Archangel's Heart

20

“Love?”

“Ellie means to ask if there was not a person or people you loved?” Aodhan said into the quiet. “To be Luminata is to leave behind such ties, is it not?”

Instead of answering the question, Ibrahim gasped. “You call your archangel’s consort by a diminutive?”

“He’s my friend,” Elena said, proud of the fact she’d earned Aodhan’s trust. “And I’m never going to be like other consorts—I’ll always have a mortal heart.”

It is your greatest strength.

Words Keir had spoken to her the last time he’d visited New York. The healer had placed his hand over that heart as he spoke. Coming from another man, it might’ve been a come-on, an invasion of her personal space, but Keir was . . . Keir. She knew he was a sexual being, had seen clear evidence of it, but he never interacted with her in that way. To her, he was a healer, wise and gifted. And his hands held only a healer’s gentleness.

Never lose your heart, Elena. No matter if the world tells you it makes you weak. Immortals have so much power. It is good to have a weakness.

Elena wasn’t certain she agreed with that last—especially when it came to Raphael. She never forgot that she was Raphael’s greatest weakness, and it both infuriated and scared her. She didn’t want her archangel to have any weaknesses, not when he swam with the vipers of the Cadre on a regular basis.

But in one thing, Keir was right: her mortal heart made her Elena. Give that up and she might as well lie down and die.

“A mortal heart.” Ibrahim paused in a corridor awash in color, the tiles having become ever more vivid step by step, the mosaics intricate bursts, and the paintings on the walls expressionist splashes of pigment. “You say that with pride and yet mortality is a fleeting thing without any hope of luminescence.” Rather than arrogance, his words held confusion and a question.

“Let me tell you a story, Ibrahim,” Elena said as they began to walk again. “About a holy man I met three years after I first became a hunter.”

The story was one of peace, of transcendence, of an awareness that mortality was but a shell and that the soul soared free in an immortality even the angels could not understand.

“You teach me,” Ibrahim said sometime later, the three of them at a stop in front of stone doors carved in complex patterns. His expression held equal amounts of awe, bewilderment, and thoughtfulness. “And I am humbled.”

Those sky blue eyes met hers. “I understand now: A thousand years or ten thousand years of life does not automatically proffer more wisdom. It is only fitting that I learn this from—forgive me for my boldness—a consort who is an infant in angelic terms.”

Elena shook her head. “I’m not wise, Ibrahim.” She was reckless more often than she should be, hadn’t made peace with the memories that haunted her, had so many other faults. “But someone who is wise once told me to treasure my weaknesses. They are what make us.”

Beside her, Aodhan reached forward to haul open one of the stone doors. The air that whispered out was noticeably cooler than the external air, though by no means chilly. “Thank you for showing us here.”

“It has been my pleasure.” Ibrahim bowed low. “If I may be so forward, Consort,” he said upon rising, “I would speak to you again.”

“Only if you call me Elena,” she said.

Ibrahim’s smile was that open and oddly innocent one. “Then I will see you again soon, Elena.” He pulled up his hood as he turned away, but paused to add, “I have not forgotten my promise to look for a map.”

“Thanks, Ibrahim.” Elena didn’t say anything further until she and Aodhan were inside what appeared to be some type of an antechamber, a relatively small room richly carpeted in deepest blue and hung with small artworks. At the other end of it was another door. “An airlock?”

“I do not know this word,” Aodhan responded.

When she explained, he nodded. “Yes, I believe so. To ensure the air within and without do not mix to destabilize the constant temperature needed for the more delicate works of art.” He indicated the pieces on the walls. “These are relatively new, created only two hundred years ago at most. They do not need the extra care.”

Jerking her thumb over her shoulder, she said, “What about the stuff outside?”

“The mosaics were created in situ, likely purpose-done, and the paintings are brilliant but did not strike me as rare.”

Elena thought back to what Ibrahim had said of Laric’s compulsive painting of that one scene. Which reminded her, “You’re not being seduced by the idea of luminescence?”

“The idea, yes,” Aodhan replied. “This place, no.”

