside him, he said, “It’s about Ash.”
• • •
Ashwini felt a prickle on the back of her neck that told her Janvier was near, even before Honor said, “Here comes your Cajun.” A shoulder nudge from her best friend, the two of them having spent the past half hour talking. “I’m off to debauch my deliciously sexy husband—you should do the same with Janvier.”
Janvier slid down beside her as Honor left; his thigh pressed against hers, strong and warm, the city spread out below them.
“I thought you went to catch up with your friends from out of town.” He’d brought her a cocktail earlier, danced with her on the roof, then slipped away while she chatted with Honor. Naasir had prowled off before that, in full mate-hunting mode.
“I was speaking to Keir.”
“I didn’t realize you two were friends.”
Janvier took her hand, his expression unexpectedly serious. “I’m going to tell you something, cher, and I want you to listen. Don’t dismiss it out of hand. Promise me.”
A tremor shook her on the inside, incited by the fear that he’d ask her to embrace vampirism after all, but her trust in him was stronger than her dread of endless madness. “I promise.”
Leaning forward with his forearms braced on his thighs and his eyes on the angels flying over the city, he said, “I know why you don’t want to become a vampire. An illness of the mind can last centuries for those of my kind.”
Relief rained over her senses. “I could live millennia as a broken shadow.” It was her worst nightmare.
“There’s Dmitri,” he said in an apparent non sequitur. “Do you see him?”