Archangel's Storm

rush her on this.”
    “You want to.”
    “Yes.” Unvarnished ruthlessness. “But you see, Jason, it appears I have a fatal weakness when it comes to Honor—even should she change her mind and decide to remain mortal, I can’t force her and still live with myself.”
    Jason said nothing as Dmitri walked back to his wife, who looked up to offer him a smile Jason had seen her share with no other. Her friends moved away to give husband and wife a moment of privacy, but everyone continued to linger on the luxuriant green of the lawn, the birdsong a delicate accompaniment to the murmur of conversation. Champagne was sipped, greetings exchanged, friendships renewed in the glow of the joy that came off Honor and Dmitri.
    Unlike the others, Jason felt exposed out here in the sunlight, the unrelieved black of his wings a target, but he didn’t give in to the compulsion to fly up high above the cloud layer, where no one could see him. A minute later, when the winds began to whisper, he listened.
    A single word. A name.
    Eris.
    The only significant Eris that Jason knew of was husband to Neha, the three-thousand-year-old archangel, the sole member of the Cadre who had chosen to follow the mortal ceremony of binding. Eris was also her consort, but he hadn’t been seen in public for some three hundred years. Many believed him dead; however, Jason knew the male lived, imprisoned in a palace inside Neha’s sprawling fort. Except for when he’d attempted to escape early on in his captivity, he had not been physically harmed.
    Neha loved Eris too much to hurt him.
    It was also why she hated him so violently for his betrayal.
    Eris.
    Sliding into the shadows of the trees that edged Raphael’s property, a welcome respite from the light, Jason took out his cell phone. In earlier centuries, even with his considerable mental abilities, it had taken him days to communicate with his men and women, weeks to gather a single piece of information. Technology made it so much simpler—unlike some angels of old, and though his chosen weapon remained a sword, Jason did not abhor the modern world.
    Now, he saw that he had a number of missed calls that must’ve come in during the ceremony, while his phone had been in silent mode. All were from Samira—she was a servant with clearance to work in Neha’s private quarters and technically his highest-ranking spy in the other archangel’s court, though Jason had his doubts about her continued efficacy. “Samira,” he said when the call was answered. “What has happened?”
    “Eris is dead.” A hushed whisper. “Murdered inside his palace.”
    “When?”
    “I don’t know, but he was found an hour ago. Neha has not left the body. Mahiya is by her side.”
    Jason had never spoken to Mahiya, but having done a subtle investigation when Neha first adopted her just over three centuries ago, he knew the princess was of Neha’s bloodline. That relationship was accepted knowledge, but the facts behind it had long been buried. Many in Neha’s own court
chose
not to remember, not to see the truth—that Mahiya had been born of Nivriti, sister to Neha and dead as long as her child had been alive.
    No terrible secret that . . . except if you knew the name of Mahiya’s father.
    Eris.
     

2
    T hough Mahiya was the fruit of Eris and Nivriti’s forbidden relationship, she was, to all outward appearances, treated as a beloved princess by her aunt, the title a courtesy to elucidate her status as kin to Neha. “Is there anything else?”
    Samira’s breathing went very quiet for a minute, and Jason waited without interruptions or demands, knowing she had to be concerned about being overheard. “Neha is half insane,” she said at last. “I’m worried she’ll release her power.”
    Knowing as he did the depth of the archangel’s emotions where her husband was concerned—she’d neither been able to forgive him his infidelity, nor set him free after centuries of confinement—Jason shared Samira’s concern. And Neha was a being of immense power. If she gave voice to her agony, she could lay waste to cities, and it was near certain she would aim her rage toward those she held responsible for another terrible pain—the execution of her daughter, Anoushka.
    Raphael had delivered the final blow that reduced Neha’s daughter to dust.
    “Tell me the instant she makes a move.”
    Hanging up, he looked out over the grounds to see the bridal party and guests walking inside for the no doubt