Archangel's Resurrection (Guild Hunter #15)(97)

Raphael caught up with Elijah not long after the Archangel of South America had landed by Antonicus’s cairn. Hardly a surprise when Elijah had been flying toward the border for their meeting at the same time as Raphael; they couldn’t have been that far apart, and—thanks to a lingering Cascade gift—Raphael was now a faster flyer than any other archangel in the world.

The latter didn’t make him any more powerful than Eli, however. Each of them had talents or skills of their own that kept the Cadre in balance. Eli, for example, had always had a mind capable of such razor-sharp strategy that even Raphael’s equally gifted second had been known to tell him never to go to war with their closest neighbor.

“I can’t promise we’ll win,” Dmitri had said, his dark eyes glinting. “Eli thinks seventeen moves ahead. He must’ve been a hell of a general in his time.”

Since it was Caliane who Elijah had called his liege before his ascension, Raphael had an excellent idea of just how good a general the other man had been. He also knew the depth of Elijah’s capacity for loyalty—it had taken him a little while to get it, to understand that Eli would never stab him in the back, literally or metaphorically, but perhaps that was a lesson of age.

Now that he’d learned it, he would never squander the gift.

“Eli,” he said, his heart thumping from the effort of his flight as he came down beside his friend. “Any signs?” He’d spotted nothing from the air.

“I knew you’d be just behind me.” Elijah thrust his hand through golden hair gone dark from sweat. “I’ve done a full walkaround and multiple flights over and around.” His jaw worked, the pure white of his wings blending in against the snowy background. “No signs of an ordinary archangelic awakening.”

Shards of stone, rocks thrown about, melted metals, the entire island obliterated to sink into the ocean, any of those things would’ve been a clear signal that an archangel had risen here. “We can’t ignore the skies.” The sweat that had dripped down Raphael’s back began to turn to ice—he was glad now that he’d listened to Elena and worn an item of clothing that she’d gifted him.

“It’ll wick away sweat, dry quickly, and keep you warm in the aftermath,” she’d told him. “Hunters use it when we go into cold areas.”

Long sleeved and black, with built-in wing slits, it fit snug to his frame. He wore a lined leather jerkin over it—an item of clothing he’d almost ripped off and thrown aside on the flight here, but now appreciated. He always forgot the brutal cold of this piece of the world.

“We’ll have to unearth Antonicus.” Elijah’s voice was grim. “I don’t suggest this easily—”

“—but it must be done,” Raphael completed, for he wouldn’t have his friend and ally believe he walked alone into this decision. “No one can argue with us. Not after the bilious stain on skies across the world.”

“We’ll be careful,” Elijah murmured. “It’ll take longer than if we blast it open, but if he is in there, we go too hard and we risk causing him further injury.”

Raphael nodded. “Agreed.” Antonicus might have been an insufferable ass, but he had done his duty as an archangel and deserved their consideration.

The two of them got to work, not speaking except when necessary. This wasn’t the time for idle chatter or even friendly conversation. The work went faster than they’d anticipated and they soon found themselves looking at the mix of shattered rock and frozen soil below which they’d laid Antonicus to rest.

“I should do this, Rafe. I’m older, less apt to be made a target by certain others in the Cadre.”

Even though Eli had known Raphael as an infant then a boy, he’d never slipped up and called him his childhood nickname after Raphael became an archangel. That he’d done so now gave Raphael an insight into the strain behind his fellow archangel’s cool expression. “No, Eli, we do it together. United.”

A glance at him out of eyes of golden brown before Elijah nodded.

And they turned their power into lifting the cold and stony earth below which should lie an archangel.





53


Alexander tracked Zanaya to her library after he’d finished speaking to Xander; she had the doors open to the balmy night, was looking over a detailed map of her new territory. Her hair was violet rain under the overhead lights, her wings velvet dark and held tight to her back with warrior control.

“My grandson remains intent on flying to us tomorrow,” he told her. “Says his leave hasn’t been revoked since there’s no uncontrollable outbreak or any real sign of trouble.” He rubbed his forehead. “I couldn’t argue with him—he might be a child to me, but to the outside world, he’s a junior squadron commander who’s often out on solo flights.”

“That doesn’t mean you won’t worry about him.” Gaze soft, Zanaya took his hand, squeezed. “Even if Antonicus does walk, he’s doing so in stealth and cunning. He has no discernible reason to target your grandson—if he even knows that Xander exists.”

Alexander frowned, exhaled on a wave of shattering relief. “No, he can’t know. He wasn’t awake long enough for us to converse much—and he’d have no reason to dig into my family on his own. As for the past, while we were cordial when our reigns collided across time, we were never either intimates or enemies.”