Snapping out her wings when he released her, she grabbed the handguns at her hips, mourning her custom-built crossbow, as well as the absence of the machine guns. As it turned out, she only had to shoot a couple of enemy fighters. Clipped by one of Raphael’s bolts, which destroyed the bottom half of her right wing, Lijuan called a retreat, and her entire force fell back behind the defensive perimeter.
Elena didn’t fly to the Tower but to her shooting team, dreading what she’d find. But somehow, the entire group had made it through, injured but alive. Walking over to her, a bloodied but whole Ransom said, “You owe me a big, wet kiss,” the wound on his thigh bleeding through the field bandage.
When she scowled and told him to get himself to a medic, he rolled his eyes and withdrew his hand from behind his back. “Your crossbow, Consort.”
She did kiss him then, to the wolf whistles of the rest of the team.
That, however, was the sole point of light in the darkness. As night turned to dawn, the city drained of power, the Tower running on massive generators stored below ground and turned on only when Raphael and Lijuan weren’t in the air, they cataloged their losses while watching for any movement from the opposing camp. The news was bad.
“Half of the injured,” Dmitri said, after sharing the pitiless numbers, “will be able to fight again in a few hours, but the rest are either dead”—a grim look—“or so badly injured they’ll be out for days at least.” Black T-shirt wrinkled and bloodied from where he’d fought a squadron that had landed on a Tower balcony, he shoved a hand through his hair. “Jason, did you manage to get any reliable numbers on Lijuan’s casualties?”
The spymaster nodded. “Double ours.”
Everyone in the room understood that even with the impressive abilities of the Seven in the mix, that still left Lijuan at a huge advantage, and the remainder of the time was spent discussing what they could do to lessen the near-impossible odds. It was grueling, because there weren’t many more rabbits they could pull out of hats. Especially given the fact that while Lijuan hadn’t begun any hostilities in the Refuge, Galen reported that her stronghold was bristling with aggression.
“The instant they see any sign that we may head your way,” Raphael’s weapons-master had said, “there’s no question they’ll attack.” A tic in his jaw, he’d shaken his head. “If Lijuan survives this war, she’ll do so with more enemies than she knows. Every man, woman, and child in the Refuge understands the threat originates from her.”
An hour after Galen’s message, Jason received another report—more cargo planes were being stocked with weapons in Lijuan’s territory, and this time, instead of vampires, there would be reborn in the holds.
“It appears,” Raphael said, rage a cold burn in his blood, “the goddess has decided there is no dishonor in using her ‘servants’ to win this war.”
“You know,” Illium said with a smile that held no humor, “it’s a compliment. She’s starting to worry you might actually hurt her and win.”
Too bad the compliment could well lead to hell on earth.
Having forced herself to grab a couple of hours of down-time while she could, Elena was still grappling with the horrific possibility of a New York overrun with reborn when she walked into the refueling station to grab a cup of coffee just before dawn. “Sara.”
Face drawn, her best friend shared a photo her parents had sent of Zoe peacefully sleeping somewhere in a commune in Nebraska. “We’ll beat Lijuan, Ellie, whatever it takes.” An unyielding vow. “I will not have my baby growing up in a world ruled by a monster.”
Deacon came in just as they finished their coffee, and Elena left to give them a few minutes’ privacy, Deacon’s wide shoulders blocking Sara from view as he drew her into his arms. Elena couldn’t imagine how hard it must be for the two of them to be so far from Zoe. As far as she knew, their little girl had never before gone to bed without a kiss from Mommy or Daddy.
She hoped with everything in her heart that Sara’s words would prove prophetic, that they’d win this terrible fight so Zoe could play in the snow again, safe and happy and with wonder in her heart at the shadow of an angel’s wings. Picking up a feather of dappled black and gray that looked like it came from a squadron commander she knew well, she put it carefully into a pocket to save for Zoe.
Her aim was to find Raphael, maybe steal a few seconds in his arms, but when she reached the war room, she saw that he was in intense discussion with Jason. Not wanting to interrupt and needing some fresh air, she went to the balcony doors. She’d pushed the door to one side when she looked up and froze, her eye caught by the unexpected tableau outside.
Aodhan and Illium stood near the edge, weapons in hand, both bearing wounds that said they’d been in one of the ongoing light skirmishes along the perimeter. Aodhan had a cut on his cheek and what looked like a couple of shallow slices on his upper arms, while Illium’s right wing was notched as if by a blade. Not a disabling injury, Elena judged, and one that was healing before her eyes.
That, however, wasn’t what held her attention. It was the fact that they stood side by side, their wings overlapping the slightest fraction. Aodhan never made the mistake of putting himself in a situation where he could be touched, which meant this wasn’t a mistake. Fingers clenching on the doorjamb, her heart full at this sign of healing amid the hurt and the horror, she was about to turn away, leave them in peace, when Illium turned toward Aodhan.
The two angels were both tall, but Aodhan was perhaps an inch taller, and now his eyes locked with Illium’s for a long, quiet moment before he lowered his head very slightly. Illium raised his hand, the movement slow, hesitant . . . and then his fingers brushed Aodhan’s cheek just below the cut that had almost sealed. The first ray of dawn kissed the tear that rolled down Illium’s face, caressed the painful wonder on Aodhan’s as he lifted his hand to clasp the wrist of his friend’s hand.
That instant of contact, the power of it, stole her breath.
Then Illium smiled, said something that made Aodhan’s lips curve—Elena thought it might’ve been “Welcome back, Sparkle”—and they were separating to sweep off the Tower in a symphony of wild silver blue and heartbreaking light.
“Raphael,” she whispered, having felt him come up behind her. “Did you see?”
“Yes.” His hand on her nape, his thumb brushing over her pulse. “Of course it would be Illium who reached him,” he murmured. “They’ve been friends since Illium first talked Aodhan into flying to the bottom of the gorge—he was younger than Sam is now, Aodhan even younger.”
Elena hadn’t realized Illium was older, Aodhan was always so solemn. “Did they get in trouble?” she asked, turning sideways to his body.
“Yes. It’s a forbidden flight for such young babes—the gorge floor is far from the city and, though coasting down is not so hard, young angels don’t have the wing strength to get back up.
“When they were found,” he added, tucking her against him, “everyone knew it was Illium who must’ve been the instigator, and he took the blame without pretending otherwise.” A laugh. “He has never lied, your Bluebell, even as a child, and that’s why no one could ever be angry with him. ‘I did it’ is apt to be the most frequent thing he said as a child.”
Elena could just imagine. “And Aodhan? What was he like?”
“Always quiet, shy, gentle of heart. But that day, he was intractable, insisting Illium alone wasn’t to blame, that they’d come up with the plan together. He wouldn’t listen when Illium told him to shush, and the next thing the Refuge knew, they were close as two birds of the same nest, each as often at the other’s home as his own.”
Pressing his lips to her hair, he said, “Two hundred years, Elena, that is how long we have waited for our Aodhan to return.”
The solemn words made her eyes burn. Wrapping her arms around him, she stood in silence with her consort, their eyes on the squadrons that patrolled the uneasy border. Each time she glimpsed wings of silver blue, she looked for those of broken light.