by Nalini Singh
A passing woman dressed in a gauzy gown in a sweet shade of peach—pretty but no doubt chilly with the shield down—lowered her eyes the instant she glimpsed Elena.
Why is it every time we come here, she said, uncomfortable with the response, everyone treats me like . . .
Royalty? Because you are.
Her shoulders tightened. It was one thing to know she was consort to an archangel, another to be treated like a power when she knew full well that many of those who bowed their heads to her had far more power in their little fingers than she had in her whole “baby angel” body. Caliane doesn’t like me. It made the formal respectfulness even more unsettling.
In fact, Elena added, turning right to follow an otherwise deserted pathway when Naasir indicated the Ancient waited in that direction, she’d probably be delighted if Naasir indulged his carnivorous instincts.
My mother is an archangel of old. Whatever her opinions of our relationship, she would never air the family’s dirty laundry in public.
Have I told you how much I hate all these stupid polite rules? Scowling, she reached the end of the path . . . and the breath rushed out of her: In front of her was a small pond fed by a waterfall so elegant its sound was delicate music. Flowers grew riotously around the water, the area a carpet of bluebells that reminded her of Illium.
Only a single stone bench disturbed the blue-green of the natural carpet, and on it sat an archangel of breathtaking beauty, her hair as black as night and her wings a sweep of pure white. The crushed sapphires of her eyes seemed full of an aching sadness when she turned to see who disturbed her peace, but the dazzling joy that lit up her face at seeing Raphael soon eclipsed what had gone before.
“My son.” Rising, she walked to him through the bluebells, her wings trailing along the grass . . . and though she stepped on the flowers, they sprang back unscathed. It was a potent display of power, all the more so because Elena was certain Caliane was unaware of it, all her attention on Raphael.
When he bent to kiss her cheek, Elena saw Caliane’s eyes sheen wet. “Come.” She took his arm. “Let me show you how my city has grown since last we met.”
“Mother.” Quiet steel. “You do not greet my consort.”
“Guild Hunter.”
Elena felt the urge to check the air for frost, the greeting was so icy. I thought you said she was never rude, she muttered on the mental plane, even as she made a graceful bow courtesy of Illium’s tutoring skills.
It appears you are a special case.
Stifling a laugh at the cool response, Elena fell into step beside Naasir as Caliane drew Raphael ahead. She’d have to tell Sara about this—her best friend found her “mother-in-law problems” beyond hysterical. As a woman who’d never imagined she’d trust any male enough to tie her life to his, much less meet and deal with his mother, Elena found it cathartic to share the weirdness of this part of her life with Sara.
“Consort,” Naasir said, in that smooth voice she had the sense could become a lethal growl without warning, “there’s something the Sire has asked me to show you.”
She couldn’t read him. At all. It truly was like talking to a big, predatory beast that hadn’t yet decided whether to eat her. Palm itching, she gave in and drew a knife, playing it desultorily through her fingers like a damn security blanket. “What is it?”
“This way.” He waved to a narrower pathway to the left.
Raphael, I’m going off to parts unknown with this vampire who isn’t a vampire.
He has promised not to bite without warning.
Imagining the fiendish revenge she was going to take on Raphael for teasing her so mercilessly, she followed the silver-eyed male who continued to make her senses itch and her primal hindbrain crouch in readiness for flight. “Can I ask a question?”
No response, no reaction.
Deciding that didn’t mean no, she plowed on ahead. “Who Made you?” Venom, with his reptilian speed and the eyes of a viper, had been Made by the Queen of Snakes and Poisons; it could be that Naasir, too, carried the mark of the one who’d Made him . . . if he had been Made and wasn’t a wholly unknown creature.
“A long-dead angel who thought to own me,” was his enigmatic answer, the silver in his eyes almost liquid. “I tore out his throat. After that, I ate his liver and his heart. The remaining internal organs weren’t as tasty so I gave them to his other creatures.”
