Raphael gave her a distinctly amused look. “Naasir is one of my Seven.”
“Raphael.”
“What do you think he is?”
“A tiger on the hunt, that’s how I categorized his scent the first time I met him, and I haven’t changed my mind,” she said, as Naasir came down the wall with an ease that made it seem he walked on a flat surface. “His voice might be cultured, but there’s something intensely feral about him. It’s different from what I feel with Venom . . . or deeper, I don’t know.”
“I think,” Raphael said at her frustrated growl, “I will leave Naasir a mystery for you to solve. I wouldn’t want immortality to become boring for my consort.”
Elena let out a snarl, but she was intrigued by the challenge.
The vampire reached them the next instant, inclining his head in a slight bow. “Sire.” Eyes of pure metallic silver set against skin of a rich, strokable brown met Elena’s. “Consort.” The greeting was by-the-book formal, but as always, she had the feeling that in any other situation, he’d see her as prey.
Nodding in return and resisting the urge to go for a weapon, she realized the vampire had cut his hair. It had reached the bottom of his nape the last time she’d seen him. It now just brushed it, the jagged waves around his face still as choppy and as vividly silver.
It was hard to describe that silver—it wasn’t anything like the gray of age. No, it was true silver, glittering and metallic, until she was certain that if you took strands of Naasir’s hair and wove it into a bracelet, it would appear as if it was made of the precious metal. Yet when the wind lifted his hair away from the exotic lines of his face, she saw it was soft, each strand exquisitely fine. Then they settled back into place, and so did the metallic effect.
A tiger with silver eyes.
One she’d seen with his head bent over the neck of an angel clearly in the throes of sexual bliss, his hand fisted in her hair and his fangs wet with her blood. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized angels would allow vampires to feed from them, but then, Naasir was no ordinary vampire . . . if he was a vampire at all.
21
“No, Naasir,” Raphael said, as if the other male had spoken. “You cannot make a meal of Elena.”
“A pity,” came the expressionless answer. “I’ve never eaten the flesh of such a young angel.”
Eyes narrowed, Elena looked from one to the other. “Very funny.”
Naasir’s gaze lingered on her. “I did not realize there was a joke involved.”
Okay, that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. It was a joke, right? He doesn’t actually eat angels?
Raphael stretched out his wings. Not usually, no. He prefers wilder game.
Deciding she would definitely pay her far-too-amused consort back for this, she walked on ahead of the two of them, Raphael’s presence beside Naasir the only reason she could accept the silver-eyed menace at her back.
As she walked, Elena took in the changes since their last visit. Amanat had been awakening in slow degrees, but was now literally in full bloom despite the cold. Recalling the temperate feeling in the city last time, she decided the shield must help maintain a constant pleasant temperature within.
Flowers tumbled from planters and window boxes, bright reds and lush pinks alongside unexpected blues and stunning yellows, the petals soft and the blooms ranging from tiny blossoms to roses the size of dinner plates. Their perfume was a rich tapestry that delighted her senses, lingered in the air, the colors vibrant against the stone gray of the buildings.
A passing woman dressed in a gauzy gown in a sweet shade of peach—pretty but no doubt chilly with the shield down—lowered her eyes the instant she glimpsed Elena.
Why is it every time we come here, she said, uncomfortable with the response, everyone treats me like . . .
Royalty? Because you are.
Her shoulders tightened. It was one thing to know she was consort to an archangel, another to be treated like a power when she knew full well that many of those who bowed their heads to her had far more power in their little fingers than she had in her whole “baby angel” body. Caliane doesn’t like me. It made the formal respectfulness even more unsettling.
In fact, Elena added, turning right to follow an otherwise deserted pathway when Naasir indicated the Ancient waited in that direction, she’d probably be delighted if Naasir indulged his carnivorous instincts.
My mother is an archangel of old. Whatever her opinions of our relationship, she would never air the family’s dirty laundry in public.
Have I told you how much I hate all these stupid polite rules? Scowling, she reached the end of the path . . . and the breath rushed out of her: In front of her was a small pond fed by a waterfall so elegant its sound was delicate music. Flowers grew riotously around the water, the area a carpet of bluebells that reminded her of Illium.
Only a single stone bench disturbed the blue-green of the natural carpet, and on it sat an archangel of breathtaking beauty, her hair as black as night and her wings a sweep of pure white. The crushed sapphires of her eyes seemed full of an aching sadness when she turned to see who disturbed her peace, but the dazzling joy that lit up her face at seeing Raphael soon eclipsed what had gone before.
“My son.” Rising, she walked to him through the bluebells, her wings trailing along the grass . . . and though she stepped on the flowers, they sprang back unscathed. It was a potent display of power, all the more so because Elena was certain Caliane was unaware of it, all her attention on Raphael.
When he bent to kiss her cheek, Elena saw Caliane’s eyes sheen wet. “Come.” She took his arm. “Let me show you how my city has grown since last we met.”
“Mother.” Quiet steel. “You do not greet my consort.”
“Guild Hunter.”
Elena felt the urge to check the air for frost, the greeting was so icy. I thought you said she was never rude, she muttered on the mental plane, even as she made a graceful bow courtesy of Illium’s tutoring skills.
It appears you are a special case.
Stifling a laugh at the cool response, Elena fell into step beside Naasir as Caliane drew Raphael ahead. She’d have to tell Sara about this—her best friend found her “mother-in-law problems” beyond hysterical. As a woman who’d never imagined she’d trust any male enough to tie her life to his, much less meet and deal with his mother, Elena found it cathartic to share the weirdness of this part of her life with Sara.
“Consort,” Naasir said, in that smooth voice she had the sense could become a lethal growl without warning, “there’s something the Sire has asked me to show you.”