Feather (Angels of Elysium Book 1)

by Olivia Wildenstein

  A small smile played on his lips as he tucked his wings back and walked past me, the tips of his feathers skimming over my forearm, lifting goose bumps.

  Once they disappeared around the corner, Eve spun me to face her, hazel eyes so wide her lashes hit her brow bone. “I am so jealous of you right now, Leigh.”

  “Of me?”

  “Um, hello, an archangel just winged you.”

  “Winged me?”

  She rolled her eyes at my ignorance, then gripped my wrist, and towed me toward our dormitories. “If you paid half as much attention in Ophan Greer’s etiquette class as you pay your mortal romances”—she tipped her pert nose toward my book—“you’d know that winging means a male is interested in courting you. We smolder; they wing.”

  “I thought he did that because I was being impolite.”

  Could he have been winging me? I’d never been winged before. Not even by another Fletching. Maybe he’d winged Ophan Mira.

  Before Eve could spill more of my milkshake, I shrugged her vise-like fingers off my wrist. “Talking about smoldering, you were giving off a lot of light.”

  She smiled. “You dream about becoming a Malakim, I dream of becoming a Seraphim, but since all seven spots are presently occupied, I’ll settle for being one’s wife. If I need to char Seraph Asher’s pupils off to make him notice me, then so be it. Did you see his eyes, by the way?”

  As Eve gushed about his stunning irises, my heart picked up speed, resonating against my eardrums, muting the arias twittered by the sparrows swooping overhead and the rapid footfalls of my peers rushing to the dormitories to change before the evening festivities.

  “I thought he came down here to acquaint himself with the guilds and meet the Ophanim,” I said as Eve flung open the door of our double, which was one of the largest bedrooms in the guild, spanning fifty or so feet in every direction and entirely adorned in white quartz, except for the ceiling that was made of arched glass. In all that space, though, the furniture was sparse. Only two queen-sized beds, two nightstands, and a long silk-tufted bench had made the cut, angels favoring basic necessities over clutter.

  “Are you sure he’s in the market for a wife?”

  “Leigh, Leigh, Leigh,” she chided me as she pressed her palm against the wall to make her closet door pop open. She dragged it out to expose her rackful of jewel-toned silks, satins, and sequins.

  “What?” I tossed my book on the bed.

  “How did my father meet my mother?” Hangers clinked as she contemplated her choices.

  I frowned until I understood what Eve was getting at. “When she visited the all-male guilds after she was instated as Archangel.”

  She clapped her hands together a tad dramatically. “She listens!”

  Considering Eve had recounted the story a trillion times, of course, I’d heard it. I bet all the American guilds were aware of the courtship between the first female archangel and the Fletching known as sixty-five, because that was the number of feathers he’d been missing the day he’d met Eve’s mother.

  His ambition to be considered as a potential suitor drove him to complete his wings in a month, which was how long he’d had until the courtship period expired. This accomplishment made him a legend in his own right because no other Fletching had ever earned more than twenty feathers in that amount of time—my own average was around ten, and that had been a particularly hectic month.

  Then again, rare were the Fletchings who picked Triples—sinners worth a hundred feathers. You had better luck teaching a ladybug to spirit away their spots than make a Triple atone for their sins.

  Eve slid a lamé gown adorned with pearls harvested from Elysium’s Nirvana Sea off a hanger, a birthday present from her mother. “You should wear the dress I got you.”

  I slurped down the rest of my shake, then went to throw it out in our bathroom’s angel-fire incinerator before heading back into the bedroom. I popped open my own closet and dragged out my rack of clothes. The ivory dress Eve had bought me stuck out like a sore thumb amid my mostly gray, black, and navy outfits. The only burst of color in my wardrobe was my prized collection of stilettos.

  I magicked away my wings and unzipped my sodden dress, then removed my booties, and tossed everything in the hamper that suctioned closed before warming with the angel-fire that would char off the grime. At least, doing laundry was painless.