“Phew. Because I’d come drag you out if you lost your mind and joined this cult. Though Illium would probably beat me to it.”

Aodhan stared at the floor. “Do you think he’s all right?”

“Jason would’ve got word to us if anything was wrong.” She went to touch a hand to his forearm, stopped herself in time. “You want to look at these paintings or shall we go in?” She figured Xander and Valerius would find them easily enough when they arrived.

“No, I am eager to see the older works.” A small smile that nonetheless lit up his face. “Illium is always teasing me about my liking for ‘moldy old relics.’” The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared.

“You two have been friends for centuries,” she reminded him. “Fights happen.”

“Not like this. Not so he wouldn’t come to see me off on a long journey.”

Elena shook her head. “You’re wrong. Sara and I didn’t talk once for three whole weeks.” It still hurt to think back to that time, to how much she’d missed her best friend, a woman who was her family by choice. “It was a stupid disagreement that dragged on, both of us too young and too proud to say sorry first—but through it all, I always knew she had my back, as she knew I had hers. Do you doubt that about Illium and you?”

“No, never.” He looked away from her, to the door in front of them. “Illium has never been so angry before. He doesn’t stay angry. Not with me.”

“But you’re angry, too,” she pointed out. “No point ignoring that or you two will just fight again. When we go back, have it out with him.” She played a blade through her fingers. “I recommend getting swords and going at it.”

Aodhan’s eyes were so difficult to read, but when he faced her again, she thought he might be laughing. “Perhaps you are right. I was . . . closed within for a long time. I think Illium has forgotten who I was before I was broken.”

Pulling at the final door with one hand, Elena found she couldn’t budge it. She waved toward Aodhan. “So remind him,” she said as he hauled it open. “But don’t forget that all the time you turned recluse, he was also growing and living his life. He’s not the same person, either.”

Aodhan didn’t reply, but she knew he’d absorb and think about her words. Aodhan always listened and considered—

“Holy shit.” Her mouth fell open.

In her mind, she’d thought the Gallery would be like a museum—the walls hung with works of art, sculptures artfully arranged or lit up in little cubbyholes. She’d pretty much expected the high ceiling because of the second, opaque, dome she’d seen when they overflew Lumia—but she could’ve never expected this.

The dome was part of the Gallery all right. It was an astonishing display high above her head, the underside painted with exquisite attention to detail and softly lit to showcase the artwork. But the dome was just the start. She and Aodhan stood on a gangway about ten feet wide that went around the entire room. In the center of the room was a plunging hole that appeared bottomless. In the center of that hole hung a staircase that spiraled down with pathways splitting off on various sides to lead viewers into other sections.

The Gallery was a misnomer. This was a tower of galleries.

The designers had left enough room that you could fly down if you didn’t want to take the stairs—though if you took the stairs, you’d see far more of the art even if you didn’t step off on every level. On the other hand, it would take forever to walk down—because though she hung out as far as she could without unbalancing and falling into the hole, Elena couldn’t see the end of the Gallery.

It kept going and going and going until it disappeared into what looked like shimmers of gold. As if she was looking into the heart of a distant sun. “How deep is this?” she whispered, not really expecting an answer.

Having leaned over the edge with her, Aodhan said, “Shall we find out?” The exhilaration in his tone reminded her of what Raphael had said: there was a reason Illium and Aodhan had become lifelong friends.

She grinned at him in answer but didn’t immediately jump. “We can’t go straight down—the staircase and pathways off to the different levels create obstacles. We’ll have to go floor by floor.” In preparation, she closed the split diagonal zipper over the top of her dress that appeared to be nothing but a decorative detail. It closed by pleating the extra fabric inward, making her gown snug enough that it wouldn’t fly up—she really had to give Montgomery and the tailor props for thinking outside the box.

Aodhan pointed to their first landing spot, then they both grinned—she’d never seen that look on Aodhan’s face—and stepped off the edge. A rush of cool air turned slightly colder by their momentum and they were on the second lower level. It was all freestanding marble sculptures here, the pieces no doubt priceless. Elena, however, was far more interested in exploring just how far the Luminata had dug the Gallery into the earth.

