Archangel’s Ascension: Chapter 21

Aodhan had never personally spoken to Céline prior to the call she made to him the following morning. He had, however, long been aware of her as an artist. A woman who worked in creative bursts, she hadn’t produced anything he’d term for the past century—to him, the gloves didn’t qualify, for well made as they were, they broke no boundaries of design. However, prior to her latest fallow period, she’d sculpted breathtaking pieces in clay, and prior to , she’d worked with stone, and so on.

Far older than him, she had a much deeper artistic history. But for all her undeniable talent, she was no Hummingbird, whose art seemed to transcend time itself. Céline’s work had never quite hit that master-level edge—most likely because she never invested the time to take her raw talent in each discipline to the next level.

Had she stuck with the sculptures, for one, she by now be Eh-ma’s peer.

“Celi is like a butterfly,” the Hummingbird had said to him with a sigh. “I have two of her pieces in the gardens of our southernmost home, and I love them for their naked energy, but I also see that she became frustrated and didn’t push through to the next phase, to that which would have taken a good piece to a brilliant one.”

Aside from that small bit of insight, Aodhan had no idea of the personality of the angel he was about to meet when he answered the call in the living area of his suite.

The screen cleared to show an elfin face with huge blue-green eyes, a nose dotted with freckles, and masses of honey blond hair pushed back with a metal band coated in fine gemstones. Behind her arched wings of the same honeyed tone. Her skin glowed the shade of cream mixed with sunlight, her cheeks dusted with a powder that made them gently sparkle. She’d painted her lips a sweet pink.

If he hadn’t known her age, he’d have taken her for a much younger angel.

“Lady Céline,” he said.

She pressed her hands together. “Oh, it really is you! When Sataki told me you’d called, I was sure he must be mistaken. I hate to say it, but he is a bit of a dunderhead.” A whisper. “Pretty to look at but not much going on between the ears, I’m afraid. My worst failing is hiring staff based on their decorative nature. And you must call me Celi. I insist. I’m no lady!”

It would’ve been easy to take her at face value, to accept the bubbly personality and the bright eyes and the delight…but Aodhan felt as if he was viewing a painting. A meticulously constructed facade designed to obscure Céline’s true self.

That could mean nothing, this an affectation that amused her, her outward personality and tone elements of herself she changed from time to time as other angels changed their hair color or style of dress.

“Thank you for your time,” he said, keeping it polite.

“Of course, ! What can I do for Aodhan himself? Perhaps you want to make a joint artwork, ?” She giggled at her own words. “You must excuse me. I am as giddy as a schoolgirl. I have long been a follower of your work.”

Her accent had morphed from vaguely New York to heavily French between her words of greeting and this. An artifact of age or another mask? Just playing with altering herself. Perhaps that was the truth of it—that Céline’s greatest artwork was Céline.

“I wished to ask you about your gloves,” he said, and explained what he was after.

“Oh, Fia keeps track of that sort of thing.” She waved a hand. “I’ll have her send the list to you at once. One of my few sensible hires—fully functioning gray cells.” Turning her head, she called out the name of the assistant.

A low murmur in the background soon afterward, with Céline asking the other woman to send Aodhan what he needed Another murmur, before Céline turned back.

“There,” she said, “it is done.” A beaming smile. “How diverting, to be involved in a mystery all the way in Archangel Raphael’s territory. What has happened?” She held up a hand, showcasing nails painted two shades darker than her lips. “

Do not tell Celi. I will make up far more interesting stories in my head.”

“I appreciate your help,” Aodhan said when she finally paused for breath. “If I may ask another question—have you made any direct sales in the past year or given pairs to friends?”

“I do not do direct sales,” she said at once. “As for gifts to friends—not for a decade at least. My cherished intimates are heartily sick of my gloves as gifts, have threatened to gift them back to me if I dare offer them another pair.” Another burst of laughter, her eyes dancing…and still, Aodhan couldn’t quite make himself buy the insouciant affect.

“I thank you,” Aodhan said, his intention to cut off the call after a polite goodbye.

But Céline leaned forward. “What is it like, to work under the Hummingbird?” A shimmer in her voice that might even have been real. “I thought once to importune her to be my mentor, but alas, it struck me that I have not the staying power she requires of her protégés. Is that not true? It’s what I’ve heard. But honestly, it’s all gossip and conjecture from what I see of those she’s mentored.”

“She is a brilliant artist, and a teacher beyond compare,” Aodhan answered with utmost honesty.

Céline sighed, her hands pressed to her chest. “Perhaps one day, I will have an audience with her. I wonder if she’ll even see me.”

Aodhan could’ve told Céline that the Hummingbird had two of her pieces, but he couldn’t make himself be friendly to this woman who wore a mask so jarring to his senses. “I cannot presume to speak for her” was all he said. “I will leave you to your work now, Lady Céline.”

