Page 81 of Archangel’s Lineage

“Not good.” Hannah’s dark eyes were tired. “I almost didn’t come—even dressing up today felt frivolous. But my love made me understand that it’s not only about us; the populace will see images of us on the way to and from this meeting, and find comfort in our appearance.”

“Caliane told me the same thing.”

Hope, Elena, Raphael’s mother had said. It is our duty to offer the people that when we can offer nothing else. We have no answers, but the world will fall apart if we appear ragged and on the edge of desperation—even if that is the truth. We must give every appearance of having the situation in hand. For if the archangels themselves have no answers...

Elena had felt her blood chill at the undoubted result, her mind awash in the dark red of blood as vampires panicked themselves into bloodlust—and mortals became helpless prey.

“She’s not bad for a mother-in-law,” she added.

Hannah laughed, her small movements making the evening sunlight glitter off her figure-hugging black gown. Though she had a stunning body, she rarely wore form-fitting clothing, her style tending more toward floaty gowns when she wasn’t in paint-splattered smocks.

Aegaeon arrived as Hannah’s laughter rose into the air.

The sound seemed to put him in a less irate mood than usual. She knew he wouldn’t have chosen to have the meeting in New York, but while he might be an ass as a man and as a father, it turned out that as an archangel, he took his duties seriously enough to just deal with it.

He had, of course, gone for his usual exhibitionist getup of bare chest and tight leather pants with boots. The silver swirl on his chest was as much a part of his skin as Raphael’s Legion mark, and on another archangel might’ve fascinated Elena. As it was, she channeled all the lessons poor, beleaguered Jessamy had given her and made polite noises of welcome as they led the three arrivals into the core.

She couldn’t have done this in her initial years as Raphael’s consort. It wasn’t about becoming less human, less herself—it was about maturity and knowledge. These days, she understood the need to put on a polite face, and that she couldn’t simply stab people who annoyed her—though, she wouldn’t lie, the latter remained tempting, especially with powerful angels. It wasn’t as if it would hurt them. Which just made her more annoyed.

Since she knew it was better that Raphael and Aegaeon have as little contact as possible, she took charge of showing him to the more casual mingling area Montgomery had set up away from the circle of chairs. He’d cleverly used a number of her plants to turn that corner into a “room” separate from the business side of things.

Their besuited butler stood ready to pour drinks, and Sivya had outdone herself with the array of food.

Elena and Raphael didn’t usually have waitstaff, their household staff limited to the strictly necessary. However, Montgomery had sourced a slender young vampire to be his right hand tonight. Luz had been the manager of a five-star restaurant before being Made and had worked in a senior angel’s home for the past decade.

“I hope your lodgings are comfortable?” Elena said to Aegaeon, reciting one of the rote small-talk sentences Jessamy had taught her.

“Good enough,” Aegaeon said, and she knew that even if they’d handed him everything he’d ever wanted, he’d have given the same answer. But then he smiled at her. “Thank you, Consort. I’m sure you had much to do with ensuring the comfort of the home in which I am a guest.”

Elena almost choked on the champagne of which she’d just taken a sip. It took intense effort to hold back her cough. Good thing Montgomery had the best poker face on earth, or he’d be in hysterics. If Aegaeon didn’t know who she was after being aware of her since he woke more than a decade ago, there was no hope for this lump of male chauvinist angel.

“Elena, we must greet our new guest.” Raphael took her arm, while he and Aegaeon ignored each other, Hannah and Elijah sliding in to fill the social vacuum.

That was real friendship, right there.

She broke out into a huge smile when she saw the angel coming in to land. Waving, she laughed as Titus dipped his wings in a showy hello before his boots hit the earth.

“Where’s Lady Sharine?” she said after allowing herself to be lifted off her feet by the huge power of his hug. The gold of his formal breastplate was hard against her, every other part of him warm and welcoming.

Titus put her down. “I see who is the favorite,” he rumbled, before exchanging the clasp of warriors with Raphael, ending with slaps of each other’s shoulders.

“I have only one favorite, Titus,” she whispered with a wink. “Just don’t tell Raphael.”

Booming laughter, before Titus said, “My lady follows. She was caught up in sketching the beginnings of a new artwork inspired by your city. I was ordered to go on ahead so I wouldn’t be late to the meeting of the Cadre. I do as my lady says.” He sounded so smug that it was adorable.

Titus was head over heels for Lady Sharine, the Hummingbird, and he didn’t care who knew it. And though she didn’t take the title of consort, the entire Cadre seemed to believe it was only a matter of time and treated her like a consort in everything but name.

Elena wasn’t so sure the Hummingbird would ever be that predictable. Illium’s mother was far from who she’d once been—and she might spend millennia sinking into her new skin before she tied her flag to anyone else’s, even to that of the man she adored as much as he did her.

You couldn’t be around them and not see that.

Titus didn’t care about the formalities, just that she was his. He wore her symbol—a hummingbird made of amber—in his breastplate. She wore his amber as a pendant that she never took off.

More wings overhead, coming from the other direction, and all at once the manicured green of the lawn was filled to the brim with archangels. Alexander, in formal leathers of a tan that echoed the deserts of his homeland, beside him Zanaya in one of those tiny dresses only Zanaya could pull off.

This one was a deep purple halterneck that shimmered with silver, the colors an echo of the luxurious tumble of her hair. On her feet were silver boots that laced up her calves. And on her back, between the starry night of her wings, rode a ceremonial sword studded with amethysts that was formal wear rather than a weapon.

It was grumpy Galen who’d taught her the difference. “Some weapons are displayed for their beauty and the artisan’s skill. They carry no aggressive intent—you must learn to recognize the difference if you’re to be an asset at Raphael’s side when the Cadre play stupid political games.”

---