Archangel's Storm

else would you have become the best spymaster in the Cadre?” Cupping her hands around the tea, she said, “Arav . . . a man with whom I had a relationship when I was little more than a girl”—the laughter leaching out of her eyes—“is in the fort, and he’s being persistent, too, in an unwelcome way.”
    Black fire, cold and deadly, formed in his bloodstream. “Did he touch you?”
    “Only my hand.” Putting down her cup, she rubbed at that hand. “He caught me in the courtyard an hour ago when he had no reason to be on this level of the fort. I know he did it to remind me of his presence, to intimidate—I walked away from him earlier, and no one does that.”
    Jason listened as she told him of her morning encounter with the angel, the black fire within tempered a fraction when she added, “It may not have been the smartest move to deliberately antagonize him, but it was satisfying, and I’m not sorry.” She set her jaw, as if expecting censure.
    “When I was a hundred and twenty-three,” Jason said, making a note to pay Arav a visit in the darkest hour of night, remind the other man of the acrid taste of fear, “I asked Michaela to dance.” It wasn’t because he’d been drunk on her beauty—he’d always seen the truth of her selfish heart—but because he’d wanted to experience that drunkenness, wanted to feel more than the remote distance that was his normal mode of existence. “She wasn’t an archangel then, but still a queen, her power immense.”
    Eyes huge, Mahiya leaned forward. “Well?” she demanded with unhidden impatience. “What
happened
?”
    “She was so astonished at my gall she said yes.” And he’d had his question answered; whatever it was that was broken in him, even the proximity of the most beautiful woman in the world couldn’t fix it. “Afterward, Raphael told me she could just as well have taken offense and killed me on the spot . . . but I wasn’t sorry, either.”
    Mahiya laughed again, the vivid clarity of her eyes sparking with flecks of gold that captivated him, because he’d never before glimpsed those flickers of shimmering metal. And he thought that perhaps the young man he’d been might have been wrong, that perhaps even a frozen heart might one day be awakened.
    “Surely,” she said when she caught her breath, “you were legend among your peers.”
    Jason hadn’t had many friends back then, but he’d had Dmitri and Raphael. “Raphael poured me a glass of a thousand-year-old Scotch then, together with Dmitri, toasted me on my balls.” It had been another link in his relationship with the two men, a link that had been further strengthened over the years, each of the others in the Seven adding their own pieces to create a chain that held him to the world, to life.
    “I do not think Neha has ever been so informal with any of her court,” Mahiya said. “Though I didn’t know her when she was as young as Raphael must’ve been at your first meeting.”
    “I’ll ask Lijuan the next time we cross paths.”
    Mahiya’s eyes flicked up, widened, then sparkled once again. “You do
know how to laugh!” She lifted a single finger to lips curved in mischief. “I promise I won’t tell a soul.”
    “No one will believe you in any case.”
    Mahiya put down her cup, the tea almost spilling. “I can’t believe you made me
giggle
,” she accused between gulps of air.
    He couldn’t move his eyes away from the luminous joy of her, his fingers itching to grip her chin, tug her across the table so he could taste lips shiny wet from her last sip of tea. “Who else will be at this dinner?” he asked, as her smile faded to be replaced by a hectic flush of color on her cheekbones.
    Swallowing, she dipped her head in the guise of pouring more tea, but he saw her fingers tremble, his every hunting instinct roaring to the surface. “It’ll be a small group, I think.” She went through a concise list of possible guests, while he struggled to contain the primal urge to shove the table aside and quench the thirst he had for this princess with her stubborn hope and her heart untainted by poison and her way of looking at him that said she might just accede to his every demand.
    “Whether she wears mourning white or not,” Mahiya added without meeting his gaze, “Neha grieves for Eris—even as she continues to hate him. So it will be a solemn affair.”
    “I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”
    The centuries-old echo was a chilling reminder that