“That spot next.” She pointed to one two levels down. “No obstructions.”

Aodhan dropped.

Laughing, she followed, the shattered light of his wings a glorious sight below her as he came to a halt in a spot that gave her plenty of room to land herself. Her heart thumped as she glanced around. Two Luminata stood on this level, their hoods down. They appeared to be talking very quietly about a leather-bound book one was holding.

Seeing Elena and Aodhan, they both frowned. It was a very “hush in the library” look.

Elena tried to look suitably chastened before nodding at the next spot to Aodhan and they were falling. This time, they landed by a portrait gallery, an endless number of stunning images on display. So much sheer beauty. “Angelkind really won the genetic lottery,” she said to Aodhan. “No wonder they’re so jaded.” When this was their normal, it became difficult to admire anyone or anything.

“They are not all angels.” Aodhan motioned to a portrait in their line of sight. “She is a vampire. Nine thousand years of age and considered a beauty to rival Michaela.”

That got her attention.

The woman in the picture had skin of an astonishing pure cream. No blemishes, nothing but a luminous flawlessness. Her nose was aquiline, her eyes a huge, soft aquamarine, and her hair cascades of lustrous red. True red. Not orange-red. Not rust-red. Not auburn. Red. “Talk about winning the genetic lottery.” The vampire’s beauty was the kind that caught the eye and held it, the brain trying to figure out how this person was put together that she was so perfect in every way.

Elena had been caught in that same loop with Michaela once, before she saw through to the female archangel’s toxic heart. “But . . . there’s something missing. Something Michaela has that this vampire doesn’t.” She couldn’t put her finger on it, but Michaela just shone brighter. “It’s not power, or not only that.”

Aodhan gave her an approving look. “You see it. And though you don’t like Michaela, you don’t immediately favor Renate.”

Renate. It seemed the right kind of name for this beauty. “Fact is fact,” she said with a shrug. “And obviously, Michaela knows Renate doesn’t hold a candle to her at second glance, or Renate would’ve met with an unfortunate accident long before reaching nine thousand years of age.”

“I think you are correct.” Aodhan took in the image again, his eye clinical. “The fault is not the work’s—the artist has captured her perfectly. What is missing is the spark of intelligence. Renate has air in her head.”

Elena blinked. “Bit harsh, Aodhan.”

“I’m not being cruel,” he said. “Fact, as you say, is fact. In nine thousand years, Renate has not sought to improve her mind in any way—it has even been suggested that perhaps she was impaired during her Making, but I once overheard a healer speaking.” He lowered his tone, his head leaning toward her own. “Renate’s original master had tests done on her and it was found that she isn’t impaired. She simply does not have that inner fire that pushes one to seek knowledge. Neither does she possess any ambition.”

Pushing back his hair where it had fallen over his forehead, light sparking off the tumbled strands, he added, “If she was not so beautiful, she would’ve had a hard life as a vampire. As it is, she is a beloved pet—and I say that in the truest sense of the word. Her lover of the past five hundred years adores her, but he does not look upon her as a partner.”

Elena whistled. “Nine thousand years and she isn’t bored of just existing?”

“My sister tells me she combs her hair a lot.”

Elena’s mouth fell open. Swiveling on her heel, she glared at him. “Since when do you have a sister?” she hissed under her breath. “Nice of you to share with me.”

He actually looked a little abashed. “I don’t often think of her,” he admitted. “Imalia was seven hundred years old when I was born. We only ever see one another when our parents summon us both home.” A shrug. “She is a near-stranger, though she is not unkind. If I were to ask for her help, she would give it without hesitation. But we were born too distant in time to be true siblings.”

Elena felt her mad begin to fade. Seven hundred years was an insane age gap. “I get it,” she said. “I’m only nineteen and sixteen years apart from my two half sisters, but if Eve wasn’t training to be a hunter, I wouldn’t have much in common with them, either.”