Elena’s hand tightened on the handle of the knife, conscious Naasir carried gleaming blades of his own in the sheaths strapped to his arms. “I wouldn’t think a vampire who killed an angel would be permitted to live.”
A slow, feral smile. “I didn’t say I killed him.”
Every single hair in her body stood up, the same instinct that had probably saved her ancestors from saber-toothed tigers telling her to run the fuck away! Fast!
Except they’d reached an old temple that hadn’t yet been repaired, parts of it tumbled and covered with creeping vines sprinkled with tiny star-shaped flowers of blue and white. The eerie vampire-maybe-not-vampire led her up the steps. His next words were pragmatic and so civilized, she could barely believe it was the same man who’d spoken about eating an angel’s liver and heart.
“I made this discovery several hours ago,” he said. “As it’s on the edge of the city, easy to police, I decided to wait to act until the Sire’s arrival.”
An angel whispered out of the shadows on the heels of his words, her wings white with a kiss of delicate green at the primaries, from what Elena could see, and her clothing similar to Elena’s own—except this woman’s pants were of some kind of strong brown fabric instead of leather, and her white top a flowing thing rather than the more fitted styles Elena preferred. She wasn’t yet expert enough at fighting with wings to risk tangling herself or her weapons up in froufrou clothes.
“Consort,” the other woman said. “I am Isabel.”
Naasir’s partner, Elena realized, situated here to give the vampire winged backup. “Elena,” she said and held out her hand, the other woman having been away from Amanat during Elena’s previous visits.
Isabel shook it with a smile, her eyes an extraordinary dark brown, her black hair pulled back in an elegant knot at the nape of her neck, and her skin a tawny gold that reminded Elena of paintings she’d seen of Egyptian goddesses. “I’ve made certain nothing was disturbed,” Isabel told her. “Those who ventured this way took little persuading to seek other pleasures.”
A slight shift in the winds that traveled through the temple, Isabel’s blouse shaped to her body for a fleeting second as Elena’s senses jacked into high gear. The scent of decay, putrefaction . . . and below it, of disease.
Not needing Isabel or Naasir to show her the way, Elena walked into the damaged building, the roof a filigree that created delicate patterns of light and shadow beneath her feet. At any other time, she would’ve lingered, taken photographs of the effect to share with Eve, her youngest half sister utterly fascinated by the lost city come to life in a land far from its original homeland.
Today, however, she followed the scent trail in a near-straight line to halfway across the temple. The woman was sitting with her back against one of the intricately carved columns, one hand cradled in a basket of dead flowers, the basket positioned in a way that made Elena think the victim had set it down herself, her body too tired to go any farther. She wore a dress of deep red silk that flattered her femininity without being sexual, the fabric vibrant against the rich cream of her ravaged skin.
There smell was distinctive but faint, the current cold in the city having preserved the victim as she’d died.
Girding her stomach against the rush of pity and anger, Elena crouched down, her wings spreading on the icy smoothness of the stone floor. A single glance was enough to confirm that the unusually small number of sores that marked the woman were visually identical to those on the bodies of the New York victims. No other obvious injuries, but that could be deceptive.
Sadness overwhelmed her as sh
e rose to her feet, the victim appearing a broken doll discarded by a careless child. Elena hoped she was now at peace, this lovely woman who’d spent a thousand years in Sleep, only to die before she’d ever explored the new world into which she’d awakened.
Leaving her sleeping against the stone, Elena walked out into the sunshine where Isabel awaited with Naasir. “How long was she missing?” she asked, walking down a few steps so she could spread her wings, needing to soak in the sunlight after the cold sadness within a temple clearly built to be a place of beautiful serenity.
“Eight hours at most.” Isabel’s tone was direct but it held the same heavy sadness that had seeped into Elena’s bones. “Amanat is a small, tight-knit city,” the angel continued, “and she shared a home with two cousins. They raised the alarm when she didn’t arrive home for their nightly meal.”