“No, please,” she said with a little pout that soon dissolved into a smile. “Do stay and let us speak a touch longer. You are quite the most interesting person I’ve spoken to in literally . Bordeaux is beginning to lose its charm, become a bore of old buildings and terrible soirees.”

No French accent anymore. Her voice was that of an old angel who had grown up speaking so many languages that her accent was a mélange—though this, too, could be a facade, it seemed apt to be closer to reality than the rest.

“I’m afraid I must get back to my duties.” He kept it polite though he could’ve pulled rank—in strict angelic hierarchical terms, he outranked her by a considerable margin. He was in the inner circle of an archangel, held more innate power—

was still growing and developing—while she was an angel of a certain age and power who would never progress any further.

But strict hierarchies weren’t how the angelic world worked. Céline was connected by sheer dint of having been a social creature for centuries upon centuries. She no doubt had the ears of seconds and archangels through their courts, and if he made an enemy of her, she could decide to become a snake in the grass who whispered against Raphael for spite.

It might come to nothing, but there was no point in creating an enemy when he could as easily create a contact for future informational needs—because Céline would always be a social, connected creature.

“But I will convey your admiration of her to Lady Sharine,” he said before she could interrupt. “She has been weighing up the idea of hosting a gathering of artists in Titus’s territory once our world has settled better into this post-war peace. Maybe toward the end of the next decade, though it may take longer. Shall I inform her that you would be interested to attend?”

Her eyes glowed with a joy so earnest, it cut through all falsehood. “My dearest Aodhan—may I call you that?—my heart would stop should I receive such an invitation. It does not matter what I have on my schedule, I will wipe it all off the very day I receive word of this event. A decade or two is nothing, will fly by in but a heartbeat.”

Her hand fluttered up. “Oh, I prepare.” A sudden intensity to her expression that cut away all artifice to reveal the burning core of a woman with a passion. “I will make a piece of art, a gift worthy of the Hummingbird.”

Leaving her on that happy note, Aodhan signed off.

Her assistant had already sent through the list of dealers worldwide, neatly separated by country and region. He forwarded parts of the wider local section through to both Illium and Janvier. He’d apprised the vampire of the situation, and Janvier was more than willing to assist. “To lose family,” he’d said, “it is an anguish, but to have them stolen? The grief becomes a spiked spear that shreds.”

That done, he sent Lady Sharine a message about Céline’s desire to attend the planned gathering and her intention to make art for Eh-ma. No reply, but he didn’t expect one quickly. While Eh-ma had embraced technology after her “waking,” she wasn’t tied to it, would see the message when she saw it.

Then he dropped by Dmitri’s office to give him an update on the investigation.

“Navarro’s home,” Dmitri told him. “Just landed. He shouldn’t have been traveling but he wasn’t about to stay away now that we know it was murder. He’s ready to see you at any time.”

So it was that Aodhan’s mind was on the questions he might ask Navarro when he left Dmitri’s office, his thoughts heavy with the reminder of the crime that had stolen the lives of two innocent people.

His phone vibrated with an incoming message only a few steps down the corridor.

When he checked, it was to see a message from Illium:

Aodhan’s smile felt as if it would crack his face.

“Well, wow.” Honor, who’d exited the elevator while he was standing there, gasped and clutched at her chest. “I can see why people have written literal odes to your smile.” Her grin was affectionate. “ ‘Sunlight diamonds that cause heart’s flutter’ indeed.”

Sliding away the phone, he said, “That’s it. This time, I’m seriously going to strangle him.” Because he could think of only one person who would still remember that ridiculous poem.

Laughing, Honor held up her hands, her uptilted green eyes as warm as the honey brown of her skin. “No, no, it wasn’t our poor Bluebell. He actually groaned when I showed it to him. The Seven Fan Club dug it up out of some archive.”

Aodhan made a pained sound, head in his hands. Illium had told him that a mortal had set up an “Unofficial but Loyal Fan Club for the Seven!” It apparently featured an online chat board where members posted photos, and shared tracts called “fan fiction” featuring members of the Seven.

“Don’t read it, Adi,” Illium had said solemnly, because of course he’d had to make a fake profile and go poke around. “They have us doing things with Dmitri that I’m not sure are anatomically possible. Also, there’s an entire subforum that believes Venom can shape-shift into a snake and, well…let’s just leave it there.”

Smoke pounced out from the open door of Venom’s empty office at that very instant.

Aodhan’s frown vanished, his face creasing into a huge smile; he hadn’t realized Illium had dropped her off on this floor today. That, or Smoke had been catching the elevator again.

He had a sudden thought.

Head jerking toward Honor, he stared. “Why do you know about what’s in the fan club?”

The hunter, who was dressed in sleeveless black leathers today, her dark hair pulled severely back, a gun strapped to her thigh and a couple of blades in arm sheaths, said, “I spy to make sure there are no dangerous loonies.”

