Page 97 of Archangel’s Lineage

“Always, Archangel.” She leaned in to kiss him goodbye, and in the instant that their skin touched, she heard the song of the relic on his arm, a hauntingly lovely melody that made her vibrate from within.

Your eyes are aglow the shade of the object, Raphael said into her mind before he drew back.

Marduk’s chest rumbled with a sound that wasn’t a word. “You must come with us.” An order directed at Elena. “The subcomponent is reacting to you—there’s a risk that you may be needed at the end to complete the Compass.”

Elena thought of the song in her head, the way the relic felt in her palm. I guess, Archangel, she said privately to Raphael, the old ones set it to resonate to archangelic cells, never figuring an archangel would one day literally give away a piece of his heart.

Raphael nodded. “Then we’ll have to go via the plane,” he said, then pointed up when Marduk frowned. “The metal machines that fly in the air.”

Elena didn’t argue; she knew her strength and level of endurance in the air, and there was no way she could make the long flight without several extended rest breaks. But—“You don’t know that I’ll be needed,” she pointed out. “I might not be. You two fly ahead, and I’ll follow. If it turns out you do need me, I’ll already be on the way, and if I’m not, you can solve the issue while I’m still in the air.”

A short discussion later and they’d all agreed on the plan.

The melody rang out in her head once more when Raphael cupped the side of her face, touched his lips to hers. A heartbeat later, all she heard was the susurration of his wings as they unfurled for flight.

Walking to stand on the edge of the roof, she watched as he and Marduk took flight into a sky that had begun to transition to night, two archangels, one the oldest living being in current existence, the other the youngest archangel ever made.

A shiver rippled over her when they disappeared into the clouds, taking a high flight path through thinner air. The music had stopped, the emptiness as haunting as when the Legion had stopped speaking to her.

But she had no time for melancholy.

Flying down to the balcony outside their suite, she made the call to the airport to let their pilot, Duncan, know that she needed to be in the air as fast as possible. Then, because—unlike the Cadre—she wasn’t all but invulnerable to harsh weather conditions, she grabbed her specially designed daypack and quickly packed clothing that would protect her against snow and ice if they ended up in that type of environment.

Daypack snug between her wings, she took off toward the airport only minutes after Raphael’s departure. When she called Dmitri, he said, “Raphael told me.”

They hung up without further words, the city safe under his watch. She made her final call once she was on the plane, as Duncan began to taxi to the runway.

“Bethie,” she said when her sister answered, “I have to head out of town for a few days.” With no indication of how long this might take, the generic period seemed appropriate. “Will you tell Dad?”

After agreeing, Beth said, “Will you be safe in whatever you’re doing?”

Elena squeezed the phone. “Yes. I’ll see you all when I get back.”

After hanging up, she stared out the window and thought of how a happy family of six had become a shattered grouping of three.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The sound of blood dripping to the floor as it fell off her dead sister’s broken fingers—it had haunted her for years, still did at times. Today, however, what haunted her was the memory of Beth’s hand gripping hers, her little face white and pinched as her child’s brain struggled to comprehend the horror.

First Belle and Ari, then Marguerite. Gone forever.

“I miss you,” she said aloud as the plane took to the sky. “I’ll always miss you.” Some wounds didn’t ever vanish; they just faded with time, until you could look at them without bleeding and breaking.

Another shiver rocked her.

Knowing it had nothing to do with her memories and everything to do with exhaustion, she got up and grabbed a blanket, then settled in for a rest. There was no knowing what the day would hold—she might as well sleep when she could.

***

It was the scent of gardenias that told her she was dreaming.

But she didn’t look away from her mother’s smiling face as they sat across from each other on the kitchen floor. Marguerite, so ethereal and beautiful, had thrown a woven rug over the tile, and they sat shelling peas from the big basket she’d picked from the gardens.

“Chérie? Why such a look on your face?” Marguerite’s eyes held love unbound, the paleness of her hair aglow in the sunlight that poured in behind her.

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