than an ascension.” Should any of the Cadre believe Illium a weak archangel, he’d become a target.
“I have an idea.” Dmitri ran into the office. “I’ve been working on it since the instant I saw you fly toward Illium.” Raphael’s second thrust a hand through his hair, his black T-shirt stretching over his chest. “All anyone really saw was Illium and you speed up into the sky. The images taken via telescopes and satellites just show a blinding haze of light.” He put several printed images on Honor’s desk.
Each showed a glow painful enough to cause flickering afterimages on the retinas. No way to tell who was inside the light.
“I’ll allow it to leak that you and Illium were testing a power transfer like Lijuan can do with her troops.” Dmitri’s tone was clear, his features grim. “I’ll also let it drop that it went wrong and Illium lost the power in an uncontrolled surge that caused the rain and lightning. No one’s going to forget the sheer fury of the incident—failed experiment or not, you’re clearly no easy target.” A short pause before his lips curved in a grim smile. “The belief that you’ve been running dangerous experiments with him will also answer the lingering questions about his earlier fall.”
“Do it.” Raphael had appreciated Dmitri’s tactical mind many times over the centuries, but never more than today. “No one wants to accept that an angel barely over five hundred years old could ascend. All we have to do is provide an alternative explanation.”
Elena picked up one of the photographs after Dmitri left. “Raphael, is it my imagination or are you stronger?”
Of course, his consort would feel the change. They were too intimately entwined for it to be otherwise. “What I drew from Illium didn’t leach off. It’s become woven into my body, an auxiliary generator of a kind.”
Dropping the photograph, Elena faced him, her boots touching his. “If Caliane’s power transfer theory is right, then Illium became more temporarily because you need more power than you can generate on your own.” She spread one hand protectively over his heart, brushing the thumb of her other over his right temple, over the Legion mark. “Something bad is coming. Worse than before.”
Enclosing her in his wings and his arms, Raphael didn’t say anything. They both knew she was right.
Eleven archangels.
A dangerous near ascension that could’ve annihilated an entire city.
Two Ancients walking the earth.
An archangel who could give a twisted form of life.
The Cascade was gathering momentum.
Beijing was already gone. New York and Elijah’s territory had barely survived. No one could predict how much of the world would be left standing when the Cascade ended.
“Together, hbeebti.”
“Always, Archangel.”
Turn the page for an excerpt from
Slave to Sensation
the first book in Nalini Singh’s bestselling Psy-Changeling series.
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Sascha Duncan couldn’t read a single line of the report flickering across the screen of her handheld organizer. A haze of fear clouded her vision, insulating her from the cold efficiency of her mother’s office. Even the sound of Nikita wrapping up a call barely penetrated her numbed mind.
She was terrified.
This morning, she’d woken to find herself curled up in bed, whimpering. Normal Psy did not whimper, did not show any emotion, did not feel. But Sascha had known since childhood that she wasn’t normal. She’d successfully hidden her flaw for twenty-six years but now things were going wrong. Very, very wrong.
Her mind was deteriorating at such an accelerating rate that she’d begun experiencing physical side effects—muscle spasms, tremors, an abnormal heart rhythm, and those ragged tears after dreams she never recalled. It would soon become impossible to conceal her fractured psyche. The result of exposure would be incarceration at the Center. Of course no one called it a prison. Termed a “rehabilitation facility,” it provided a brutally efficient way for the Psy to cull the weak from the herd.
After they were through with her, if she was lucky she’d end up a drooling mess with no mind to speak of. If she wasn’t so fortunate, she’d retain enough of her thinking processes to become a drone in the vast business networks of the Psy, a robot with just enough neurons functioning to file the mail or sweep the floors.
The feel of her hand tightening on the organizer jolted her back to reality. If there was one place