Archangel's Prophecy (Guild Hunter #11)(79)

Making a growling face, Elena said, “Run!” The children took off while she pretended to chase them as fast as she could. She saw one of the other parents take photos, and, after the game was over and the children went back to playing on the available equipment, she asked the woman if she could see the images.

As she looked through them, she quietly deleted the ones that featured Maggie, leaving the woman with only those that showed her own child with Elena. It was unlikely the beaming woman would even notice, she’d taken so many shots.

That done, she went over to where Beth sat in a child-sized swing, her feet dragging heavily on the ground.

“Afraid I can’t push you on that one, Bethie.”

Her sister rose to lean into her. Elena wrapped her up in her arms . . . and she hoped to hell that she’d be there for Beth as time continued its inexorable march. As Maggie grew. As Harrison healed.

Because she’d just seen another feather float to the ground.





34




Night was a black cloak around him as Raphael flew home, the city winter-dark though it was only early evening. It had taken teeth-gritted control on his part not to check in on Elena every ten minutes after he left her—and then she’d messaged him, his hunter who knew him well enough to understand his need.

The contact had held him through his time dealing with the vampire kiss that had been flexing their muscles. It had been the wrong time for them to act out—and for the area’s angel to fail in his duties to keep the vampires in check. Raphael had been in no mood to go easy on anyone.

When he spotted lights on the Tower roof, he headed that way in case Elena had chosen to wait for him up there as she did at times—most often in the company of one or more of the Legion, or Illium. Once in a blue moon, it would be Dmitri or Venom—and they’d usually be throwing verbal knives at one another.

He often thought the three had come to enjoy their barbed interactions too much to ever be any friendlier.

Closer now, he saw colored lights strung all along the sides of the roof; the snow had also been brushed to the edges of the large space to leave a clean area in the center. Chairs surrounded a brazier that burned hot . . . lighting up a face he hadn’t seen for far too long.

His wings sending up a flurry of snow as he landed on one edge, he closed them back then stalked across to meet his weapons-master halfway. “Galen.” He clasped the other man’s opposite forearm in the way of warriors, their other arms coming around each other’s shoulders, the embrace warmed by centuries of loyalty and of battle beside one another. “This is a surprise.” His weapons-master was based in the angelic stronghold of the Refuge and ran all of Raphael’s interests there.

“We thought we’d take advantage of Aodhan being in the Refuge.” Galen’s pale green eyes were bright even in the night, though his hair appeared brown rather than the true red it was under sunlight. “He’s happy to handle my duties while I make this visit.”

“I am glad to see you.” He looked past Galen’s shoulder to spot Illium, Venom, and even Jason on the roof. The others must’ve called his spymaster when Galen landed in New York.

“Where is Jessamy?” He wanted to speak to her about Cassandra, see if she knew more than what Andromeda had imparted to Elena.

“Your consort has kidnapped her to parts unknown.” Galen ran his fingers through his hair, the amber amulet that hung from the metal band he wore around his upper-left arm aglow in the firelight that reached them. “I was told not to wait up.”

“They’re going to Sara’s!” Illium called out after catching their conversation. “A girls’ night, Ellie said, while we have a gathering here.”

Raphael’s hand curled into his palm, but this—having so many of his Seven together—was a rare gift. Elena was giving him a silent message: Enjoy this night, Archangel. With the Cascade unleashed once more, we can’t know when it’ll come again. The rest can wait a few more hours.

Putting a stranglehold on the fury of his worry, Raphael joined his men just as the rooftop door opened to admit Dmitri and Janvier. Also with them was Deacon, the weapons-maker husband of Elena’s best friend—and a mortal who reminded Raphael of the man Dmitri had been when they’d first met. The same quiet confidence, the same dedication to his family, the same way of interacting with Raphael—as a friend.

Raphael would mourn Deacon when he was gone.

So, he thought, would Galen. His weapons-master’s face had lit up more brilliant than the winter moon. “Deacon! Don’t say you have it already?”

Dark-haired, with eyes of dark green, Deacon reached into the scabbard he wore across his back and, giving a slow smile, pulled out a heavy broadsword that gleamed with the colors of the lights ringing the roof.

Galen, hard as granite and not known for emotional displays, looked near to tears. Taking the broadsword with reverent hands, he moved away from the main group and began to put the blade through its paces. It sang like music in the air, the balance so tuned to Galen’s hand that it would never sing as well for another.

“Well,” Janvier drawled, “I guess that puts me in my place.” Hands on his hips. “I’m never entering a room with you again, mon ami,” he said to Deacon.

The weapons-maker removed the scabbard from his body. “Give Galen the scabbard when he’s done, and he might realize he’s not imagining a Cajun accent near me.”