As it was, she never got to speak with Amy. The teen had refused any contact with Elena out of loyalty to her own mom. Elena understood. As the eldest of Elena’s half sisters, Amy had a far deeper understanding of her parents’ relationship than Eve—she’d figured out that Jeffrey Deveraux would never love her mom as he’d loved Elena’s. “You and Imalia have the same parents?”

Aodhan nodded. “Such long gaps are not unusual among angelic families. Though children are rare gifts, there is no known end to fertility.”

“Huh, guess that makes sense.” She pointed to the next drop as, from above them, came a pointed, “Shh.”

They dropped . . . to find Hannah gazing in fascination at something in a glass display case, her vampiric escort, Cristiano, leaning lazily against the wall not far away. The handsome male with skin the color of darkest caramel and eyes of a chocolate brown gave an impression of liquid grace that was oddly feline. It intrigued Elena that one of Elijah’s most trusted people would echo the prowl of the pumas that came to the archangel’s call.

“Ellie,” Hannah said softly, waving her over. “Come see this.”

Crossing the short distance to her after smiling at Cristiano, Elena saw the other woman was fascinated by what appeared to be a map drawn on what looked to be animal hide. It was so fragile that it was in pieces an archivist had carefully placed next to one another, like a complex jigsaw. “It’s the Refuge,” she said in realization, “but the gorge is missing.” That gorge bisected the angelic stronghold, was unmissable.

“This is from a time before the land shakes that created the gorge.” Hannah’s eyes glowed. “But it’s not simply the age of the map—look at the artistry of the work itself. Aodhan, do you see?”

Having come to stand beside Elena, his wing just brushing hers, Aodhan nodded. “It is one of Tarquin’s. The hand is unmistakable.”

Elena frowned; she’d heard that name before.

“He was an archangel in the time of Caliane and Alexander,” Hannah told her before she could ask. “An Ancient who went to Sleep some fifty thousand years past.” Her slender, elegant artist’s fingers touched the glass. “This was discovered long after his descent into Sleep, the damage already great, but the Luminata have done astonishingly well in managing to keep it as whole as it is.”

Elena tried really hard to be interested, decided it was a lost cause. “Have you been to the bottom of the Gallery?”

“No, it would take me many months to get there,” Hannah whispered, tucking back a curl that had escaped the intricate knot at the back of her head. “I skipped all the levels above to get to this one—it was so hard to make a choice as to what treasures to view first.” Her dark eyes met Elena’s, sudden laughter suffusing the awe in her expression. “Shoo. Go explore and then come back and tell me if I should go to a particular level.”

Grinning, Elena nudged her head at Aodhan—who’d gone to talk with Cristiano—and they continued to dive down. Each part of the Gallery held endless treasures. One of Elena’s favorites was the glass level. Full of finely blown glass created by mortals and immortals both, the fragile items were safely encased behind far more rigid glass shields, their dazzling colors glowing under strategically placed lights. This exhibit she could imagine spending hours in, lost in the iridescent wash of color.

Aodhan had a different favorite—a strange level filled with “artworks” that made little sense to Elena. “What do you see?” she asked him.

“This is the exhibit of possibility,” he told her. “The pieces that were never finished, or those that were found half done after the artist’s death. The stories are not yet complete, and so, there are endless futures to explore.”

Elena tried to think through that lens, caught the barest glimpse of what he meant. But what struck her most was that he’d taken the positive interpretation over the negative. Because it could as easily be said that this was the exhibit of lost dreams. None of these pieces would ever be finished, no hope in them.

Elena was no healer, but she didn’t have to be one to know that Aodhan’s interpretation was a sign of soul-deep healing on his part. “You want to hang here?”

“Later perhaps. First, we must get to the bottom—Illium would never forgive us otherwise.” A determined look. “I will make him listen to me after I return and then I will tell him of our adventure.”

Nodding in approval of his plan, Elena flew down to a landing spot, Aodhan’s wing brushing hers again as he landed a little too close. His primaries were impossibly soft when contrasted with the way they glittered as if coated with broken glass. He didn’t apologize for the contact and she didn’t want an apology.

The glancing brush was unremarkable among friends . . . but it was one Aodhan would’ve gone to great lengths to avoid when they first met.