“Was she healthy before this?”
“It was taking her body longer to adjust to being out of Sleep than most.” Isabel walked down to join Elena in the sunlight. “As a result, though she was mortal and not averse to sharing her life force with the blood kin, she hadn’t fed anyone in many days.”
The latter comment made it clear Isabel and Naasir had stayed up-to-date with the discoveries they’d made about the disease. “Since you’ve had no other infected”—a quick glance at Isabel to confirm—“it likely means the enemy intended to use her as a carrier. Except that she was too weak to handle the virus.”
Isabel’s jaw firmed, eyes flint-hard. “Had she been stronger, she may not have understood she was sick until it was too late, thus infecting those she fed in good faith.”
Sad as the situation was, it did seem to confirm their theory that the disease could only be passed via a transfer of blood, and as Keir had stated, a certain amount of it. Otherwise, the archangel behind it wouldn’t bother with such a slow method of infection—one that meant he or she had to make contact with the human chosen as the carrier.
Of course, an archangel could wipe a mind, so it wasn’t that big a risk in the grand scheme of things, more an inconvenience. “Do Amanat’s people go outside the city walls at any time?”
Isabel’s nod was immediate. “Caliane has encouraged them to explore their new world, but they almost always go in groups and return together. Kahla, despite her relative weakness, was more intrepid—I can well imagine her going for a walk on her own.”
Kahla. Having a name, a glimpse into her spirit, made it worse.
“The timing,” Naasir said, speaking for the first time since Elena walked out of the temple, “cannot be a coincidence.”
“No.” Turning, she met both their gazes. “No one can know of this.” The archangel behind it had to believe he or she had failed in the attempt to infiltrate the city. “We also need to keep Caliane’s people within the walls for the time being.” From the sly cowardice of the attacks, Elena didn’t think the individual behind it would have the nerve to abduct and infect one of Caliane’s people in so public a setting.
“No one will leave.”
Elena didn’t push the vampire for an explanation as to how he intended to achieve that—Naasir might make her instincts bristle in self-protective warning, but he was one of the Seven for a reason. If there was one thing Elena knew about Raphael’s most trusted men, it was that they got the job done.
“And I,” Isabel said, “will quietly examine anyone who has been outside the walls within the last three days, in case our enemy touched more than one.” A glance back at the temple. “There is a volcano not far on the wing. I can carry Kahla to her final rest when night falls.”
Touched by the gentleness in Isabel’s tone, Elena nonetheless shook her head. “Keir will need to examine the body.” Frowning, she considered the logistics of it. “He’ll need to wait till after the ball to avoid arousing suspicion, but I’m guessing the shield’s going to go up soon as the overnighting guests are all in”—Isabel nodded at her questioning look—“which means the temperature will rise.” And Kahla would begin to rot.
“Amanat has no suitable refrigeration facility,” Isabel told her, “but there is a fishing village two hours to the east. I’ll have a local drive one of their refrigerated trucks into the forest where it’ll be concealed from sight and out of earshot.”
There in the cold, Elena thought, Kahla would sit alone while the city danced.
• • •
“I am sorry, Mother,” Raphael said, as Caliane walked with him through her city, her people offering him shy smiles, their eyes drenched with love when they landed on Caliane. “Naasir told me of the loss of one of your own.”
“Kahla was a sweet girl—lively as a small bird, inquisitive as one, too.” Sorrow deep and true, followed by a whiplash of fury. “It is cowardice to take an innocent life in such a way, with no claim to the honor of open combat.”
His mother, Raphael thought, would never believe she’d just echoed the words of the hunter who was Raphael’s consort. “We will unearth the perpetrator and make his cowardice known.” It was one thing to infect a volunteer from his or her own lands, another to attempt to use a maid who knew nothing of battle.
Caliane’s expression softened as she tilted her head back to meet his gaze. “Yes, you will, my beautiful boy.”
