Angels Dance

be permitted to collapse into bloodrage and violence, and regardless of its flaws, the Cadre could, and did, work effectively as a unit when necessary. “How long before we can expect an answer?”
    Dmitri glanced at Jessamy.
    “If,” she said, lines forming between her eyebrows, “Alexander is alive and awake, he won’t hesitate to use violent force to repel the others from his territory. The more time that passes, the more certain it becomes that he’s no longer in charge.”
    Dmitri waved to a door, the dark elegance of his movements striking. Jessamy could appreciate it, appreciate him, but she felt no draw toward this sensual male creature. Her body was attuned to another’s, the warm, earthy scent of Galen imprinted in her skin, the deep timbre of his voice one she wanted to hear as they spread their wings in bed. Somehow, with Galen, she forgot she was crippled, forgot the ugliness of her wing and simply existed.
    “Jessamy, you have time to change, rest a little. Your room should have everything you need.” Dmitri’s voice broke into her thoughts. “I’d like you to join us after—but we will talk war.” The question was unspoken.
    Jessamy was a historian, one who stood on the sidelines and watched. She did not interfere. But there were times in any life when a stand had to be taken, a side chosen. “I’ll come,” she said, meeting eyes of heliodor-green.
    If they were to be together, then her loyalty had to be Galen’s.
    * * *
    T he day passed in a fury of planning and concordant action, and it wasn’t until after sunset that Jessamy found Galen standing on the roof, his wings held with warrior discipline as he stared out at the flights of angels leaving the tower in perfect formation. They were the first wave of defense, sentries and messengers experienced enough to patrol the borders. Dmitri had already had a skeleton crew doing the task, but had held back the majority so Galen could personally gauge the readiness of Raphael’s men and women.
    Below the night-shadow of wings beating in a smooth, fast rhythm marched an army of vampires, a ground guard that moved at a crisp pace to take up defensive positions at a distance Dmitri and Galen had determined would provide optimum protection without compromising the Tower’s defenses.
    In spite of the hundreds of pairs of wings that sliced through the air, the mass of vampires on the ground, the night was eerily quiet. It was a whispering darkness, she thought, a portent hanging over their heads. Soon, either Alexander would retaliate against the invasion of his lands by the Cadre, or he would not . . . and they would know.
    Jessamy hoped he Slept, for the world was not ready to forever lose the deep wisdom of an Ancient.
    “You are the only one who calls me wise.” Alexander’s silver eyes, so inhuman that he was beyond even their long-lived race. “Everyone else believes I am a being of violence and war.”
    “You are both, Alexander. You always have been.” She had read the histories, knew what so many had forgotten. In times past, Alexander had brokered peace, saved the world from unimaginable horror. “I think, if the test came again”—not petty arguments or battles engendered in pride and power, but a true question of good and evil—“you would stand on the side of right.”
    A faint smile. “You are so young, Jessamy. Foolish, many would say.”
    “Did they not call you the same when you stepped between two warring Ancients?”
    His laughter rang deep and real, the silver molten. “Come, young one. Walk with me and tell me tales of when I was a hot-tempered youth.”
    Smiling at the now-bittersweet memory, she leaned against Galen, this man who would break her heart into innumerable shards should he ever choose to Sleep. “This is not,” she said when the angels disappeared from view, the vampires long devoured by the dark green forests that bordered the Tower, “how you imagined your life in Raphael’s service would begin.”
    He wrapped an arm around her waist, trapping her wings to her back. “I am what I am, Jessamy.” Quiet words. “War and weapons will always be a part of my life.”
    “I know—I’m not compelled toward some fantasy man, Galen.” Perhaps this, she thought, hoping against hope, was the cause of the subtle distance he’d put between them, distance that hurt. If so, she could end it. “It’s you I’ve seen from the first, you I want.”
    Spreading his wings at her back in a