Watching over her.
It would’ve annoyed her on a normal day, but today, she was too concerned about Raphael to bother. Instead, she made a mental note to ask the other angel to teach her some tricks about blending into the sky—she loved her wings with mad passion, but unlike Il ium’s distinctive silver-edged blue, they didn’t blend into daylight skies. As with Jason, her wings were fashioned for the rich black of night, and perhaps most of al , for the hue of twilight.
Finding a thermal, she surfed it like a young fledgling, giving her muscles a break in the process. The thought conjured up images of Sam, the child angel who’d been caught in the middle of a narcissistic adult’s attempt to grab at power. Elena couldn’t think about how she’d found him—his smal body curled in on itself, his wings broken—without feeling a chaotic mix of rage and pain. The only thing that made it bearable was that he was wel on the way to being healed.
A rush of wind had her blinking furiously. When it passed, she saw Archangel Tower rising out of Manhattan, a proud, uncompromising structure that dwarfed the tal est of skyscrapers. Even on a day like this, with the sky a menacing slate gray blanket, it pierced the skyline, a gleaming column of light.
She arrowed her way toward it using the last vestiges of her strength, certain Raphael would have headed to what was effectively the place from which he ruled his territory.
The wide landing space of the Tower roof appeared moments later, seeming to float above the clouds. It was a stunning sight, but she didn’t have time to appreciate it—because she’d miscalculated the speed of her descent, and it was too late to rein it back. “No pain, no glory,” she muttered under her breath and, teeth bared in what her fel ow hunter and sometimes-friend Ransom cal ed her “kamikaze smile,” angled in for landing.
She remembered to flare out her wings in short, sharp beats as her feet touched the ground, having learned from excruciating experience that kamikaze ways or not, she did not like crashing to her knees. Even with her increased healing abilities, it stil hurt like a bitch. The end result was that she ended up racing across the roof even after landing.
Think parachute, Ellie.
Recal ing Il ium’s words of advice, she cupped her primaries inward, no longer riding the air but gathering it. Her body slowed. Slowed further ... until she was final y able to snap her wings to her back. “Wel ,” she said to the transparent wal half an inch from her nose, “that went wel .” She’d ended up almost plastering herself against the glass cage that housed the elevator.
Adrenaline continuing to pump through her veins, she pul ed open the door and pushed the button to bring up the elevator. Of course, she could’ve attempted to land directly on the balcony outside Raphael’s office and suite, but she’d probably have broken more than a few bones in the process, given the limited landing area. And she’d had quite enough broken bones in the past year and a half, thank you very much.
The elevator whisked her to Raphael’s private level in a split second. Getting out, she looked up and down the gleaming white corridor decorated with accents of gold—tiny, almost microscopic flecks in the paint, gold threads in the deep white pile of the carpet. It was the coldest elegance—her feathers sleeked against the tinge of ice in the air, a chil that was already neutralizing the adrenaline as it burned through to her very bones.
Shaking off the frigid sensation, she walked into the large study that flowed through to the bedroom suite. Clouds caressed the glass that was the back wal , blocking out the rest of the world—and making her feel cocooned in nothingness. It was a disorienting sensation. “Raphael?”
Silence.
Absolute.
Endless.
No scent of the wind and the rain on the periphery of her senses. No whisper of wings. No hint of power in the air. Nothing whatsoever to tel her that Raphael was in the vicinity. Yet she knew he was.
Taking a deep breath, she reached out with her mind. Raphael? She couldn’t control her thoughts like he could, couldn’t sense whether she’d reached him until he answered.
This time, her only answer was more silence.
Uneasy, she crossed the plush carpet of the study to enter the attached suite—rooms she’d glimpsed briefly when they’d first arrived. The suite occupied just under half the floor—the other half being set up with rooms for the Seven—and functioned as another home for Raphael. Stepping into the huge living area, she cal ed out his name, but it echoed hol owly against the emptiness of a space that bore the masculine stamp of her archangel.