Archangel’s Ascension: Chapter 18

, Illium said into Aodhan’s mind even as a part of his heart cracked open at not only the gift of memory that was his mother’s love for him and Aodhan both, but at Aodhan’s continued refusal to shy away from the most devastating period in their history.

No more silent ghosts. No more words unspoken.

He and Adi, they were on this journey for the long haul.

His heart pulsing back into rhythm, his wings spreading in an exhale that was centuries withheld. “Hang it up,” he said roughly as he slid his wing over Aodhan’s closed ones.

A frown.

“It’s different now,” Illium said. “You just changed the context of how I’ll look at it.”

Aodhan squeezed his nape. “We’ll see.” Releasing him on that “don’t argue with me” tone, he took the ring from Illium. “Why did Marco keep this and the other jewels? There’s an infinitesimal chance they came from anyone but his stalker—so why did he keep them?”

Shelving their discussion for the moment because when Aodhan got stubborn, importuning him got you nothing but a sore head, Illium glanced again at Marco’s paltry belongings, recalled what Giulia had said of her son’s habits. “He wasn’t acquisitive, so it can’t have been about wealth.”

Aodhan’s jaw worked, storm clouds in those astonishing eyes.

“People are complicated, Adi.” Illium ran a hand down the steel rod of Aodhan’s spine. “It changes nothing about his choice to say no. A gift given and accepted doesn’t mean a contract made.”

A shudder rocking his spine, Aodhan wove his fingers through Illium’s. “Sachieri and Bathar never gave me gifts, but there were others who did when I was young and naïve. I thought people were being kind when they brought me rare pigments or special brushes, that they’d just thought of me when they ran across those items. Like you and Eh-ma, even Imalia and our parents.”

Aodhan’s parents hadn’t quite known what to do with him, befuddled by the quiet-eyed child with a shining spirit who’d been born long after his sister Imalia was a full-grown angelic adult, but Illium knew his best friend had never doubted their love. They’d often brought Aodhan the wrong brushes or unsuitable pigments, but that they’d thought of what might make Aodhan happy while just living their lives had been enough—as had seeing their excited faces at having so successfully found what they believed to be the perfect thing for him.

Illium could still remember the day Menerva had presented her son with a handcrafted set of sculpting tools far too delicate for Aodhan’s preferred medium when he sculpted. The handles of each had been inset with a stylized That was why Illium loved Menerva, Rukiel, and Imalia. Because inept as they’d often been, they’d with their whole hearts—and they’d never attempted to stop Aodhan’s attachment to Illium’s mother, a woman who understood him so much better.

“It makes him happy to be with you and your son,” Menerva had said to Sharine once within Illium’s hearing. “I am joyful at that for him.”

“Raphael, Naasir, the others,” Aodhan continued, “they were the same with their random gifts. Just sending me things because they thought I’d appreciate it.”

Naasir, for one, had shipped him a slab of clay from a distant corner of the world because it was the most astonishing pink he’d ever seen and he’d figured Aodhan would find a use for it. “I accepted gifts from others outside my circle of trust in good faith, gifting them back in kind with a piece of art.”

With Illium and Naasir and the others in that circle, there’d been no need to pay them back—they’d all been a constant part of each other’s lives, no one keeping track of such kindnesses because it flowed from every direction. “Then a supposed friend walked into my studio expecting a whole different kind of payment.”

“Why’s this the first time I’m hearing about this?” A muscle ticced in Illium’s jaw.

“I told you about the first gifts, I think. When I thought people were just being nice.” He closed his fingers over one of Illium’s primaries. “Later, after I understood, I was embarrassed to have been so naïve.”

“Did that—”

“He tried, but as soon as I realized what was happening, I shoved the pigment he’d ‘gifted’ me into his fucking mouth after pinning him to the earth—he’d forgotten I was in warrior training because of you. Then I grabbed a pot of stain that was nearby and threw it on his face. Let that asshole explain why he’d turned a splotchy frog-green—stuff clung to his pasty skin for an entire week.”

Illium’s mouth fell open before a snorting laugh escaped him. Wings drooping at his sides, he bent over, literally crying with laughter. “I can’t believe you never told me !” A light punch to Aodhan’s abdomen.

“You might have been on one of your longer courier runs at the time,” Aodhan said, his own lips twitching as he patted a breathless Illium’s back. He’d forgotten how good pure, deserved anger felt, and he allowed the memory to settle into his cells now, reclaiming that fiery piece of the youth he’d once been.

“I did rant to Naasir, who went out and—unbeknownst to me for literal —made the asshole sit down and ‘allow’ Naasir to shave off his glorious fucking mane of hair. Naasir made him return for the same treatment for years.” The one and only chimera in the known world could be terrifying when anyone hurt those who were his own.

“Good.” Illium’s smile was as feral as Naasir’s. “I hope he made the ass piss his pants.”

“After that incident,” Aodhan continued, “I returned every gift except those that came from my people.” He stared at the rings. “I don’t only wonder why Marco kept these, I wonder what the angel stalking him believed it to signify.”

They had no answers to that—and they found no further items that appeared out of place in the belongings of a young vampire. Neither did they unearth any of the letters Navarro had mentioned seeing to Dmitri. But as the stones in the rings were as unique as the gloves, they now had two threads to tug.

“The rings will be more difficult,” Aodhan said. “The gemstones could’ve been purchased long ago, only the setting made for Marco—or the band resized. Still, immortal jewelers should remember a rare diamond of that size and clarity.”