  “I was thinking black,” I said, making my way back to the bathroom and slipping into the shower where the water was always at the ideal temperature. Spending time in the human world had taught me never to take these perks for granted. After lathering up more than once, I dried my soap-scented body.

  Eve popped into the bathroom, brandishing the cream dress. “You’re always wearing black. Please wear this one?”

  Sighing, I relented. As the cool silk settled over my curves, I glanced at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The fabric matched my skin tone better than any foundation I’d ever bought. “You don’t think it washes me out?”

  Eve appeared behind me, tying a beaded sash around her tiny waist. “On the contrary. It makes your hair and eyes really pop.”

  My hair and eyes always popped. I finger-combed my long waves, settling them over one shoulder. Out of all colors, why had I been saddled with orange?

  Eve plucked a black kohl pencil from her makeup stash to accent her hazel eyes. After artfully smudging the lines to create a smoky effect, she twirled toward me, the gold fabric of her dress swishing around her willowy form.

  Jealousy pinged through me at how unangelic my full-figured body looked beside hers. Sure, my waist was defined, but my chest and hips were so . . . so, ugh.

  An archangel winged you, Leigh, I reminded myself. Unless Eve was wrong, and he’d just been flaunting his wings.

  She popped her lips together, evening out the red tint she’d applied. “Promise to fill out your wings quickly? I don’t want us to be apart too long.”

  “I only have fourteen months left, so I better fill them out fast,” I murmured.

  If I failed . . .

  I shuddered.

  Failure wasn’t an option.

  Chapter 2

  Ophan Mira’s voice boomed through the guild, asking us all to make our way to the Atrium.

  I debated whether to even attend the celebration since I wasn’t eligible—I was missing way too many feathers. Besides, I didn’t even want to be an archangel’s wife . . . if that was in fact the reason for Seraph Asher’s visit.

  Although archangel consorts were key social figures in Elysium, the equivalent of First Ladies, they couldn’t travel to Earth. My ambition was to enter the Malakim’s ranks in order to shepherd souls from one body to the next.

  Ophan Mira’s voice reverberated again from the guild’s intercom-system. “Fletchings who do not show up to greet our honored guest will lose a feather.”

  Groaning, I closed my book and rolled off my bed. I slid my feet into a pair of crimson stilettos, then strode through the starlit quartz maze. In the Atrium, I sidled against the vines of honeysuckle racing up the quartz walls. The veins of angel-fire irrigating the stone made the tiny blooms glow as brightly as the girls smoldering Asher.

  Like moths to a flame.

  “You think they’re attracted to him because of his status or his looks?” The voice belonged to Celeste, a fifteen-year-old wisp of a girl with hair the same chestnut brown as her tipped eyes and spray of freckles.

  I studied our guest of honor as he threw his head back and laughed at something one of my peers had just told him. “Power makes people more attractive, doesn’t it?”

  Although five years separated me and Celeste, I sometimes found I had more in common with her than I did with Eve.

  “Leigh, why are you standing back here?”

  “Same reason you are.”

  “I doubt that.”

  I frowned.

  “I’m standing back here because of these.” She tipped her head to her purple winglets.

 
Although she’d gotten her wing bones at ten, a year or two younger than most girls in the guild, only a hundred and some feathers graced them. Celeste usually magicked them away, hating the pitying stares they garnered from the other fifteen-year-olds with much fuller wings.

  I returned my gaze to the glittering, twittering crowd of Fletchings. “I’m missing eighty-one feathers, Celeste. There’s no way I’ll earn them in time to be considered.”

  “You could pick a Triple.”

  I grunted. “First off, I’m not interested in spending time with a murderer.” All Triples had blood on their hands. You didn’t earn the worst sinner score by committing petty thefts. “And two, I want to be a Malakim, not archangel arm candy.”

  She heaved a sigh. “I wish I could also be a soul shepherdess. Or a ranker.”

  I bit my lip, saddened that becoming a Malakim or an Ishim was outside of Celeste’s reach.