Crouching down to pet Smoke, she added, “I’m not interested in the ordinary folk—mortal and vampire and I’m pretty sure a few disguised angels—who are just starstruck. I mean I get it—my husband hot.” A grin. “And the rest of you clean up okay, don’t they, Smoke?”

Gathering Smoke up into her arms, she rose. “My focus is on the ones who are obsessed to a level where they think Dmitri is husband and Galen is sending them dreams every night. They need watching. Because no psycho is going to hurt any of you on my watch.”

Aodhan knew fragments of Honor’s history, enough to understand that this generous and vibrant member of the Tower could comprehend his scars better than most. It was an awful, terrible bond he wished they didn’t share. “Thank you.” He touched the back of his hand to hers, saw her pupils flare, vivid black against green so deep, it was a quiet forest pool. “I’m working on the touch thing.”

Her smile was gentle and maternal in a way that reached deep into his heart. In strict terms, Honor was a baby in comparison to his age. She’d been a mortal of less than three decades when she’d become a vampire, was nowhere near even the halfway point to official angelic adulthood.

Yet the hunter had a sense of age to her that was at times a heaviness in Aodhan’s bones akin to what he felt around much older angels. As if Honor had lived entire lifetimes before he’d ever met her.

“You’ll make it,” she said today, and it was a simple statement. “You’ll never be who you once were, but what’s wrong with that?” A shrug. “Change is a constant. Survivors adapt and thrive.”

Her words lingered in his mind as they parted ways. She was right. Even if he hadn’t been abducted, he would no longer be the youth he’d been at the time. That was an impossibility.

was a label he’d railed against, because it implied the horrors done to him. But today, in Honor’s eyes, he’d seen that he could own it, both what had been done to him, what had followed—what he’d done, what he’d become, all the love that had surrounded him.

Coming on top of his emotional catharsis in Illium’s arms, Honor’s statement settled inside him, downy feathers coming to a gentle landing in spaces within that had opened up after centuries of silence.

He paused on the balcony, the wind pushing at his hair. He had it all at once, why he hadn’t liked Céline despite her charm and artistic spirit. When Honor had said those admiring words, it had been with teasing affection and genuine delight and absolutely zero desire to possess.

A friend who’d been happy to see him shine.

Céline, on the other hand…it had been there, in the eyes behind the mask. An avaricious glitter. She’d wanted him, but not in the healthy way a person attracted to him might want him. He’d experienced the latter over the years, more so since his shift from the Refuge to New York. Other angels as well as senior vampires had been open in their desire for his company.

“I figured why not try my luck,” one had said after approaching him. “I’d kick myself if I never asked and you might’ve said yes.” A smile. “So how about it? Coffee date?”

He’d felt awkward to be on the receiving end of such invitations, but had never reacted with a visceral dislike—and at least three of those same people had ended up becoming trusted colleagues. It had been different with Céline. Where the others had looked at him with genuine attraction and even flustered desire, Céline’s gaze had held the clawing want of a being who wished to put him in a box and keep him for herself.

A wash of air, powerful wings closing next to him as Raphael landed on the balcony. The sire was wearing faded leathers of dark gray, had a streak of dust on his cheek and a rapidly healing cut on his jaw.

“Aodhan,” he said. “I could see your scowl all the way from the stratosphere.”

Aodhan should’ve asked him who he’d been sparring with since it couldn’t have been Dmitri, but his mind was elsewhere. “I spoke to someone today who wanted me as Sachieri and Bathar did,” he said, the words stark in the morning light.

Raphael’s amused expression turned stormy, the intense, impossible blue of his eyes going frigid.

But Aodhan shook his head. “Oh, they’ll never have me, won’t even try. That’s the point.”

A raised eyebrow that was very much of an archangel.

“I’m too strong now,” Aodhan explained. “She wants me, but she pretended not to—because I’m not prey any longer. I’m not young and untried and a little naïve. If I was shot through the heart with a crossbow today, even if they destroyed my entire heart, I’d still have enough power to blast them out of existence before I fell.”

Aodhan’s entire body filled with breath. “I think the only person who could take me down now is an archangel—and with Her Evilness dead, I don’t think anyone else in the Cadre is collecting angels. Also, who would pick a war with you, Lady Caliane, Suyin?” Because he knew all three would bring down the fury of the ages on his attackers’ heads.

Raphael because he loved Aodhan.

Caliane because he was one of Raphael’s Seven.

Suyin because of their personal friendship.

Raphael’s lips kicked up. “Indeed, Aodhan, you have powerful allies and friends. However, Titus will be gravely insulted you didn’t add him to the list—you are his ‘stepson’s’ beloved, and so you fall under his umbrella of protection as much as mine.”

Sound telescoped into nothing but the rasp of Aodhan’s own shallow breathing, the words after “beloved” fading into a buzz of angry bees in his head. “You know?”