Archangel's Heart

“Yes. I wouldn’t trust your senses with him or any of the Luminata.”

Elena nodded. She might only be a “baby” angel, but she’d learned lessons in her mortal life that stood her in good stead in the immortal world. One of those lessons was that, sometimes, the worst dangers wore a pretty or “trustworthy” face. Slater Patalis had been as handsome as sin.

Chest tight as they went up another flight, she said, “So?”

Aodhan’s only response was a slight nod.

Exhaling in a rush, Elena spread her wings. “Okay, I’ve had enough stair climbing.” From this height and configuration of exhibit levels and staircases, she could drop down then wing her way back up, making it appear as if she was simply taking in a lower level before flying up.

Aodhan waited for her to spread her wings and fall before he followed. He’d clearly figured out what she planned to do, mimicked her exactly—as if, as her escort, he’d been warned of her intent. They winged up beat by beat, no air currents here to ride. Reaching the exhibit where they’d originally found Hannah, they saw she was still there, only on the other side of the staircase.

Xander stood next to her, Valerius having taken a seat on a beautifully carved wooden bench not far away. It was clearly meant to offer a place from where to contemplate a particular piece of art, but the general was currently polishing his sword, which he usually wore across his back.

Cristiano was seated on the ground, playing a knife through his hands as he chatted to Valerius.

Elena felt her lips tug up at the corners. Yeah, she could only take so much of museums and galleries, too. “Xander,” she said as she walked closer. “You enjoying the Gallery?”

The young male flushed a little, reminding her once again of Izak. “I’m afraid I am more fond of the physical arts.” He turned red almost as soon as the words were out.

It took her a moment to figure out why.

Laughing, she patted him on the arm. “Don’t worry, kid, in this company, we understand you were talking about knives and swords and fists.” Michaela, on the other hand, would’ve probably eaten him alive for that slip. “Even Hannah has her specialty weapon.”

“My paint knives,” Hannah said proudly. “I can sever a jugular with one now.”

Xander stared at the elegantly gowned woman as if she’d grown another head. “But you’re a consort.”

Scowling, Hannah waved a slender hand at Elena. “So is she.”

“Yes. But she was a hunter first. You were an artist.”

Elena just pointed at Aodhan, renowned for his artistry and the fact he was a warrior both.

Swallowing, Xander nodded. “I meant no offense.”

So young, Elena thought, struck once again by how a being could live a hundred years and still be a youth. Angelkind, she’d come to learn, developed at a different pace, children remaining children for decades, their brains and bodies maturing in line with the eternity they were intended to survive.

Sweet Sameon, whom she’d met soon after waking and with whom she talked at least once a week, was still much the same little boy though several years had passed. It would take up to ten years for him to show distinct development. It made Elena an anomaly that she’d lived less than any angelic youth, and yet was very much an adult.

Human lives burned hotter, faster.

“None taken,” Aodhan said, as Hannah added, “In truth, a few years ago, you would’ve been right—I didn’t believe I needed weapons. But”—sadness a heavy note in her voice—“the world is changing.” She reached out to touch her fingers to one of Xander’s hands, her nails painted a translucent shade that caught the light. “You know that better than anyone.”

Xander glanced away, blinking rapidly.

Elena felt for him. He’d lost his mom and dad in a single strike. That he’d discovered his grandfather was awake might cushion that loss, but not enough, never enough. Some hurts were forever.

Leaving him to get himself under control because pride was pride and grief didn’t always need an audience, she moved to stand next to Hannah. “What are you looking at now?”

“An illustrated manuscript.” She traced the beauty of the graceful script through the glass. “Stunning, is it not?”

“Hmm. I’ve seen better.”

Hannah glared at her. “When will I get to see the Grimoire?”

“When you go to the Refuge.” The only reason Elena had seen the ancient book Naasir had found for Andromeda was because the couple had come to New York a year earlier. Normally, the Grimoire lay in Jessamy’s keeping at the Refuge Library, but as the one who’d unearthed it, Naasir had exerted his right to travel with it.

According to him, he’d had to “fight” Jessamy for it, in the end resorting to stealing it out from under her nose and leaving a note in its place promising its return.

Jessamy had threatened to strangle Naasir.

He’d just looked smug and pointed out it was Andromeda’s Grimoire, on loan to the Library. Andi, in turn, had told him to behave, though she’d been laughing at the time. The memory of Naasir’s unrepentant smugness—and of the possessive, wild kiss he’d taken from Andi, leaving his mate breathless—had Elena grinning despite the tension in her gut.

“Hey”—she nudged Hannah’s shoulder with her own when her friend pretended to ignore her—“at least it’s not entombed in Lumia, accessible to only the rarest of the rare.” With the corner of her eye, she noticed Aodhan speaking to Xander, saw that the young male was paying attention.