Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 121854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
The painted man lifted up a hand in a wave before going back to his argument.
“Aren’t you afraid that being so friendly with the mortals will make them no longer respect you?” a much younger Sameon had asked Illium after the then-youth was first stationed to the Tower, his dark curls atumble and his brown eyes painfully sincere. “You’re the only battle commander I know who has mortal friends, and smiles more often than he scowls.”
Awash in memories of friends who had laughed with him over the centuries, Illium had clasped the bright-eyed angel on the shoulder. “Respect, Sam, isn’t a matter of fear. Respect is power used to protect and to shield—and to go on the offensive when needed. This city knows I have and will again spill my blood for it. I don’t need to put on a grim mien to be respected.”
He was still thinking of the cheerful, mischievous boy he’d watched grow into a powerful man when he flew over the Hudson—wider now, its path cutting away part of the city that had existed when Raphael first set up his Tower.
The river had already begun to do its slow, steady work by the time Sameon came to the city, wet behind the ears and with his whole heart full of devotion for Ellie, but it had eased up after a period, as if content with its new channel. So many years had passed since then. Funny to think that Sam was now older than Illium had been during the Lijuan years.
The years of horror and pain and a Cascade of Death.
It struck him, not for the first time, how awfully young he’d been at the time. Yet the Cascade had tried to shove him full of a power his mind and body had been nowhere near ready to control. It would’ve killed him had Raphael not interceded. Illium had been ecstatic when the world went back into balance, taking with it the threat of an early ascension—and he remained as happy when it became clear he’d been bypassed for ascension.
After stabilizing during the time now referred to as The Rise of Marduk, his power had never again spiked. He knew the spiteful in angelkind whispered that he must be disappointed in his “decline”—as if he wasn’t one of the most powerful angels in the world outside the Cadre—but Illium had never wanted to ascend, never wanted to become one of the rulers of the world.
He loved this city, and he loved being one of Raphael’s Seven, part of a tight group that had survived so long as a unit that they were legend even among angelkind.
No other archangel could claim to have warriors so loyal and so true.
Illium was content to serve millennia as Raphael’s first general.
As he was content to live in the Enclave home he’d built with the man he loved beyond reason or sense. Situated not far from Elena and Raphael’s own home, theirs was a simple thing of large glass panels and a soaring ceiling nestled in the trees, but beside it stood a much larger building designed to capture light from every angle.
The studio was, however, also engineered to ensure that Aodhan could create shadows or semidarkness as needed; furthermore, he had the ability to turn all the windows opaque, should he wish to remove from passing angels the temptation to peek at his works in progress.
Illium landed in front of the open barn-style doors.
And there was Aodhan in the center of that cavernous space awash in sunlight, the dazzling brightness of him scowling as he worked on a tiny sculpture that had him clenching his jaw and muttering under his breath.
A cat with fur of darkest gray and one white paw usually lay curled up on another part of his workbench, dozing in the sun. Shadow, of the line of Illium’s beloved Smoke, was far more attached to Aodhan than she was to Illium—and Illium well understood that.
He, too, would choose Aodhan over anyone and anything.
Today, his lover wore a loose linen shirt of the kind he’d long preferred, with an opening at the neck and no buttons, the color a faded cream. He’d pushed both the sleeves hard back, the hem of the shirt flirting with pants of a fine brown canvas splattered with color from how often he wore them while painting.
While Illium had tested new styles and fabrics over the years, Aodhan knew what he liked and stuck to it. “It means I never have to worry about horrendous images from the time when transparent plastic was all the rage.”
“Hey! Even I drew the line at that,” Illium had protested. “Though I admit the puffball season was a bad idea on my part.”
Truth was, he loved Adi for being so content in his skin and in his being.