  “You know, if you were archangel arm candy, you could have that stupid, archaic rule changed.”

  Both my eyebrows shot up before I realized it was more pipe dream than attainable ambition. “Four out of the Seven would have to rule in favor of letting hybrids become Malakim and Ishim. When was the last time a law was amended? Two centuries ago?”

  “Three hundred and sixty-one years ago. The law allowing angels to give up their wings.”

  And thus, their immortality. Before the law was amended, angels who wanted to forfeit their immortality were punished with menial jobs or locked in Abaddon for entertaining such blasphemous ideas.

  I sighed. “The odds of getting anything revised are pretty dismal.”

  “Dismal’s better than impossible.”

  She was right, and yet, it was such a long shot. Besides, I didn’t want to marry someone for political gain; I wanted to marry someone for love. Was that so outrageous?

  “I heard he winged you earlier,” Celeste said, dragging my attention off the iridescent fountain lilies that bloomed at nightfall and zippered shut at dawn.

  My cheeks blazed as hot as the wall at my back. “I don’t think that was his intent . . .”

  She slanted me a look. “Did he show you his wingspan or not?”

  I averted my eyes from her all-seeing ones and stared at the angel statue spouting water from a solemnly raised palm. “I don’t remember.”

  She let out a snort before growing contemplative. After a moment, she said, “Be both.”

  “What?”

  “His wife and a Malakim.”

  “I can’t, Celeste. Consorts can’t travel to Earth.”

  “Did you ever think it might be because they don’t want to?”

  “Why wouldn’t they want to come back here?”

  Celeste puffed air out the side of her mouth. “You think your bestie will return to Earth once she ascends?”

  “No. But Eve doesn’t like it here.”

  “Eve doesn’t like humans. Hybrids either, for that matter.”

  I crossed my arms. “Eve has nothing against hybrids.”

  “I admire you, Leigh, because you’re the kindest angel I know, but you’re so blinded by that girl. She’s a snake with wings.”

  “Celeste!” I chided her just as her face puckered and a purple feather fluttered to the ground.

  She stared down at it for several heartbeats, then, scrunching up her small nose, she crouched, picked it up, and closed her eyes to relive how she’d earned it. After the downy barbs showed her the memory, they disintegrated into spangling dust.

  “That dude was so freaking stubborn. Drove me up the wall,” she said, her lids pulling up.

  Holding my breath, I surveyed her small wings, praying her confession about her obdurate sinner wouldn’t cost her another feather. When none fell, I sighed. “Can you please be a little more careful with your wings?”

  “You mean, stop speaking my mind? My mind’s pretty loud.”

  “Well, tell it to be quiet.”

  We had ten years from the moment our wing bones appeared to earn our feathers. If we failed, they fell away from our backs, and we turned mortal . . . worse than mortal . . . Nephilim. There was no afterlife in Elysium or Abaddon for Nephilim. No reincarnation either, because Nephilim were soulless.

  Four sparrows swooped over our heads, twittering an aria so languid it seemed inspired by stars and darkness. Whenever they had an audience, the elysian birds filled the vaulted stone Atrium with celestial music, canceling the guilds’ need for live bands and human sound systems.

  Celeste shrugged one knobby shoulder. “Immortality is overrated.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  She wedged her lips together.

  “Besides, dying is selfish,” I added. “Don’t be selfish.”

  “Like anyone would care if I was gone.”

  “I would care, Celeste!”

  “I would care, too,” came a deep voice that had me whirling around.

  Celeste’s small chin jutted out as she cranked her neck to look Asher straight on. Her expression told me she didn’t believe him.

  He ran his long fingers through his shoulder-length blond hair. “Why are you two discussing death?”

  “Because, like Leigh, I want to join the Malakim,” Celeste said, “but I’m not a Verity.”

  Asher observed my slight friend. “You’re right; it’s unjust that hybrids aren’t allowed to be Malakim.”

  “Unjust enough to bring it up to the oh-so-forward-thinking-and-almighty Council?” she taunted.

