“But,” Zhou Lijuan pointed out, “there is a difference between being feared, but looked upon with awe, and being totally abhorred.”

Raphael wasn’t so sure that line existed but Lijuan was an archangel cut from a different time. She held power in Asia through a matriarchal network that instilled respect for her in their children, and had been doing so for eons. If Elijah was old, then Lijuan was truly ancient—she’d become woven into the very fabric of her homeland, China, and of the lands around it. They told tales of Lijuan in whispered tones and looked upon her as a demigod. In comparison, Raphael had only ruled for five hundred years, a mere blink of time. But that could prove an asset.

Unlike Lijuan, Raphael hadn’t ascended so high that he’d ceased to understand mortals. Even before his transformation from angel to archangel, he’d chosen the chaos of life over the elegant peace of his brethren. Now he lived in one of the world’s busiest cities and, unbeknownst to its denizens, often watched them. As he’d watched Elena Deveraux today. “We have no need to debate secrecy,” he said, cutting into Michaela’s soft sobs. “No one can know of what Uram has become. It has been that way for as long as we’ve existed.”

A slow round of nods. Even Michaela wiped away her tears and sat back, her eyes clear, her cheeks flushed. She was beautiful beyond compare. Even among angelkind, she’d always been the brightest of stars, never lacking for lovers or attention. Right then, her gaze met his and deep within them was a sensual question he chose not to answer. So. She didn’t mourn Uram; she mourned herself. That fit far better with her personality.

“The hunter is female,” she said a second later, her tone slightly edgy. “Is that why you chose her?”

“No.” Raphael wondered if he’d have to warn Elena about this new threat. Michaela didn’t like competition and she’d been Uram’s lover for almost half a century, an incredible commitment for someone of her mercurial nature. “I chose her because she can scent what no one else can.”