Archangel's War

15

“Come in before I die of boredom!”

The face that peeked around the door was thinner than when she’d last seen it, but as ridiculously pretty. She held out her arms. Illium came inside in a rush, his eyes brilliant with emotion, but halted a foot in front of her. “Will I break you?”

“I’m going to hit you in a second.”

A wicked grin before he put his arms around her . . . with conscious care. Elena told herself to be patient; she’d be careful, too, if a friend came back looking sixty-eight percent dead.

Good thing he hadn’t seen her at ninety-three percent dead.

“I brought you a present,” he said when he drew back. Stepping out, he returned with her special lightweight crossbow.

“Eeee!” Elena made grabbing gestures.

Laughing, he placed it in her hands. Then he proceeded to crash onto the sofa beside her and raid the fresh tray of food Montgomery had left for her. His wing brushed her side, warm and heavy. An intense happiness uncurled deep within her. This was normal, her friendship with Illium an easy thing that didn’t stand on ceremony.

As he ate, she petted and stroked her beloved crossbow.

It didn’t surprise her that Illium didn’t mention her lack of wings—he probably assumed they’d grow back, as was usual with angels who lost their wings in accidents or otherwise. Stomach tensing, she decided to let that subject lie for now.

It didn’t strike her till five minutes later that a person who couldn’t fly didn’t need a specialized crossbow. The blow hurt. Fuck that, she thought furiously. Deacon handmade this crossbow for me and I love it. No goddamn Cascade was going to steal that joy from her.

Another thought blindsided her a second later. “Hey, hold on! Did you go inside the house to get this?” Her heart was ice.

“Uh-huh,” Illium said from around a mouthful of tart.

Putting the crossbow aside with slow deliberation, she turned and grabbed the front of his sleeveless leather tunic. “Let me get this straight. You went back into a house that was about to blow up just to retrieve my crossbow?”

“I saved Aodhan’s painting, too,” said the blue-winged demon she was going to kill the instant she was strong enough. “Oh, and the jeweled blade the sire gave you.”

“He’s going to murder you, too.”

Illium shrugged muscled shoulders. “Worth it.”

“Nothing is worth your life!” Releasing his unrepentant form, she picked up the crossbow again. “I should shoot you with this.”

Instead of another infuriating riposte, he leaned in close. “Ellie, will you be all right?”

She heard the tremor in his voice, saw the pinched look in his eyes, her Bluebell who had grieved so long for his mortal lover. He didn’t forget the people he claimed—and he hurt for an eon if they were lost.

Raising one hand to cradle the side of his face, she said, “I came back from the dead, didn’t I? Twice.” The first time, she’d fallen in Raphael’s arms, her back broken and her consciousness fading. “My track record’s pretty good.”

Illium bowed his head, let her run her fingers through the blue-dipped black silk of his hair in soothing strokes. Outsiders might see them interact and believe it an omen of betrayal but those outsiders knew neither her heart nor Bluebell’s.

Illium chose to serve Raphael, his fidelity to his liege beyond question. He coveted nothing of Raphael’s and had been devastated when it appeared he might ascend early and have to leave the Seven. Elena still worried about that. He was becoming more and more powerful, but he wasn’t ready for the Cadre, wasn’t tough enough to withstand their brutal politics.

Today, he smiled at last and returned to the food.

“You want to know who asked after you?”

“I can guess.”

“Not all of them you can’t.” A gleam in his eye. “The man who sells bagels on the roof and has a little sister who he brings to work sometimes.”

“Piero?” She thought back to the last bagel she’d shared with the former petty criminal, the one where she’d lost three feathers: shimmering indigo and dawn, midnight black, charcoal gray with indigo at the edges.

Her heart had broken a little more with each one.

Ridiculously touched by the idea that Piero had worried about her, she said, “How is he?”

“Doing a roaring business, but he asks every angel who drops by his stand for news of you. Go say hello to him when you can.”

“I will.”

“Your father came, too.”

Her spine turned into an iron rod. “Jeffrey in the Tower?” She’d expect frogs to fall from the sky first.

“Wasn’t a doppelganger, I promise. I even asked Dmitri if he was breathing and looked human.”

Elena couldn’t find the words to reply. She was just glad she’d called Jeffrey.

“He cares about you, Ellie.” An odd tone to Illium’s voice. “My father . . .” A rough exhale. “Never mind.”

The comment broke through her paralysis. “What is it?” Illium never talked about his father.

He just shook his head today, too. “Jeffrey’s here and he cares enough to keep track of you.”

At least he stuck around.

Elena had spoken those same words or similar enough plenty of times. She’d loved her sparkling, effervescent mother so much. So had Jeffrey. Marguerite had always been the laughing, loving heart of their family, sunshine bottled up in a delicate frame, her love for her husband and daughters worn on her sleeve. But, when the worst had happened, that love hadn’t been enough to convince her to fight to hold on to life.

She’d forgotten Jeffrey and Elena and Beth in her grief over Belle and Ari. Elena’s final memory of her mother would always be a swinging shadow on the wall, a high-heeled shoe abandoned on tile. Marguerite had chosen to leave them. Jeffrey had chosen to stay. At times, it was that painfully simple.