Again, they walked in silence for many minutes.
“In the last Cascade,” he said, knowing she was the one living being old enough to know the answer, and someone who’d never betray him to another, “do you know of any archangel who heard whispers in his dreams?”
It was a strange thing to ask, but his mother simply looked thoughtful and he could feel her turning the pages of her eons-long existence. “No,” she said at last, stopping beside a wall entirely covered with hot pink blooms, her expression searching when she turned it on him. “Do you?”
He heard the concern she couldn’t hide . . . and he knew. “Father heard whispers, did he not?”
Sorrow darker and older than that caused by the loss of Kahla, a sadness that made his bones ache. “My beloved Nadiel would’ve been so proud to see who you’ve become. He always said you were the best of both of us.”
In evading his question, she’d given him his answer. His father had heard voices in his madness and now Raphael heard them, too.
22
Twenty-four hours after she’d left the temple, Elena found herself in the surreal position of getting ready to dress for a formal ball while a refrigerated truck sat not far from the city, hidden from the sight of the angels who’d soon be flying into Amanat. A number were already here, the city in a flurry of excitement, the majority of the residents unaware of Kahla’s death.
Caliane had made the decision to delay the announcement till after the ball—“for my people have worked so hard for this night”—the death to be explained as a tragic fall that broke Kahla’s neck. The young woman would still be sent into the heart of a volcano, but as part of a full funeral service that gave her friends and family an opportunity to say good-bye.
“Won’t people question the volcano?” Elena asked now, Raphael having just received the update about the funeral from Naasir.
He shook his head. “No, Amanat’s people have never buried their dead, so it’ll be seen as a fitting farewell.”
“Caliane,” she said, tightening the belt on her robe, “is she okay?” Raphael had spent time with his mother that morning, while Elena explored Amanat in Isabel’s company.
“She mourns.” His upper half shirtless, he stood at the open balcony doors of their third-level suite, looking out over the bustle of the city below. “My mother has ever treasured the people of Amanat.”
Elena couldn’t argue with that, not when she knew Caliane had taken her people into Sleep with her, she valued them so deeply. Those people, in turn, adored her with an openness and an affection so heartfelt, it gave them a rare sense of innocence and the city an unexpected warmth of heart.
“Kahla is the first she has lost since the Awakening.” His hands closed over hers w
hen she wrapped her arms around him from the back, her cheek on the living silk of one of his wings and her palms on the rippled muscle of his abdomen. “If she could call off this ball, she would, but it’s too late.”
Elena thought of the haunting sorrow she’d glimpsed on Caliane’s face. “How does she not see anyone lesser as disposable, given how long she’s lived?” Of all the archangels Elena knew, including Raphael, it was Caliane who appeared the most attached to her people, mortal and immortal.
“I asked her the same question once as a boy,” Raphael answered. “It was after we’d been to the territories of two other archangels within a short period of time, neither of whom treated their people as I’d always seen my mother do.
“She told me there was a time when she, too, was utterly remote from the world. It was her love for my father that began the change . . . and my birth that completed it.” Echoes of time, of memories from the dawn of his life. “In becoming a mother, she found an ability to love that transcended the change engendered by time and power.”
Elena thought of the life Caliane had lived, tried to imagine the weight of so many years: To see an eon pass, then to fall in love and bear a child, only to watch your mate be consumed by a madness that forced you to execute him. And later, to be consumed by insanity yourself, cause harm to the child who was the last cherished reminder of your mate, to Sleep for over a thousand years and wake to find your son a man of incredible power . . . one who’d given wings to a mortal.
“If that happens to us,” she whispered, unable to wrap her mind around the idea of a life so long and so full of tragedy, “if we feel ourselves, who we are together, becoming lost in time, I don’t want to Sleep. I want to say good-bye when I’m still me and you’re still you.” A clean, sharp ending rather than a gradual unraveling.
