A pause, then words that were stones thrown into the tranquil mirror of an unbroken lake. “Are you not afraid?”

“Terrified,” she admitted, thinking of the violent stab of vulnerability that had hit her just that morning. “But you know what? Fuck fear. I won’t allow it to steal my life from me—and you shouldn’t, either.” No, she didn’t understand the hell that had shaped Aodhan, but she’d been through her own hell, had firsthand knowledge of the cage such horror could create. “Fly hard and fast, Aodhan. You never know what you’ll see. And what’s the worst that could happen?”

Aodhan’s response was quiet and bloody. “I could crash to the earth, my wings broken and my body a fleshy pulp.”

“But imagine what you’d experience in the interim . . . and ask yourself if safe aloneness is all you ever wish to know.”

Leaving the solemn angel to his thoughts when he didn’t respond, she squared her shoulders and made her way back inside the Tower, and to the first of the strictly guarded floors that held the wounded angels. The majority remained in the healing comas Keir had induced, their bodies shattered into pieces, but the faces of those who were conscious lit up the instant she came into view.

Calling her “Consort,” they asked her for news of what was happening in the city and with their squadrons and apologized for being unable to rise from their beds. It was the first time she’d had real personal contact with many of the fighters who defended the Tower, and it humbled her that they saw her visit as an honor, for she was “consort to their liege.”

Thankful for Keir’s quiet whisper that so concisely explained a response she’d been struggling to understand, Elena settled in. As she spoke to the injured in the hours that followed, she began to comprehend another aspect of her responsibilities when it came to her position by Raphael’s side. She was no doubt the weakest angel in the room in terms of power, but that wasn’t who the men and women around her saw, wasn’t what they needed from her.

“Take a deep breath,” Keir murmured when she walked out to the corridor after seeing the brutal injuries done a dark-eyed angel who’d proudly shown her the sword he’d been given by Galen himself—a sign of the weapons-master’s respect for his skills. The angel’s left wing was nothing but tendon clinging to bone, his face pulped on one side, his arm severed at the shoulder.

Hands on her knees, she sucked in gulps of air and, when she could speak again, said, “Will he heal?”

“Yes, though it’ll mean months of hurt for him.” A gentle hand on her hair, a healer’s touch. “In the hours past, have you come to understand why they respond to you as they do?”

A lump of emotion in her throat, Elena rose to her full height, topping Keir by several inches. “I’m their conduit to Raphael.” She hadn’t understood until this instant that the general fighting troops had the same awe of Raphael as many mortals. Even among angelkind, an archangel was a being to be feared and respected.

Dmitri, Aodhan, Galen, Illium, all of the Seven, they were only a rung below the Cadre as far as the troops were concerned. The fighters would go to any one of them without hesitation when it came to issues to do with the Tower’s defenses, but would never think to bother them with anything else. “I’m meant to be the one who looks below the formal, structured surface and to the individuals beneath.” The one who kept her finger on the living heartbeat of the Tower, made certain people were happy.

“You feel foolish that it has taken you until now to apprehend this.”

“Someone couldn’t have clued me in?” Not that she would’ve known what to do—she didn’t now—but at least she would’ve tried. “It’s been months!”

Keir’s frown was a silent rebuke. “No one expected you to take up these responsibilities for years, if not decades, yet. You are a young consort; it is understood that you have much to learn . . . but the trauma of the past days has altered that timeline.” Shadows heavy on the fine bones of his face, his tone holding a haunting sadness.

“I don’t know how to do this.” It was a confession torn out of her soul. “Not long ago, I told Aodhan to take risks, but God, Keir, I think I’m at my limit. I’m not sure my heart is big enough to encompass thousands.” Some of whom would inevitably die in battle. The pain of the loss wouldn’t be a distant, manageable one if she knew their names, their dreams, their hopes. Each death would be a kick directly to her battered heart. “I’ve lost too many people already.”

“Courage, Elena.” Brushing his fingertips over her cheek, he led her back to the infirmary. “Of that I know you have an imprudent amount.”

It took all of her courage to visit the one person in the infirmary she’d avoided till the last possible moment. “Izzy.” The young blond angel, his curls having been shaved off to reveal his fractured skull, had a sweet crush on her. Even so badly hurt that she couldn’t believe he was awake and aware, his brutalized face glowed when she took a seat by his bedside.

