It was also good for Andreas, Janvier, and the other strong vampires and angels in his territory to have a taste of what it meant to run his Refuge stronghold. Andreas, in particular, was old and powerful enough—and now had enough experience at the task—that he’d need less of a team the next time Raphael asked him to step in.

The trust Raphael had shown in assigning him the critical duty had further solidified the strong angel’s loyalty. As for Nimra, she was both powerful and one of his calmest angels, and Andreas valued her counsel. Even Nazarach had been known to speak to her when he needed advice. Janvier, Trace, and Noel had skills to back up Andreas and Nimra, and all were blood-loyal to his territory.

Technically, Ashwini was much too young to have been shown the secret of the Refuge that protected angelic young and held the histories of angelkind. But Janvier’s wife was a most unique vampire. She had the third eye, could glimpse the future—though, thankfully, her gift was not a thing of madness as Cassandra’s had been.

While in the Refuge, she’d been a popular guest invited to many homes. All of whom were hoping to be bestowed a glimpse of what was to come. And every so often, Ashwini would let something drop. It was never on purpose, Raphael knew. That was what made her so very likable—she was swayed neither by power nor by wealth, and when the words came, you knew they were honest.

She’d visited the home of Aodhan’s sister, Imalia, at some point—and halfway through the cake she’d been served, had said, “Your lover should really start building that crib. It takes time, you know, even for people gifted with their hands. And he’s such a perfectionist.”

That prophecy had been politely ignored—especially after Ashwini told another angelic couple to fit out a nursery, and a third angel to learn to play music because his daughter wouldn’t go to sleep without it. Everyone had thought she’d made an embarrassing mistake.

Angelic births were rare. Three in close proximity? Ludicrous.

Yet today, Aodhan cradled his nephew’s fragile body in his arms, while two other babes slept in the Refuge. Needless to say, Ashwini had an open invitation to any territory she wished to visit.

Galen finally came to a stop. His hair windblown and his face flushed, he moved to shake Deacon’s hand. “It’s even better than I imagined. Are you sure you don’t want to become a vampire? I have connections.”

“I am quite sure,” Deacon said with the smile of a man deeply content with his life. “I’ll create to the end of my days, then I will sleep in peace.”

Illium hefted a bottle of champagne over his head. “We have this stuff for those of you whose taste buds can stand it,” he said with a shudder. “There’s also fancy blood from Elena’s café, beer, and a bottle of truly excellent Scotch.” He held up the latter with a grin. “What’s your poison?”

The drinks were poured, conversation began, and Raphael sat down to spend the evening with a group of men he’d trust at his back no matter what the battle. However, not thinking about Elena and the changes wracking her body? An impossibility.

On the Tower floor directly below the roof, Elena called her grandfather while Jessamy went to get her cloak. The historian had long come to accept her wing malformation, but as with Laric, she took care never to reveal it to ordinary mortals.

Angels could not be seen as fallible.

For angels were not like mortals and never would be.

“Better that I wear a cloak than be the cause of a reign of blood,” Jessamy had once said when discussing her reasoning. “Let the world believe me so haughty an angel that I do not think mortals deserve a glimpse of my wings.”

Those wings were startlingly lovely, a luxuriant magenta that flowed into blush then purest cream. Jessamy wore her wings openly in the Refuge, and when the sunlight fell on the fine filaments, they lit up from within exactly like the glow of Jessamy’s soul. The historian and teacher of angelic young was the kindest, gentlest angel Elena had ever met.

“Beth is fine,” Jean-Baptiste told her after picking up the call. “She’s reading stories to Maggie.”

“Jessamy and Galen have flown in for a visit. I’m taking Jess to Sara’s for drinks and conversation.”

“Good. Don’t feel guilty for living your life, child.” Rough words, so much unspoken. “Enjoy your friends, enjoy the world.”

Elena thought of the tiny feather she’d picked up an hour ago. A deep black, it had come from where her wings grew out of her back. Wings that had begun to feel heavy again, her back aching under the pressure. “I will,” she said to her grandfather, her heart a knot.

Ten minutes later, she and Jessamy rode through the gaudy and bright and laughing color of Manhattan in back of a converted truck that had no sides to block the view. “How’s Sam?” Elena asked. “I haven’t had a chance to call him this week.” The young angelic boy was one of Elena’s favorite people in the Refuge.

