His private line rang just as Venom left. Answering, he found himself talking to Dahariel, Astaad’s second. “What news of Caliane?” the angel asked.
The query wasn’t unusual, given the fact that the oldest of the archangels was allowing only Raphael and those he called his own through the shield around the newly risen city of Amanat. “Concerned with helping her people make the transition from sleep to wakefulness.” Those people, mortals and—it had been discovered—a number of immortals, had slept more than a millennium beside their goddess in a city of stone gray now sparkling under the light of a foreign sun.
From what Raphael had told him in their last conversation, the residents of Amanat were content to re-create and live in the time in which they had gone to sleep, filling the gardens with blooms, the fountains with water. They would not hear of modern things, had no curiosity to explore a mountainous new homeland far from the place where they had last walked.
“She holds them in thrall,” Raphael had said of his mother. “But she did not sing them to it—their devotion is true.”
“Does she wish for more territory?” Dahariel asked in a tone some would call emotionless, but that Dmitri recognized as icily practical.
“No. Land, it seems, has never been the source of Caliane’s madness.” The archangel had sung the adult populations of two bustling cities into the sea in order to protect the world from war, creating “a silence so deep, it echoed across eternity”—words Jessamy had written in her histories of Caliane’s reign.
“I spoke to Jessamy,” Dahariel said in an uncanny echo. “There has never been an awakening such as this.”
And so no one knew the rules of engagement. “We’re immortals, Dahariel. Time isn’t our enemy.” Better to wait, to learn the truth of Caliane’s sanity or lack thereof before preparing for a war that would drench the world in blood, turn the rivers red, make the sea a silent graveyard. “How’s Michaela?” Astaad’s second was the archangel Michaela’s lover, a clash of loyalties that made Dmitri wonder exactly who Dahariel served.
“Some women,” Dahariel said in that same hard tone devoid of any hint of humanity, “get under a man’s skin until digging them out makes you bleed.”
Hanging up, Dmitri wondered at the undertone of violence in Dahariel’s statement. Dmitri knew about loving a woman, but he’d never wanted to rip Ingrede from his heart, no matter the associated pain. Favashi hadn’t ever made a place for herself that deep. And Honor . . . yes, she was getting under his skin, but it was a compulsion that would end when he took her to bed, had her naked and writhing beneath him.
But first he would fulfill his promise, lay the screaming, bloodied remains of her abusers at her feet. Vengeance, as he’d told her, could taste sweet indeed.
“I will give you your freedom, never look your way again.” Attempting to be regal even when her eyes fell on the blade in his hand. “Wealth beyond imagining, it’ll be yours.”
What he wanted, Isis could never return to him. “The only thing I desire,” he whispered, touching the tip of his blade to the skin above her heart, “is to hear you beg for your life. So beg.”
The knife slid home.
It was just past eight, the world swathed in cool darkness, when, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a long black coat he’d had for years, he turned into the Angel Enclave estate held by the angel Andreas. Andreas had been given charge over the interrogation and punishment of the vampires Honor’s rescuers had left alive.
“Dmitri.” Andreas’s wings—a dark amber streaked with gray—flared behind him as he greeted Dmitri in front of a home that was all glass and hard angles, unusual for an older angel. “Why the sudden interest in these two?”
Because it was personal now. “We’ll talk after I’ve spoken to them.”
The aristocratic lines of Andreas’s face didn’t shift into an expression of affront. The angel was powerful, but Dmitri was more so. The only reason Dmitri didn’t rule a territory was because he preferred to work in the Tower . . . and in the shadows. His position as Raphael’s second had never been boring yet.
In what he thought of as his “adolescence,” angry and full of a helpless pain, he’d once left to work for Neha. The Archangel of India hadn’t been pleased at his decision to return to what had been the beginnings of Raphael’s first Tower the minute he completed the term he’d agreed to serve in her court. But then she had smiled.