It was impossible to do anything but smile back, he was so adorable in his devotion.

“I thought you forgot me.” Shy words, his cheeks going pink as she flirted with him in an effort to take his mind off the excruciating pain of his injuries.

“Our bodies are capable of healing the most horrific wounds,” Keir had said, “but the cost is pain. No drug to numb pain will work on angelic bodies, though we’ve tried to find such for centuries upon centuries. I, too, can only soften the hurt, not eliminate it, and while the babes and the ones over three or four hundred can be placed under for a long duration, the younger adults wake constantly and thus are too often conscious.”

Fifteen minutes later, she was careful not to accidentally cause Izak any further hurt when she pressed a kiss to the single unbroken patch of his face. “Rest, heal. I’ll come by again soon.” Maybe she was scared at what was being asked of her, but if Izak could smile through his agony, she’d damn well find the guts to be what he needed her to be.

“When you create your guard,” he said abruptly as she turned to leave, “will you at least consider me?” Eyes huge with entreaty. “I know I’m young and I don’t mind having the least—”

“Wait.” She tilted her head to the side. “You know I don’t have bodyguards.” It had taken more than one drag-down fight with Raphael to carve that rule into stone, and Elena had no intention of altering that fact.

“No, not guards. A Guard.”

This time, Elena heard the capital G.

“Like Raphael’s Seven,” Izak continued, aching hope in his expression. “You’re a consort. Elijah’s consort has a Guard.”

Elena didn’t know what she would do with a Guard, but saying no to this fragile, broken, hopeful boy was out of the question. “Consider yourself the first member.”

His smile lit up the whole room.

• • •

It was well after nightfall when she left the infirmary and went up several floors to find Raphael ensconced in a strategy session with his Seven, those not physically in the city having called in on visual feeds. She could’ve gone in, taken a seat, and listened, but she needed to clear her head after the intense emotional strain of the past day.

Digging out her cell phone, she messaged her best friend. The munchkin asleep?

Snoring like a champ. Want to come over for coffee?

I won’t interrupt you and your love bunny?

My love bunny has abandoned me for his workshop. He’s making some super-special nifty weapon for another woman. Good thing I love you or I’d have to kill you.

A smile breaking through the sadness and anger inside her, she sent a message to Raphael’s phone instead of interrupting his thoughts, then flew to Sara’s. The last time she’d been by, the roof had been a construction site, but today, her best friend waved at her from the now flat surface, two steaming mugs and a baby monitor sitting on the battered wooden coffee table in front of an equally battered sofa.

“Nice,” Elena said, taking in the currently empty planters set in the corners, the wall around the roof high enough that Zoe could play here without any risk she’d fall.

“You’ll have to help me pick out some plants in the summer.” Sara held up a mug of coffee and, when Elena took it with a sigh, patted the sofa next to her. “No proper furniture yet, so your wings will be a bit squished.”

“It’s actually so soft, it’s not bad.” Sinking in, Elena propped up her boots on the coffee table, taking care not to jiggle the monitor. “How’s Darrell?”

“Messed up.” Sara brought up her legs to sit cross-legged, her hands cupped around her mug, her skin a rich, smooth brown against the white ceramic. “But I think he’ll be okay. You and Ransom got to him in time.”

They sat in comfortable silence for several minutes, their eyes on the stars above, the sky holding the sharp clarity of the coldest of nights, their breath frosting the air. When they did talk, they meandered from topic to topic, their friendship old enough that they could skip from their worry about the predicted archangelic hostilities to a discussion on Sara’s side-swept bangs to bursting out laughing when they both muttered, “Men,” at the same time.

Then Sara, having curled up against the arm of the sofa, poked at Elena’s thigh with a sock-clad foot. “Stop it.”

Startled by the burst of inexplicable anger, Elena stared. “What?”

“Stop thinking about what’ll happen when I’m gone.” It was an arrow to the heart. “You ever think about the fact that maybe I’ll have to watch you die?”

“I’m becoming immor—”

Her friend snorted. “Since when has the immortal world been a happy-happy-let’s-hold-hands-and-sing-‘Kumbaya’ kind of a place, huh? Weren’t we just discussing a war, genius?”