Angels Dance

yellow, a color-drenched canvas on the easel in front of him, was created of fractured pieces of light.
    His wings were diamond bright, refracting and breaking the piercing beams of sunlight; his hair the same pale, paradoxically dazzling shade; his eyes, when he turned to glance over his shoulder, splintered outward from the black pupil in shards of crystalline blue and green. A sculpture in ice, but for the fact his skin held a golden warmth that likely made him an object of desire, though he was a youth yet.
    Rising the instant he saw that Illium wasn’t alone, the angel took a respectful stance beside his easel, the blue paint on his cheek a primitive tattoo.
    “Galen, this is Aodhan. He serves Raphael.” Illium made the introduction with a courtly grace that wouldn’t have been out of place in the palace of Neha, the Queen of Poisons. “Aodhan,” the angel continued, “meet Raphael’s new weapons-master.”
    “Sir.”
    Raphael’s people, Galen thought, fit no predictable pattern . . . but one. “Your aerie is well situated,” he said, considering the quiet, implacable loyalty he’d sensed in both Dmitri and Illium. An archangel who inspired such fidelity in men of strength was indeed a power Alexander should fear.
    Aodhan’s wings rustled as he moved to join Galen near the edge of the balcony. “The light,” he said, a shy smile in his eyes, “it’s perfect for painting.”
    Shy perhaps, Galen thought, but intelligent, and, from the way he moved, highly capable in some kind of combat. “The blade,” he murmured. “Rapier?” The delicate but deadly sword would fit the angel’s graceful step.
    But Aodhan shook his head. “Too light for me. I prefer a more solid blade.” He pushed back his hair, leaving a red streak on his forehead and in the strands. The color glittered.
    “You returned to the Refuge this morn?” He’d give the young angel time to rest, after which he wanted to see him in the salle—as weapons-master, he had to know the strengths and weaknesses of all of Raphael’s trusted people.
    “Yes. I’ve been acting as a courier for the sire this past year.”
    “You’re very young for the task.”
    “I was given special dispensation,” Aodhan began, just as wings of white-gold swept down from the sky to land on the balcony, the wind of Raphael’s descent blowing Galen’s hair back from his face.
    “You’re all here,” the archangel said, folding his wings tight to his back. “Good.”
    Caught by the tone of his voice, they converged around him.
    “It’s time I returned to my territory,” Raphael said. “It seems Alexander is stirring. Galen, you come with me.”
    Cold in his veins. He’d always known he would be needed at Raphael’s side should war beckon. Except— “We can’t leave Jessamy unprotected.” His fury reignited as he remembered how she’d cried against his chest, his strong, intensely private Jessamy.
    “Aodhan, Illium, and Jason, when he returns tonight, will make certain she’s never in any danger.” Raphael glanced at the other two angels, received immediate nods. “Jessamy is a woman of intelligence—she will not foolishly put herself in harm’s way.”
    Galen knew that. He also knew she was his to protect. “May I speak to you alone?”
    “Illium, Aodhan.”
    The two angels swept off the balcony at the quiet command, their wings making a brilliant show of shattered light and wild blue against the jagged stone of the gorge as they attempted to outfly each other.
    “You court Jessamy,” Raphael said, his attention on Galen, the staggering power that ran through his veins a near-visible presence. “She understands the world as not many do, will recognize why you cannot remain in the Refuge at this time.”
    Galen shook his head, determined to fight for this. “The flight to your territory is long and will require us to move at a steady pace.” Unlike Illium and Aodhan’s game, it would be about endurance. “A light passenger won’t slow us down.”
    Raphael’s eyes darkened in surprise. “Jessamy does not leave the Refuge.”
    “No.” Hands at his back, he gripped the wrist of one with the other. “Jessamy cannot leave the Refuge.”
    The archangel’s motionlessness was nothing mortal, nothing even an ordinary angel could emulate. It was utterly and completely of himself. “You shame me, Galen,” he said at long last, the golden filaments in his wings catching the sunlight. “So many centuries have I known her,