Rubbing his thumb over the side of her mouth, Raphael fed her the bone-melting taste. “We should stay in the shadows.”

Elena groaned but pulled the curtains shut to block out the last of the sunset, throwing the study into a mild gloom. “Okay, go.”

She didn’t always stay beside him when he answered such calls—she didn’t have the kind of power to be involved at that political level and, frankly, she didn’t want it. Her priority was on doing what was necessary to support Raphael. Titus, however, might be responding to the message she’d sent him in her role as Raphael’s consort.

“Titus,” Raphael said when the other archangel appeared on-screen.

Titus was dressed like the warrior he was, his breastplate shining gold against skin of jet. Elena knew the armor was unlikely to be actual gold but rather a tougher material coated in a thin layer of the precious metal. Because Titus wasn’t a play warrior; he was the real deal. Built along the same lines as Galen, his features were rough-hewn, his presence forceful.

“Raphael.” Eyes of impenetrable onyx shifted to Elena, his tone quieter than she would’ve expected from a man of his size and strength, the resonant tone compelling her attention. “Consort.”

“I’m delighted to speak to you,” Elena said, thankful for the instructions Jessamy had given her in how to interact with an archangel who was an ally but not yet a friend. The last thing she wanted to do was put her foot in it, when the alliances they made now could help save the world during the war to come. It was a certainty that the Archangel of China was going to rise from her regenerative sleep in a bad, bad mood.

“I thank you for your invitation,” Titus said in reply to her words. “I will join you during your celebrations.”

Well, crap. Elena had extended the invitation sure that Titus wouldn’t accept. It had been more along the lines of fostering goodwill. The other archangels she’d invited had already sent their regrets, including Hannah and Elijah, who Elena would’ve been happy to see—but like Elena and Raphael, the other couple needed to be with their people right now.

As for Favashi and Astaad, both had scheduled private visits after the block party.

Knowing how Neha felt about Raphael, but also aware that to not invite her would be seen as an insult, Elena had sent the Queen of Snakes, of Poisons, a personal invitation. The response had been icily polite, but it had been handwritten by Neha herself, which Elena figured had to be better than dead silence.

Michaela was permanently off any guest list Elena made, as was Lijuan’s buddy, Charisemnon.

“I look forward to making your acquaintance in truth,” she said to Titus now, dredging up more of Jessamy’s lessons. The historian and librarian of the angelic race had the patience of a saint, even when her pupil pretended to collapse and die from the mind-numbing complexity of angelic protocol.

“I, too, will be glad to see you, Titus,” Raphael said, his wing sliding over her own. “You have contained the situation with Charisemnon?”

That situation was the reason Elena had expected Titus to stick close to his territory. He shared a land border with Charisemnon and the two archangels had never had a cordial relationship. Their constant back-and-forth had turned into all-out aggression when Charisemnon sided with Lijuan during the hostilities; not only had Charisemnon used his new ability to create disease to attack New York, he’d begun to send disease carriers over the border into Titus’s lands.

“I have had confirmed reports that Charisemnon is sick.”

“His mind?” Raphael had seen his own parents go mad with age, but Charisemnon was young in immortal terms.

“No. He is physically ill. My spies tell me he is bedridden, his body covered in sores.”

“Archangels do not get ill.” An immutable fact throughout angelic history.

“It appears Charisemnon is changing the rules.” Titus put his hands on his waist, biceps bulging. “I have spoken to my healer and Keir both about the possible cause—they believe he overextended his ability and it turned on him.”

Raphael considered that. “If we remove Lijuan from the picture, Charisemnon appeared to have the strongest Cascade-instigated gift.”

The other archangel had taken down hundreds of Raphael’s angels in a cowardly strike, leaving five dead and many so brutally injured they’d been little more than bleeding torsos. It would take months of excruciating pain before the youngest would recover, the crime of the Falling one Raphael would never forget. Vengeance among immortals was often a long and deadly process, and Raphael had learned the value of patience long ago.

“Yes.” Titus’s expression held grim pleasure. “The pestilent fool acted too fast, was too arrogant. Now he pays the price.”

“There’s another possibility.”

Titus frowned at Elena’s words, but made it clear she had his attention. Raphael knew that wasn’t the African archangel’s usual approach to women who were mated, married, or otherwise tied to a powerful male. It wasn’t misogyny—Titus had a strong contingent of women in his army, including Galen’s mother, Tanae.

It was that, in Titus’s mind, there were two kinds of women—the warriors, and all the rest. The latter were to be cosseted and protected and indulged, but not taken seriously. It had, Raphael knew, taken Titus time to accept that Elena didn’t fit into the second category.

Despite that, she remained young in angelic terms and wouldn’t have had the power to hold the attention of an archangel of Titus’s age had Titus not heard of her courage and loyalty during the final battle against Lijuan, when his hunter had chosen to die with him if it would save their people.