At times, Raphael’s hunter consort surprised him with her perceptiveness about mortals and immortals both. “The Luminata,” he replied, “they’re not and have never been like my mystic or your holy man. Their members join after at least one thousand years of existence—no one younger is permitted to become an initiate. And by that stage, they are used to a certain way of life.”
“I get it.” Elena swept down on a wind current, her joy in flight an incandescent light he could nearly touch. The deep blue of her sleeveless gown glittered in the sun, almost as bright as the blade that glinted with jewels high on her arm.
Her hair was a shining banner of silken near-white.
Montgomery had done well, having chosen a gown with a sleek and tight silhouette that caught no air and created very little drag, but the skirts of which Elena could unzip at the sides once on the ground, freeing up her stride. There was also a cunning opening high up on her thigh on the right. It was only three inches and could be closed with tiny buttons that looked decorative.
But when open, it allowed Elena to wear her crossbow strapped to her thigh—as she was doing now. Not to mention the forearm gauntlets that held her throwing blades as well as a limited number of crossbow bolts, the long knife she wore against her spine under her dress, and the gun hidden in an ankle holster she wore over her boots.
Guild Hunter Elena Deveraux, Consort to the Archangel Raphael, would be landing at Lumia not as a pretty accessory as some older angels were apt to expect, but as a woman deadly in her own right.
Raphael smiled in grim satisfaction.
The Luminata have given up the world, his warrior consort said in his mind, but their version of giving up temptation is the comfortable immortal version rather than the austere mortal one.
Just so. Raphael moved to join Elena in her meandering flight over the landscape around Lumia. It was dead certain they were being watched—by the Luminata’s guard, by the Luminata themselves, by any archangels who’d arrived before them—but what did he have to hide? The world knew that the Archangel of New York loved his consort.
That he’d fly with her for no reason but to fly with her gave no one any extra ammunition. That didn’t mean he’d lower his guard. Not here. Not with the Luminata an unknown and the Cadre a danger he knew too well. Aodhan, stay high. Alert me of any approach.
I see other wings in the sky in the distance. A pause. Silver wings. Solid silver.
Alexander. No one else in angelkind had wings like those of the Ancient who was once again the Archangel of Persia. Is he alone?
No. I see two other pairs of wings. I will need to get closer to identify them.
Stay with us. He wanted any watchers to be aware that his consort would never be alone, because while he knew Elena could defend herself, he also knew immortals had a tendency to see her mortal heart first, her weapons second. We’ll find out soon enough. Then he rose high, only to drop down beside Elena in a hard, fast dive that required precision timing.
“Show-off.” Admiration glinted in her eyes.
And he felt young again, as he felt only with Elena. Not the archangel responsible for millions of lives, mortal and immortal, but a man with his lover. Raphael with Elena. “I must not disappoint our audience.”
“Good point.” Elena pulled her crossbow free, retrieved a bolt from the forearm gauntlets Deacon had modified for her so she could carry five bolts on her even when it was impossible for her to wear a full quiver. “How about a game, since we’re early anyway?” She shot a bolt toward the earth without warning.
Raphael collapsed his wings, dropped like a bullet . . . and caught the bolt. Then he raced up to catch a second she shot across the sky, went sideways to catch a third.
The voice that came into his mind as he caught the final one, which she’d shot so close it nearly grazed his wing, was a familiar one. Ancient and commanding and with more than a touch of arrogance. My grandson has just fallen in love with your consort, Raphael. He tells me he wants a lover who shoots at him, too.
Lips curving, Raphael winged his way to Elena to return her bolts to her. As she slotted them away, having already strapped on her crossbow with the ease of long practice, he told her what Alexander had said. She grinned, the wind sweeping her hair back from her face. “Boy has good taste.”
Alexander and his grandson—named Xander, in honor of his grandfather—were now visible in the distance. Alexander’s golden hair and silver wings marked him out well before the Ancient came close enough for his face to be clear. As for Xander, he was an amalgam of his parents but he was also very clearly Alexander’s grandson.
His hair was a rich, dark brown, his skin a brown so light it was dark gold, and his wings a deep black that faded into darkest brown with touches of gold—but spread out, those wings bore an underside of purest silver.
Your grandson flies well, he said to Alexander. I’m surprised you brought him with you. At two hundred, Xander was young, green, and Alexander had already lost his son.
Sire, Aodhan said at the same instant. Alexander’s third. I recognize him. Valerius.
The name was familiar to Raphael: Valerius was one of Alexander’s most loyal angelic generals, a man who’d been loyal to that family line for so long that to think of Valerius was to think of Alexander. You break the Luminata’s laws?
Alexander was close enough that Raphael could see the shake of his head. The children of the Cadre are always permitted to any such meeting, so long as they are less than two and a half centuries of age. Anger and sorrow hardened his features. My son is dead, so my grandson is permitted to attend.