“I had to stand him in the corner last week for throwing pieces of rotten fruit at another boy.” Laughter in Jessamy’s voice. “He planned the whole thing in retaliation for a mud-pushing incident. And of course they are the best of friends who find it all hilarious.”

As Elena grinned, Jessamy looked around, her eyes brilliant with reflected light. “Even when Raphael was a young archangel building his Tower,” the historian said, “there was a life to this place that was both joyful and frenetic.” She watched two angels sweep low through the skyscrapers before swinging back up again. “Now, it burns with energy.”

“I like that it never sleeps,” Elena murmured, her mind on other thoughts of energy. “There’s a discovery on every corner. No restraint, pure heart.”

Jessamy met her gaze across the space between them, her soft brown eyes incisive. “What is wrong, Elena? Will you not tell me?”

Hand clenching on the metal bar above her head, Elena tried to figure out where to begin. In the end, she spoke the dark truth at the heart of it all. “I’m regressing in my immortality.” She told the other woman about no longer being able to speak to Raphael with her mind, about the changes in her eyes, about the feathers she kept losing. “I’m terrified I’ll wake up one day mortal again, my wings lost.”

Distress on Jessamy’s features. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have left the Refuge. When we spoke about the owls and the woman with the lilac hair, I thought it simply a Cascade dream—I was in Amanat then and looking forward to surprising you.” Her wing moved agitatedly under her cloak. “Galen and I must return at once, so I can continue to scour the archives for—”

“Jess.” Elena shook her head. “Andromeda answered the question about the owls and the woman, and from what she said, not much else is known about Cassandra. As for the rest . . . You’ve been digging for years at this point, and all you’ve discovered are mentions of the same legend about ambrosia and an archangel loving true.”

“I’ve never before failed so badly at a research task.”

“You can’t find what’s not there.” Elena knew how hard Jessamy had searched, the countless hours she and Andromeda had spent among the dustiest records. “The last angel-Made was so many eons ago that the Legion can’t recall it. Any records have long since turned to dust.”

A rare frustration in the fine lines of Jessamy’s face. “I am keeping exact records of your transition. No other angel-Made will ever go blind into the future.” Her wing moved again under the cloak. “You’re certain you don’t want me to return to the Refuge?”

“Yes. This is a journey into the unknown. Raphael and I will walk it together.”

Child. The Sleep-heavy whisper fell into her mind.

So, at least one person could still talk to her on the mental plane. Maybe because Cassandra was entering through another part of her mind. The part that dreamed while she slept, only this dream happened while she was awake and conscious.

Yes? She’d made the choice not to antagonize Cassandra—after all, the Ancient only saw as Ash saw; she wasn’t the reason for what was happening to Elena. As for the golden-eyed white owl seated next to Jessamy, it was a hauntingly beautiful creature that lived in an archangel’s dreams.

The second marker in time nears.

Elena straightened. Will someone else die? Can I save them?

Not death. Rebirth. The owl flared its wings. The gift is not yours, child of mortals, and will not give itself to you. The voice was sad and adamant both. Your death is written in the stars. For you must die for the other to live.

Goose bumps broke out over Elena’s skin. How many markers in time are there?

Three.

The drinker of blood lost.

The agony of rebirth.

The last feather to fall.

Three markers. The second was about to happen. And she’d just seen one of her feathers float to the truck bed.

This was not looking good for Elena.

35

Raphael stood with Galen near the edge of the roof, an archangel renewing ties with a member of his Seven. But Galen had things to tell him that had nothing to do with the bond that had tied them together for centuries.

“Sire,” the weapons-master said, “we came through Amanat.”

Raphael had expected as much. His mother’s home was a place out of time. She’d taken an entire town with her into Sleep. When she had arisen, she’d brought it all back, a living city from another land now extant in the depths of Kagoshima, Japan. As a historian, Jessamy couldn’t resist its lure.

“Lady Caliane sends her love.”

“You will go back that way?” At Galen’s nod, Raphael said, “I would ask that you carry a gift for my mother.” It was Raphael’s hunter who had chosen that gift: a finely balanced blade two centuries old.