The neck wound had closed first, his immortal body concentrating its efforts on the most dangerous threat. His damaged wing had come next, but while Aodhan could fly short distances, and had been encouraged to do so by the healers in order to strengthen the weak new muscle, it’d be several more weeks before he could return to full flight status.
His broken bones had healed, but his left arm, as the most minor injury in immortal terms, had only regenerated partway to his elbow at this stage. It was currently covered by a neatly pinned white shirtsleeve in deference to the fact that cold could sometimes retard healing by diverting the body’s resources into generating warmth.
It spoke to the power in Aodhan’s veins that he’d healed at such speed. Most angels his age would’ve still been bed-bound, their recovery counted in months, not weeks. The best news, however, had nothing to do with Aodhan’s physical health. No, it had to do with a slow but deep healing of the soul.
Illium’s voice broke into Dmitri’s assessment of the injured angel. “I think our honored second is stalling. Why does the memory of the steel hand in a velvet glove that is Favashi make you gnash your teeth?”
“It’s not the memory of Favashi that aggravates me.” Dmitri scowled. “It’s the memory of my own stupidity.” The female archangel had nearly manipulated him into becoming her personal weapon.
Dmitri had no argument with being the blade of the person he loved—he was lethal and there was honor in protecting that which was precious to the heart and the soul. He did have a problem with being used for a fool. “It took me far too long to see through her machinations.” He ate another grape. “At least Michaela wears her self-interest and narcissism openly, while Favashi pretends to be kindness and grace while having the soul of a cobra.”
Aodhan shook his head. “She did nothing a male archangel wouldn’t do in seeking to secure a strong immortal to his court. It is wrong of you to compare her to Michaela.”
Dmitri knew Aodhan was right; immortal politics didn’t permit any but the ruthless to survive. In truth, Favashi and Michaela had little in common beyond their gender. Yet the whole idea of manipulating strong immortals into service continued to irritate him. “We all serve Raphael of our own free will. You’d think the lesson would be clear.”
Hair glittering diamond bright even in the muted light, Aodhan said, “You forget, Dmitri. Raphael is yet considered young. We are an experiment—most of the old ones expect you in particular to rise up and rebel any day now.”
Aodhan had always been closest to Illium, Dmitri over five hundred years old when Aodhan was born. So he hadn’t realized until now how much he’d missed the angel. Aodhan had always seen the world through an incisive lens, something that was visible in his artwork.
“Sometimes,” Dmitri said, “I think I’ll never understand angelkind.” A thousand years he’d been by Raphael’s side—with minor deviations along the way—and still people refused to believe that theirs wasn’t only the relationship of an archangel and his second, but a friendship.
“You aren’t alone,” Aodhan said. “I think some of the old ones have become so insular, so ensconced within their coterie of like-minded friends, that they no longer grow. They are like the butterflies Lijuan kept pinned to her walls.”
In contrast, Raphael lived in the center of one of the world’s most vibrant cities, his Seven traveled continents on a regular basis, and, critically, both Dmitri and his sire had fallen for extraordinary women whom angelkind did not truly understand.
One old angel had said, “Your wife is beautiful,” to Dmitri, a puzzled look on his face. “But why did you marry her? Would she not have served better as a concubine?”
The only reason Dmitri hadn’t ended the other man’s life then and there had been the true confusion in the question. The angel had no comprehension of love, and that was a tragedy so terrible, Dmitri could offer no harsher punishment. Love had savaged him once, but it had also given him the greatest joys of his life.
The memory of his children’s sweet faces might be painful beyond bearing, but no evil could ever steal the tender joy that was the sensory echo of holding them in his arms, of Misha’s laughter and Caterina’s gurgling smile. And then had come Honor, bringing with her an incandescent light.
“I think you’re right about the hidebound old ones,” he said to the angel across from him. “Now, Sparkle, are you intending to move or do you concede defeat?”
Aodhan was, in many ways, the most even-tempered of all the Seven. So when he looked up with eyes glowing and power crackling at his fingertips, it was an unexpected sight. Especially given the lighthearted provocation. Then the angel smiled slowly and moved a single piece on the board. “Check. And mate.”
Dmitri looked down in disbelief. “No,” he said, trying to figure out how Aodhan had pulled off the impossible.
“There, there,” said a new voice. “You can beat me and feel better about your skills.”
All three of them looked up and muttered various imprecations, Illium’s the most creative welcome. Naasir bared his teeth in return, silver eyes reflecting the candlelight.
“How the fuck did you get into the city without alerting any of the sentries?” Dmitri had put the entire security team, as well as the general warrior population, on high alert. This time around, he’d also alerted the Guild to be on the lookout, his respect for their abilities having grown during the course of the battle.
It was all part of a game Naasir had been playing with the others in the Seven for centuries. As a child, when he’d first been brought to Raphael’s stronghold, he’d tended to lie in wait below Dmitri’s desk or pounce from the top of the bookshelves in the stronghold library, giggling like a maniac when he was found out—or when he captured his “prey.”
Naasir had been tiny then, as small as Misha had been when he died. Four in human terms, but he’d lived three decades by then. Still, he’d been a child. A feral one, but a child nonetheless, and the game was one of the few things he did that was free from the rage inside his small body. So Dmitri had let him play, Raphael in agreement with his decision.
As Naasir grew from babe to boy, he’d found it funny to sneak into places where he shouldn’t be—on one memorable occasion, he’d decided to infiltrate Lijuan’s dining room. He’d apparently been seated at the head of the table pretending to eat a live pet cat when the Archangel of China discovered him. Lijuan, relatively normal back then, had found the incident amusing, and Naasir had escaped with his life.