Deliberately turning her back on the trees so she wouldn’t see this one and thus be able to betray it in Charisemnon’s court—a stabbing pain in her gut—she continued to help pick up and stack shattered pieces of wood and glass and roofing material. When she started finding personal items, she made a neat pile of them inside a former home that had no roof but had three walls that had survived to about three feet off the ground.
It would work well enough as a storage space for now.
The noncombatants flowed into the village a half hour later, bubbling with excitement. Their dismay at seeing the broken state of the village was quickly overcome by half-terrified joy at playing host to not only their own archangel, but to a second one. Most people never came within close proximity to even one archangel their entire lives.
Nerves or not, the cooks were able to get a fire going and create a stew out of food items scavenged from the devastated homes, as well as flatbread. When a fridge was dug out of the debris, everyone clapped at the find of undamaged fruit within. Someone else discovered that their tins of dried fruits were dented but whole, and soon a newly washed and barely chipped plate was bearing a bounty of dried figs and other sweetmeats. A teenage boy placed it on the large wooden table that three of the wing brothers had put together with the materials at hand.
When Naasir dug out a bottle of mead that had been buried under the fallen beams of a house, a raucous cheer went up. Grinning, he passed it to Andromeda and went hunting for more supplies, his senses having made him a favorite of the cooks. Anytime they needed something, they’d tell him, and more often than not, he’d find it in amongst the debris.
The village was as neat as it could be by the time the sun streaked the sky the dark pink and rich orange of sunset. Not only were the villagers ready for Alexander, they’d created shelters for the young and the weak, and cleaned themselves up as much as possible. Aware Alexander had been injured, everyone was on tenterhooks.
As the sunset grew ever more dazzling before beginning to darken until the clouds glowed like rubies, the village went quieter and quieter.
“Papa! Angels!”
Following a small child’s pointed finger, Andromeda looked to the color-splashed sky above the caves to see wings of glittering silver side by side with wings of an astonishing white gold that seemed aflame.
Overwhelming power and magnificent beauty, the sight made her heart stop. “They aren’t like us,” she whispered to Naasir, feeling that understanding in her bones. “They are nothing like us.” As different from her as she was from a mortal.
Arms wrapping around her shoulders from behind, Naasir nuzzled her temple. “They love as fiercely, Andi. And they fight as wildly.”
His words made the difference in their growing-up years so clear. To him, Raphael wasn’t a distant archangel who was a deadly member of the Cadre. Naasir saw Raphael as his sire and a warrior first, everything else second. She would’ve liked to have seen Raphael through his eyes over the years, gotten to know the blindingly powerful being who landed not far from them in a strong sweep of wings.
The power that burned off the two archangels made her eyes hurt.
As Alexander’s people, young and old, knelt down in front of him in a silent and devoted fealty, Raphael walked to join Naasir and Andromeda. Having moved around to stand beside her, Naasir clasped the archangel’s forearm in greeting when Raphael held it out, his own hand closing around Naasir’s forearm.
“You did well, Naasir,” the archangel said, his voice as pure as the searing blue of his eyes. “Alexander is of the opinion that you have no respect for anyone.”
Naasir grinned. “Especially not for stubborn Ancients who refuse to listen to reason.”
A slow smile before Raphael turned to Andromeda and held out his forearm. Her mouth dried up, her heart thundering. “I have a warrior as a consort, scholar,” Raphael said at her frozen response. “I recognize one when I see her, even if she chooses to wield the pen more often than the sword.”
Awed and astonished, she gripped his forearm, the power that lived in his body an almost painful ache in her bones. And yet his consort had been mortal before her transformation, was yet an angel newborn. Andromeda wanted desperately to meet Elena Deveraux at that moment, to know the woman who had the strength to hold her own against an archangel.
“Because of your and Naasir’s courage and will,” Raphael said after they broke contact, “Alexander lives today. He will not forget it.”
Andromeda found her voice at last, and though it came out raspy, it did at least come out. “I’m glad an Ancient has not been lost from the world.”
Raphael nodded and turned to watch as Alexander greeted his loyal sentinels one by one, having asked all his people to stand. “My mother will be happy to have a compatriot with whom to speak.”
That was the moment Andromeda realized a staggering truth. “There are now eleven living archangels in the world, two of them Ancients.”
The Cadre had, at rare times, been less than ten, but never more. Never.
“It appears the Cascade has changed the natural equilibrium of the world more deeply than anyone comprehends.” Raphael looked up at the painted sky, but she knew he saw the battle that had broken its peace not long ago. “Ten has been enough to maintain balance throughout time. That apparently no longer holds. More Ancients may yet rise before this is over.”
Because the Cascade was just beginning.
44
Raphael escorted Naasir and Andromeda safely out of Favashi’s territory before he went to speak to the Archangel of Persia herself. Midnight had long fallen by then, and he found her standing in that starry darkness in the ruins of Rohan’s palace. Her brown eyes were brittle, her bones stark against the golden cream of her skin.
Sweeping wings the shade of aged ivory touched the broken shards all around her.
“It’s true then,” she said, looking at him when he walked toward her through the ruins peopled by no others, as if Favashi had told them to leave her alone. “Alexander has woken and you battled Lijuan to protect him.”
“Yes.” He could understand her disbelief—there was so much impossibility in those events.
One: an Ancient had been Sleeping in the heart of her territory.
Two: that Ancient was now breathing aboveground.
Three: Lijuan had sought to kill a Sleeping archangel.
“Rohan was always loyal to his father,” Favashi said to him, her voice elegant and cultured but the steel core of her exposed for once. “I knew that should Alexander ever rise, I would lose him, but until then, he was loyal to me.” Midnight winds sifted through the luxuriant dark brown of her hair, creating a tangle she didn’t bother to ease away. “I always knew I could trust him to watch my interests.”
“He safeguarded the people in this area well.”
When Favashi looked at him, he was surprised to see tears in her eyes. The Archangel of Persia might appear softly female, but she was as ruthless as any other member of the Cadre, the archetypal iron hand in a velvet glove. “He was my lover once, before my ascension.” A sudden harsh rasp to her voice. “Strong and loyal. I should’ve taken him as mine, but I wanted someone with more power.”
Someone like Dmitri, Raphael thought, aware Favashi had offered his second the position of consort. “I am sorry for that, Favashi.” Had he not seen her tears, he wouldn’t have believed her heart involved. But those tears were real, as was the twist of her face as she tried to fight them.
The other archangel drew in a shaky breath. “He used to make me laugh,” she whispered. “Even after we went our separate ways and he found a mate, he remained my friend who could make me laugh. I never realized how much I needed that until this instant.” She looked around, her eyes lost. “I should’ve made him mine,” she repeated. “Now he is no more and no one will ever again make me laugh as he did.”