That, Jessamy had taught her, was why they so often put competing reports into the official history. Both Xi’s and Illium’s reports lay within the pages to do with the battle in New York, along with an overview written by Jessamy after she’d read, watched, and listened to all records of the battle. “If we record blindly, we are little better than machines.”
“As I make no untrue claims in my reports,” Xi responded, “you have nothing to say to me on that point.” His fingers gripped her chin without warning, the hold firm but not painful. “I will give you one piece of advice, scholar.”
Able to feel his power crashing against her, though it was more muted than she’d previously felt near Xi—testament to the statement in Illium’s report that Lijuan fed her generals power—Andromeda went motionless.
“Do as you are told,” Xi said in his cool, refined tone, “and you will not be harmed.” He released her chin. “Unlike your grandsire, my lady has a soft spot for scholars.”
“I appreciate the advice.” It wasn’t a lie. Xi’s statement told her how she could play this until the opportunity rose to escape—because she didn’t have the same faith in Lijuan as Xi. Badly injured angels were like any other injured creatures in their pain and frustration. They could strike out without warning.
The fact Lijuan had been unstable prior to her injuries only made the situation more volatile. Add in the fact that she was an archangel . . . No, Andromeda would never survive a confrontation should she anger Lijuan. No matter what she saw or heard or experienced, she had to act the meek scholar who was out of her depth.
Xi barked out an order at that instant and Andromeda found herself lifted up unceremoniously into a sling formed of the net. They did her the courtesy of allowing her to lie on her side this time, ensuring her wings weren’t crushed, but the netting dug into her flesh nonetheless. As the salt wind whistled past her on takeoff, she found herself thinking of the wild creature with whom she’d sparred under lamplight.
Never had she fought with anyone who moved like Naasir. She wanted to do it again, wanted to watch his eyes flash in the darkness and that slow, dangerous smile wreath his face as he took open pleasure in the dance. There was something fascinating about the vampire who was not a vampire . . . fascinating and dangerous.
Andromeda wanted to escape for many reasons, but chief among them was the driving compulsion to dance with him again, to fly too close to the flame that, for the first time in her existence, made her question the rigid control and sensual discipline that defined her.
A vow of celibacy was easy to hold when there was no temptation.
8
Elena winced as she continued to hold the hover off the Tower roof, her mind going over her earlier conversation with a coldly furious Raphael.
“If Lijuan succeeds in tracking down and killing Alexander, it’ll fracture angelkind at the core. In all our millennia of existence, such a crime has never been committed.”
Elena didn’t need her archangel to tell her that the fracture would lead to chaos and all-out war. Some would follow in Lijuan’s twisted footsteps, while others would battle against it. Hundreds of thousands—millions—of mortals and immortals both would die, the world forever scarred.
“Stupid Cascade,” she muttered on a huff of breath, sweat pasting her T-shirt to her skin.
“Did you say something, Ellie?” Aodhan asked from beside her, his mist-pale and diamond-bright hair glittering like faceted gemstones in the afternoon sunlight, and his extraordinary eyes of blue and green shards shattered outward from the pupil, afire.
Next to him, Elena’s own near-white hair was nothing out of the ordinary.
“Cursing the Cascade,” she got out, her muscles straining. “Shit—I think I’m at my limit.” She dropped down to the closest balcony. “How did I do?” she asked when Aodhan landed beside her.
His feathers caught the light, sending bright sparks in every direction.
“Two minutes longer than in our last test.” Aodhan, his body having healed fully from his grievous battle injuries, pushed back the sleeves of his shirt. “You passed.”
“I feel like I did on my first day at Guild Academy.” Stretching out her stiff muscles, she took a seat on the edge of the balcony. “I need to get stronger.” War boiled on the horizon—if not this year, then soon, and she had to be strong enough to fight at Raphael’s side.
Aodhan took a seat next to her, his wings carefully folded to ensure they wouldn’t touch hers. “There are some things you can’t control. Like a child who grows to his adult strength, you have to grow into your immortality.”
Elena knew that. It infuriated her. Taking out a throwing blade she’d honed to a deadly edge, she played it over and through her fingers in an effort to channel her frustration, and looked out at the city that no longer bore any scars of battle. It had taken brutally hard work to achieve that, but as the center of Raphael’s territory, New York had to show an undaunted face to the world.
“I’m worried about Naasir.” Alone, he was a ghost no one could catch, but if all went well, he wouldn’t be alone on his way out. He’d be shepherding a scholar. It didn’t matter if the scholar had warrior training—no one, and Elena included herself among that number, could move with as much stealth as the silver-eyed maybe-vampire who refused to tell her his origins, and who’d dug his way into her heart.
“I’ve learned never to underestimate him.” Aodhan leaned forward, his forearms braced on his thighs and his gaze on the waters of the East River, the Hudson not visible from their current position. “Have you noticed the changes in Illium?”
“Hard to miss.” The blue-winged angel’s power had escalated in the months after the battle, until it burned in the gold of his eyes and pulsed in his skin.
He still teased Aodhan as wickedly, insisting on calling him Sparkle, still made Elena laugh with his open and unrepentant flirtation, but he was also growing away from them and it hurt. She couldn’t bear to think of a New York without Illium, because while she respected all of the Seven, her relationship with Illium was different.
He’d been the first one she’d truly come to know, his humor and wit critical in helping her adjust to this new life. Even among the Seven, he seemed to hold a special place: no one was ever angry at Bluebell. The idea that power might change him, chill that joyous heart was even worse than the thought of losing him to it.
“He’s too young.” Aodhan’s voice was quiet, his left hand fisting on his thigh. “Like you can’t do certain things, he isn’t physically old enough to control that much power.”
Stomach knotting, Elena turned to look at Aodhan’s flawless profile, his skin not white or cream but something other, alabaster kissed by sunshine. “The Cascade?”
A nod. “The sire believes it’s accelerating Illium’s natural development—only his body isn’t catching up.”
She gripped the edges of the balcony so hard her bones pressed up white against the dark gold skin she’d inherited from her Moroccan grandmother. “Is there anything we can do?”
Aodhan shook his head, the movement scattering shards of light in a brilliant, unexpected rain. “No one can stop the growth of an angel.”
Ice cracking her heart, Elena went straight into Raphael’s arms when he returned home from an offshore drill. “Why didn’t you tell me about Illium?”
“Because he is your favorite and you would worry when there is nothing to be done.” Wings of white gold licked with the cool flame that appeared and disappeared without warning, wrapped around her. “Your Bluebell’s development can’t be halted.”
“Could he become an archangel?”
“One day far in the future, yes. If he ascends now . . . he’s not ready.” Raphael held her tight, his voice taut with a hard thread of unvarnished emotion as he said, “Illium’s body will break apart from the power overload and he’s not old enough to survive such total annihilation.”