Angels Dance

territory while the archangel was here. Jason had also disappeared, having left a message for Galen about which warriors could be trusted with Jessamy’s safety.
    Important as she was to him, Galen wouldn’t have placed faith in even Jason’s astute assessments, except that he’d already decided on half the men and women on the list—so he allowed them to watch over her as he saw to his duties. “Yes?”
    Raphael gave a single nod.
    They met in the middle of the salle, two men with wholly dissimilar fighting styles. Galen was a blunt force who had just enough grace that he could surprise opponents, while Raphael was pure lethal elegance. Unlike when he was fighting with an inexperienced adversary, Galen used his wings, and so did Raphael. It took incredible strength to achieve a short vertical liftoff without exposing vulnerable parts of yourself, but Galen had learned to do it through constant and unrelenting practice. Raphael, meanwhile, seemed to do it instinctively.
    Respect for the archangel grew deeper in Galen as Raphael almost brought him down, twisted to block a strike, and recalculated his attack. The archangel was cold-blooded enough to strategize, warrior enough to take pleasure in the dance. Galen had the sudden thought that if this was the truth of who Raphael was beneath the veneer of civilized sophistication, then he wouldn’t only work for the archangel; he might just serve.
    Slamming the archangel to the earth, he went to pin him, but Raphael was already gone, having rolled and risen to come at Galen’s back . . . except Galen was twisting to meet the attack, their arms thrusting up to halt each other, elbows and biceps locked.
    “Stalemate!” Illium called out.
    Amusement colored Raphael’s expression, though he continued to hold the strained position. “I would agree.”
    Nodding, Galen stepped back at the same time as the archangel. “Well played.”
    “You’re better than Titus’s people led me to believe.” A gleam in the relentless blue. “I think he’s hoping you’ll return to his court.”
    “I’ve made my choice.” He began to cool down, conscious of Raphael doing the same beside him. “If there’s no place for me here, it’s not to Titus’s court that I would go.”
    “Where, then?”
    Galen considered his options. “There aren’t many for whom I might choose to raise my sword, fewer still who are strong enough not to consider me a threat. Elijah would head the list.” The archangel was older than Raphael, but not lost to the cruelty power engendered in so many. “However, he has a weapons-master he trusts and respects.”
    “You have the potential to rule within an archangel’s wider territory,” Raphael said, resettling his wings as he brought himself to a halt. “Why not petition the Cadre for a change in status?”
    Galen, too, came to a standstill. “I am a weapons-master.” It was what sang to his blood.
    Picking up a set of throwing knives, Raphael gave them to Galen before taking a set for himself. When he raised his eyebrow, Galen grinned and looked up. “Let’s see how fast you really are, Bluebell.”
    “Bluebell?” The archangel laughed as Illium swore to get even, and then the first knife was flying from his hand.
    Twenty knives later—ten each—Illium smirked from his high perch. “Oh, you both missed.” Faux disappointment, embellished with theatrical sighs. “Poor, poor dears.”
    “In case you’ve forgotten, I am an archangel,” Raphael reminded the irreverent angel, his tone dry.
    Illium grinned, unrepentant. “Want to try again? I’ll move extra slow—you are both so much older, after all.” The last words were a conspiratorial whisper.
    Galen glanced at Raphael. “How has he survived this long?”
    “No one can catch him.”
    As Illium laughed and attempted to get Raphael to commit to a wager, Galen felt a sense of absolute rightness. This , this was his place, with these warriors tied together by more than fear or subservience, but most of all, with the woman who had marked him with the erotic promise of her kiss.
    He wondered when Jessamy would realize what he’d done.

9
    J essamy said, “Saraia,” in a stern tone.
    “Sorry, Jessamy.” Pulling her drooping wings back up, Saraia looked to Jessamy for praise.
    She smiled. “Good girl.”
    Satisfied, Saraia continued reading out the passage she’d been assigned.
    Jessamy knew her charges thought her merciless for the way she constantly reminded them to