She felt him smile at her echo of his earlier words. For you, Elena, anything. He slid into her in a smooth thrust, her body stretching to accommodate him in sharp ecstasy. And when he moved this time, it was slow and deep, a claiming so tender, he would"ve stolen her heart if she hadn"t already given it to him high above a ruined Manhattan.
Elena was fairly certain her muscles were jelly the next day, but she crawled to the training session with Galen regardless. Raphael had given her the massage he"d promised her before they fell asleep, and nothing was actually torn or broken, so it was going to be all about working through the muscle pain.
Galen took one look at her and threw her what felt like a ten-ton metal brick. She stared at the claymore—and it sure looked like the heavy Scottish weapon—for a second, then set her feet and lifted. Her biceps quivered, but the damn blade ended up vertical, the tip pointed to the cloudy blue sky.
Galen scanned her shoulders, her arms. “You"re stronger than a normal mortal.”
“I"m no longer mortal,” she pointed out, only just keeping the claymore upright.
“No one has records on an angel Made, but if the same principles apply as with vampires, then your strength won"t increase to immortal levels for a significant period.”
Shrugging, she left it at that. The fact that the hunter-born were slightly stronger than ordinary humans wasn"t exactly a secret, but neither was it advertised. And while she might now be an 164
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immortal, she was still hunter-born, still a member of the Guild. Those were loyalties she"d never betray.
“Throw it to me.”
She narrowed her eyes and walked across the snow-sprinkled ground to hand him the blade.
“What? Do you want to prove to me how weak I am? You can do that with one punch.”
“But then Raphael would kill me.” An imminently practical response as he took the claymore and turned to retrieve something from a small table in the corner of the training area. He was shirtless once again, but still wore that thin metal band around his left arm, the metal a solid gray with the slightest sheen. A small amulet of some kind hung from the center, but she couldn"t put a handle on its origins.
Norse? Maybe.
She had no trouble seeing him as part of a bloodthirsty warrior culture. Glancing away from the armband, she found herself the focus of at least twenty pairs of curious eyes. “We"ve got an audience again.”
To her surprise, Galen frowned. “We don"t need one—not in the condition you"re in.” Raising a hand, he made a sharp downward gesture.
A silver blue bullet dropped out of the sky, streaking toward the ground like lightning unleashed. Illium"s landing was wildly showy, a hard, fast drive that left him grinning on one knee, his wings spread in blatant display. “Vain,” she told him, figuring her heart would stop trying to leap out of her throat any minute now.
He rose to his feet. “It"s not vanity if it"s truth, Ellie.”
Shaking her head, she looked to Galen. “What"s Bluebell going to teach me?”
“Nothing. Illium is going to play butterfly.”
Elena had no idea what the other angel meant until he ushered her inside the huge building that overlooked the ring of beaten earth they"d been using for the past weeks. An indoor training salle, she realized as Galen closed the doors, locking out their audience. “Impressive.” The ceiling soared, reminding her of an amphitheatre stripped down to its very basics.
“Voles-tu, mon petit papillon.”
Illium laughed at Galen"s instruction to “fly, little butterfly” and gave the other angel a desultory finger, replying in a language Elena thought might have been Greek.
She was shocked to see a grin crack Galen"s face. That grin disappeared the instant he turned to 165
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her. “Good, you"re wearing arm sheaths.” He came closer, examined them with the quick, careful hands of a weapons expert. “Excellent quality.”
“Deacon"s the best.”
Those pale green eyes locked on her. “You know Deacon personally?”
She tilted her head to the side. “He"s married to my best friend.”
Illium gasped. “Now you"ve got Galen by the short and curlies. He has wet dreams about getting into Deacon"s . . . weapons shed.”
Another rapid-fire exchange of Greek and French, Galen"s French too fast for her to follow. She didn"t need to understand—it was obvious the two were ribbing each other. Friends, she thought suddenly. For some reason, Illium, with his laughter and his heart, was friends with this cold-eyed angel who seemed hewn out of stone.
“I thought,” she said when Galen turned back to her, “close-contact fighting was a no-no?”
“You won"t be close. Illium.”
Illium rose up into the air, not stopping until he was hovering at the very top of the salle, a bolt of blue against the dark grain of the wood.
“Hit him.”
She took a step back, shook her head. “These knives are real.”
“He"s immortal. A minor knife wound won"t hurt him. And if you can do it with a knife, you"ll be unbeatable with a gun.”
“He might be immortal, but he feels pain.” And Illium had already hurt for her.
“I can take it, Ellie.” A shout from the roof. “But you"re not going to hit me.”
“Oh yeah?” She played a knife in her hand.
“Yeah.”