7

Elena spoke the words of love in her grandmother’s language, felt Raphael’s response in the look he gave her. It was blue fire and it was furious tenderness.

When she turned back to face Illium and Aodhan, she caught the sorrow in Illium’s eyes. It was old, that sorrow, came from the loss of the mortal he’d once loved, a woman for whom he’d lost his feathers in punishment and whom he mourned to this day.

Then Aodhan leaned in to murmur something against his ear. Face lighting up at whatever it was his best friend had said, Illium chuckled.

“Sire,” the light-shattered angel said afterward, his profile a purity of clean lines. “I have been doing further research on the Luminata.”

Intrigued, Elena focused on the angel who was more luminous than any of these Luminata could possibly be.

“Their leader, Gian,” Aodhan continued, “has held his position for four centuries—this is unusual among the Luminata. They are meant to rotate the leadership through their membership every five decades to ensure that politics and power do not distract from or corrupt a member’s search for luminescence.”

Raphael, who had gone motionless beside Elena, now said, “How do you know this, Aodhan?”

“Yes.” Illium’s tone was as hard as stone. “The Luminata don’t exactly advertise their internal workings.”

Elena realized she was missing something, so much withheld aggression in the air that she could’ve cut it with a knife.

Aodhan broke eye contact with Raphael to meet Illium’s gaze. The words he spoke were edgier than she’d ever heard Aodhan sound. “I’m no longer a broken doll who needs to be protected from those who might play roughly with me.”

Flinching as if he’d been slapped, Illium shoved back his chair and left the library through the doors that stood open to the lawn.

Elena.

She was already moving. I’ve got it. If she hadn’t heard that tone in Aodhan’s voice before, she hadn’t seen that expression on Illium’s face, either. So furiously angry and yet hurt. Deeply hurt.

Following the angel outside, she hoped he hadn’t taken off—because if Illium wanted to outpace her, she had no chance in hell of catching up to him. But he was standing on the very edge of the property, on the cliffs that looked down on the dark waters of the Hudson, the Manhattan skyline in the distance. Angels landed on Tower balconies as she watched, but today, even that sight didn’t have the power to hold her attention.

Walking to stand beside Illium, she very deliberately slid her wing over his tightly held ones; a touch that told him he wasn’t alone but that made no demands. Words weren’t always easy when things mattered.

The wind was quiet against her face tonight. It pushed Illium’s hair back gently from his face, those black strands dipped in blue that simply grew that way, to reveal the lines of a face that held a pure masculine beauty. But beautiful though he was, it hadn’t been his looks but the playful wickedness in Illium that had drawn Elena—that light in him, it was a bright, joyful candle against the dark.

Today, the light was snuffed out, his golden eyes strangely flat—as if he was holding himself in such fierce check that he’d buried the best part of himself. Elena couldn’t stand it. She took his hand, wove her fingers through his. He didn’t respond for a second, two . . . then, at last, his fingers curled around hers.

His skin grew warm in the minutes that followed, the horrible flatness retreating from his gaze.

“Do you know how badly hurt Aodhan was when we found him?” The words trembled. “His wings were all but rotted away, mere strings of tendons, and bone as soft as unfired clay all that remained. All his beautiful feathers gone, the webbing in shreds, his strength stolen and his body encrusted in dirt.”

Horror clawed Elena’s gut at the grim recitation. She knew something terrible had happened to Aodhan, bad enough that it had made him retreat from life for two hundred years. He’d imprisoned himself in the Refuge, had refused physical contact with anyone, hadn’t laughed, hadn’t interacted with the people who loved him.

It was Illium who’d reached him, Illium who was his best and closest friend.

“He was so hurt, Ellie,” Illium continued without waiting for an answer. “Not just on the outside.” He slapped his free hand against his heart. “This, the part that makes Aodhan who he is, it was so badly damaged that I thought I’d lost my friend forever.” Tears glittered in his eyes.

Glancing away, he stared at Manhattan with such harsh focus that she knew he was fighting those tears. His throat moved, his jaw a brutal line.

It hit her hard, because beauty and playfulness aside, Illium was one of the toughest fighters among Raphael’s people. He gave no quarter, was a warrior who’d fly headlong into an enemy squadron if a pitiless charge was what was required.

“Hey.” She flexed her fingers around his, tugging lightly until he turned to face her. “I can take it, Bluebell. Whatever you want to unload.” She smiled. “It can’t be any worse than Ransom’s love life before Nyree took pity on him.”

The bleak despair that gripped him seemed as if it would defeat the bonds of their friendship, but then his lips tugged up a little. Lifting their clasped hands, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. And he was her Bluebell again, beautiful and wild and with power humming in his veins. So much power.

She sucked in a breath, suddenly realizing she could see every vein in Illium’s body—on his neck, down his arms, across his face. They glowed, as if his blood was molten gold. Her heart slammed into her ribcage, propelled by memories of the blazing light that had shoved out of him two years ago.