“Oh, I like the idea of causing mayhem.” Leaning closer, Hannah whispered, “Shall we kidnap Tasha and pluck off her feathers?”
“Don’t put ideas in my head.”
“Consort.” The voice was purest beauty, the woman who spoke equally so.
Turning to greet her mother-in-law without cutting Hannah off from the conversation, she inclined her head exactly the right amount to acknowledge their relationship without diminishing Elena’s standing as Raphael’s consort. The funny thing was that it wasn’t Jessamy but Caliane who’d taught her that precision bow—a little mother-in-law–daughter-in-law bonding exercise when Caliane realized no one knew how to deal with the protocol between an Ancient mother-in-law and her archangelic son’s consort.
Funnily enough, that particular situation had never before come up.
“It is good to see you,” Elena said now, going off-script from the ceremonial greeting because she and Caliane had progressed beyond that in the short, stealthy visits Caliane had made to New York, and Raphael and Elena to Amanat, during the past two years. “You know Hannah, of course.”
“Hannah, my dear.” Caliane closed her hands over one of Hannah’s, leaned in to kiss the other woman on the cheek.
The difference in greetings was no insult. Elijah had been one of Caliane’s loyal generals before his ascension to archangel, and even afterward, he’d never betrayed her. Rather, he’d looked out for her son.
“Lady Caliane.” Hannah’s smile held an infectious warmth as she used the same title Elijah continued to use for Caliane, an equal who chose to acknowledge the history he shared with Caliane.
Elijah could do that without repercussions, was old enough to get away with it. Raphael had to tread a far more careful path. His relationship with Caliane had never been of equals when he was younger—he couldn’t hark back to it without also reminding the rest of the Cadre of the boy he’d been. More, he’d only been an archangel for approximately five hundred years, a drop in the ocean in angelic time.
“I’ve almost finished the piece I sketched in Amanat,” Hannah said, the words a whisper so others wouldn’t overhear of Hannah and Eli’s visit to Caliane’s city, learn they’d left their territory at times. “I have great hopes of showing it to you within the next six months.”
“I will await the unveiling with anticipation,” Caliane responded warmly before returning her attention to Elena . . . only for her gaze to skate past Elena, the look in them changing to a piercing love that only appeared when she looked at one person.
“Raphael, my son.” She took Raphael’s kiss on the cheek in greeting, touched her own fingers to his cheek in return.
It was still a shock to Elena’s system to see them side by side. They appeared near to the same age, though Caliane was older by many, many millennia. Unexpectedly, Caliane then spoke to Elena. “Consort, I would be pleased if you would walk with me tomorrow eve prior to dinner. I would hear of my son’s home, learn how his people are doing.”
Why isn’t she asking you? Elena said to Raphael, even as she accepted Caliane’s invitation.
Her archangel placed his hand on the bare skin of her lower back as his mother moved on to speak to Alexander. Hannah, too, had been drawn away—by Elijah, who’d smiled a hello at Elena, Raphael and the other archangel having already spoken.
She is preempting those who might believe they can drive a wedge between us by using the fact you are not the consort my mother would’ve chosen for me.
Raphael moved his fingers on her back. And she has missed speaking to you, I think. She has said to me that you make her remember what it was to be young and fearless.
Fighting pleasurable shivers, Elena said, You sure that’s not code for young and stupid?
Raphael’s lips kicked up on one corner. Are they not the same?
Elena couldn’t exactly argue, given some of the stunts she’d pulled as a green hunter. “Have you spoken to Astaad?” She could see the archangel’s distinctive wings, the feathers night black where they grew out of his back but fading slowly to pale gray at the tips, like a watercolor done with an expert hand.
“No, let’s go do so now.”
When they did, Astaad confirmed he’d left Mele at home. “She wanted to accompany me, but she is too gentle, with no weapons of her own.” His eyes, a dark shade close to onyx, striking against the cool white of his skin, scanned the room. “Neha has arrived.”
The Archangel of India entered the Atrium with regal grace, her silk sari an unusual deep yellow embroidered with threads of blue-gold and her black hair swept back in its usual neat knot. She held her wings off the floor with unforced strength, the feathers icy white with filaments of cobalt in the primaries. Her brown eyes were of the queen she was: intelligent and used to power.
Close on her heels came Charisemnon.
The Archangel of Disease—Elena far preferred that name over his official title—was back to full health and he was physically quite handsome, all rich brown hair and skin of deep gold, his body fluidly muscled and his eyes a darker gold with flecks of brown in their depths.
He still made her stomach turn.
Neha might hate Elena, but Elena liked the Archangel of India for giving Charisemnon a distinctly icy reception when the two exchanged greetings. I keep forgetting Neha’s a warrior, too, she said to Raphael, and then she does something like that and I remember she has zero sympathy for people she considers cowards.