A glance at Illium. “Do you know any in the profession who’d be willing to ask around for us?” Jewelers who dealt with senior angelic and vampiric clientele were tight-lipped and secretive, but they were also the only ones apt to have an answer. Aodhan didn’t think the stalker would’ve trusted anything of this caliber to a mortal, no matter how skilled.

“One of Charo’s three beloved—Isiel—is in jewels.” Illium grinned as he named the youngest of Titus’s sisters. “He adores Mother and she just designed five pieces for him that have made him the envy of his peers. I’m liked by association so he should be amenable.”

Aodhan glanced at the clock on the wall. “We have time enough to start this today. I’ll take the first shop when it comes to the gloves. You take the other after you’ve made the call to Isiel.”

Illium could’ve argued that there was no rush, that Marco was long dead, as was Tanika, but he’d never do that for the same reason that Aodhan couldn’t just let this go: this wasn’t about time, but about justice…and about memories.

Aodhan had never before walked into a boutique that sold such goods. In truth, he basically walked into shops. As soon as the facility became available, Illium had taught him how to order any goods he wanted online.

He also had a longstanding network of tailors, cobblers, and other solitary makers who could supply him with what he needed. They were all immortal, so he didn’t have to worry about changing to a new maker unless one of them decided to Sleep or otherwise withdraw from the world.

For one-off items that were easier to get in person, Illium was happy to pick those up for him—though strangely enough, Blue also didn’t much like to linger in shops. That was despite the fact that when they’d been youthful warrior trainees, they’d often gone to the mingled mortal/immortal markets in large cities across the world, with Xi’an and Marrakech being favorites.

While Aodhan had flown in and out as quickly as possible, Illium had spent as much time chatting with the stall keepers and shop owners as he had looking at the actual goods. He’d forged such bonds in a single visit that he was welcomed like a long-lost friend on his next visit, with many an invitation to share a cup of fresh mint tea shouted his way.

“Markets are different,” the other man had said to him when Aodhan had mentioned the discrepancy. “Usually open air—and even with the narrow corridors in the oldest ones, they take care to leave the top open so we can fly in and out. I never have to walk into a shop, either; the staff are always hovering outside ready to talk up their wares.

“Malls and department stores, on the other hand…” He’d shuddered. “They’re so enclosed that often the only way to get out in a hurry would be for me to explode through the nearest skylight.”

He’d thrust a hand through his hair, and even then, when Aodhan had only seen him as his best friend, he’d found himself wondering why he was the one who drew the most attention when Illium was so extraordinary. Especially when he smiled. And Illium almost always had a smile on his face.

Of all the highly skilled warriors of Aodhan’s acquaintance, he was the one most apt to laugh.

“Boutiques are a bit better,” Illium had added. “Just one shop usually, with wide doors if they expect angelic clientele, but still not where I’d choose to spend hours.”

“You should’ve told me earlier.” Aodhan had scowled. “I’d have asked someone else to do my pickups.” Holly, for one, loved fashion and often browsed boutiques to stay up to date on the latest trends.

Illium had waved that off. “I don’t care about short visits. But talking of shopping, we should go to the night markets in Marrakech again.”

With all the political upheaval of the past years, they never had made it to those markets or to any other, but Aodhan made a promise to himself that, once this case was complete, and Illium had rested from his long flight home, he’d take his Blue to the markets.

He’d buy Illium the freshly churned ice cream served in small watermelon halves that Illium had always loved for their whimsy, and they’d play the games on the edge of the market to win inexpensive trinkets—for no reason but that it was fun.

Today, however, as the city began to flow out of high-rises and into the subways at the start of rush hour, he steeled his shoulders and walked through the automatic glass doors of the exclusive Manhattan boutique that sold Céline’s gloves. Per their website, they were currently out of stock, with shoppers welcomed to add their name to the waiting list.

The air inside was cool—and perfumed with a delicate scent that he recognized from the Refuge. The essence of a rare flower that bloomed only at the higher elevations for two months of the year.

Thankfully, the place was set up for angelic visitors, with a wide central space around which were placed pedestals, each lit with its own small spotlight. Each pedestal displayed one item.

The décor was white on white, the only touches of color coming from the items on display.

Perfume in a faceted crystal bottle no bigger than Aodhan’s thumbnail, its top a bead of true gold.

A scarf so delicate, it was air, woven of material he couldn’t guess at a glance, the colors a cascade of sunrise.

A pair of gloves clearly designed for masculine hands, and bearing the leatherwork stamp of a maker Aodhan knew well. He hadn’t realized the maker offered such artistic items as well as the working gloves he made for warriors.

A tiny, frivolous handbag of black into which were woven the preserved feathers of various angels—all of them distinctive, but in a palette of blues fading to iridescent white. He recognized one of Illium’s as well as one of his own. Each feather tiny, shed from the inner surface and each filament preserved with utmost care.

Oh, there was one of Raphael’s and another that he was certain came from Yindi’s dark blue wings. She’d been with Suyin since her ascension, was still in China. Add in the chaos of war, and it must’ve taken the craftsperson years to gather the feathers.

Aodhan appreciated both the vision and the work involved. It also made him wonder if there were other bags, each a singular creation with a different harmonious array of feathers.

“Sir.” A woman with skin of ebony, her lips cherry red and her tightly curled hair cut close to her skull, beamed at him from his side. “I am overcome to have you in my shop.”

She was breathtaking in the way of certain very old vampires, her cheekbones striking and her eyes unearthly in their size. Her body was willowy under her figure-skimming and ankle-length black dress, her shoes glittering silver heels that still only brought her up to his shoulder.

Her power was a deep hum beneath the surface.