  “Celeste,” I hissed, arrowing my gaze toward her wings. Like I feared, a feather fell.

  She didn’t crouch to pick it up this time, but Asher did. His forehead furrowed as the feather’s memory played out in his mind.

  When it dematerialized, he said, “It would be a shame to lose someone with such a proclivity for empathy.”

  Her rigid stance slackened. My limbs, too, softened at Asher’s words. It wasn’t that I believed archangels were selfish beings, but I didn’t think they were particularly concerned about us Fletchings.

  “Leigh”—the way Asher sounded my name made my heart fire—“I failed to mention this earlier, but your wings are striking.”

  I swallowed back my disappointment. The compliment should’ve pleased me, but somehow, I wished he’d commended my personality—not that he was acquainted with it. “Thank you,” I said in a voice so thin the sound of it was absorbed by the gurgle of all seven fountains.

  His brows drew in. Had he expected me to smolder him because he’d praised my wings?

  “Aren’t they?” Eve, who must’ve just spotted me standing in the back of the room, parked herself between Asher and me. “I tell her this all the time, but since I’m her best friend, she thinks I’m lying.”

  My pulse slowed. Did she really think I didn’t believe her?

  “They’re beautiful because they match her heart.” Celeste gestured to me. “And the rest of her. Do you know that she stays in contact with all the humans she saves? Goes to their weddings. Gets them gifts for their birthdays. Gives them her allowance when they fall on hard times.”

  “That’s not true,” I said, flushing. “I spend a lot on books and shoes.”

  Celeste rolled her eyes. “You only buy novels from the bookshop manned by the guy you saved three years ago. Before that, you had a library card.”

  My lips parted. I’d told Celeste this in passing. I never imagined it would stick with her.

  “Leigh does have quite the addiction to romance novels,” Eve said.

  Celeste took a step forward. “That sort of addiction isn’t a sin.”

  Even though Eve’s eyes glinted with annoyance, her ruby lips were arched in a wide smile. “I suppose it isn’t.”

  “I’m parched. Anyone else thirsty?” Choking on the scent of the honeysuckle at my back, I pushed away from the wall, away from the three angels crowding me. I didn’t like attention, and since I was pretty unremarkable, I didn’t usually receive much. Especially when my wings weren’t displayed.


  My beautiful silver wings.

  As I walked away to find water, I magicked them away and faded into the throng of svelte bodies.

  Chapter 3

  “As you all may have heard,” Asher’s voice resounded over the babbling fountains and chanting sparrows, “my visit to the guilds isn’t purely selfless. I’ve come seeking a consort.” His gaze swept over his many admirers, giving them all an equal amount of attention. “You might be wondering why I didn’t choose someone who’s already ascended. Truthfully, I wanted to give all of you a fair chance, not because I consider myself a superior candidate for your attention, but because I want a spouse who shares the same beliefs that are dear to me, and I have yet to find that person in Elysium.”

  His lips quirked in a stunningly white smile. I tried to remember if this was a trait of the Seraphim, if their teeth somehow radiated angel-fire. The only other archangel I’d met was Eve’s mother when she’d visited her daughter for her wing bone ceremony. I didn’t remember Seraph Claire’s smiles glowing. Then again, I didn’t remember her smiling.

  I glanced at Eve who was standing beside me, Celeste’s insinuations twisting inside my mind. Eve wasn’t vicious. We’d been roommates for the past fifteen years. If she’d been ill-intentioned toward me, she would’ve shed feathers—maliciousness is a sin—and I couldn’t recall her losing any. As though she sensed me thinking about her wings, she flexed them, and the yellow, gold-tipped feathers pulsated.

  “The Council has given me the customary month to finalize my engagement. I still have ten guilds to visit, so in ten days’ time, the countdown will begin. Sadly, this means many of you will not qualify as the ceremony needs to take place in Elysium. However, being ineligible does not take away from the fact that I’d like to become acquainted with all of you.” He gestured with a sweep of his arm to the seventy Fletchings before him.