“They are not all angels.” Aodhan motioned to a portrait in their line of sight. “She is a vampire. Nine thousand years of age and considered a beauty to rival Michaela.”
That got her attention.
The woman in the picture had skin of an astonishing pure cream. No blemishes, nothing but a luminous flawlessness. Her nose was aquiline, her eyes a huge, soft aquamarine, and her hair cascades of lustrous red. True red. Not orange-red. Not rust-red. Not auburn. Red. “Talk about winning the genetic lottery.” The vampire’s beauty was the kind that caught the eye and held it, the brain trying to figure out how this person was put together that she was so perfect in every way.
Elena had been caught in that same loop with Michaela once, before she saw through to the female archangel’s toxic heart. “But . . . there’s something missing. Something Michaela has that this vampire doesn’t.” She couldn’t put her finger on it, but Michaela just shone brighter. “It’s not power, or not only that.”
Aodhan gave her an approving look. “You see it. And though you don’t like Michaela, you don’t immediately favor Renate.”
Renate. It seemed the right kind of name for this beauty. “Fact is fact,” she said with a shrug. “And obviously, Michaela knows Renate doesn’t hold a candle to her at second glance, or Renate would’ve met with an unfortunate accident long before reaching nine thousand years of age.”
“I think you are correct.” Aodhan took in the image again, his eye clinical. “The fault is not the work’s—the artist has captured her perfectly. What is missing is the spark of intelligence. Renate has air in her head.”
Elena blinked. “Bit harsh, Aodhan.”
“I’m not being cruel,” he said. “Fact, as you say, is fact. In nine thousand years, Renate has not sought to improve her mind in any way—it has even been suggested that perhaps she was impaired during her Making, but I once overheard a healer speaking.” He lowered his tone, his head leaning toward her own. “Renate’s original master had tests done on her and it was found that she isn’t impaired. She simply does not have that inner fire that pushes one to seek knowledge. Neither does she possess any ambition.”
Pushing back his hair where it had fallen over his forehead, light sparking off the tumbled strands, he added, “If she was not so beautiful, she would’ve had a hard life as a vampire. As it is, she is a beloved pet—and I say that in the truest sense of the word. Her lover of the past five hundred years adores her, but he does not look upon her as a partner.”
Elena whistled. “Nine thousand years and she isn’t bored of just existing?”
“My sister tells me she combs her hair a lot.”
Elena’s mouth fell open. Swiveling on her heel, she glared at him. “Since when do you have a sister?” she hissed under her breath. “Nice of you to share with me.”
He actually looked a little abashed. “I don’t often think of her,” he admitted. “Imalia was seven hundred years old when I was born. We only ever see one another when our parents summon us both home.” A shrug. “She is a near-stranger, though she is not unkind. If I were to ask for her help, she would give it without hesitation. But we were born too distant in time to be true siblings.”
Elena felt her mad begin to fade. Seven hundred years was an insane age gap. “I get it,” she said. “I’m only nineteen and sixteen years apart from my two half sisters, but if Eve wasn’t training to be a hunter, I wouldn’t have much in common with them, either.”
As it was, she never got to speak with Amy. The teen had refused any contact with Elena out of loyalty to her own mom. Elena understood. As the eldest of Elena’s half sisters, Amy had a far deeper understanding of her parents’ relationship than Eve—she’d figured out that Jeffrey Deveraux would never love her mom as he’d loved Elena’s. “You and Imalia have the same parents?”
Aodhan nodded. “Such long gaps are not unusual among angelic families. Though children are rare gifts, there is no known end to fertility.”
“Huh, guess that makes sense.” She pointed to the next drop as, from above them, came a pointed, “Shh.”
They dropped . . . to find Hannah gazing in fascination at something in a glass display case, her vampiric escort, Cristiano, leaning lazily against the wall not far away. The handsome male with skin the color of darkest caramel and eyes of a chocolate brown gave an impression of liquid grace that was oddly feline. It intrigued Elena that one of Elijah’s most trusted people would echo the prowl of the pumas that came to the archangel’s call.
“Ellie,” Hannah said softly, waving her over. “Come see this.”
Crossing the short distance to her after smiling at Cristiano, Elena saw the other woman was fascinated by what appeared to be a map drawn on what looked to be animal hide. It was so fragile that it was in pieces an archivist had carefully placed next to one another, like a complex jigsaw. “It’s the Refuge,” she said in realization, “but the gorge is missing.” That gorge bisected the angelic stronghold, was unmissable.
“This is from a time before the land shakes that created the gorge.” Hannah’s eyes glowed. “But it’s not simply the age of the map—look at the artistry of the work itself. Aodhan, do you see?”
Having come to stand beside Elena, his wing just brushing hers, Aodhan nodded. “It is one of Tarquin’s. The hand is unmistakable.”