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look. He’d never asked me to do that before. But my head was pounding, and arguing with my unofficial maverick Guardian Angel wasn’t something I had the energy for.
    I closed my eyes.
    I felt his fingers settle beneath my jaw as he held my face in place.
    â€œI met your mother earlier tonight,” I murmured. Almost imperceptibly his fingers tightened their grip.
    â€œOh?”
    I remembered where I’d seen Valda Sinclair before—at Rafe’s brother’s funeral, twenty years ago or more. I hadn’t been there (and even if I had been, I would have been too young to remember). I “remembered” now only because there’d been an accident involving magic during my assignment last semester. We’d each been given a piece of someone else’s memory. I’d been given Rafe’s memory of his infant brother’s funeral. He’d drowned when Rafe was six years old. Even now the memory made my throat ache and my eyes tear.
    Rafe had been given a memory of Ari’s, but he’d refused to tell me which one, even though I was in it. The only thing Rafe would share (after much coaxing and not a small amount of threatening) was that, in the memory, I was fully clothed. I hadn’t brought up the subject again.
    â€œWhat did she want?” Rafe asked, pulling me back into the present.
    I shrugged. “To observe me?”
    My chin, jaw, and inside of my mouth now felt agreeably warm whereas my swollen lips and aching head felt soothingly cool.
Magic,
I sighed pleasurably. Every now and then, it had its perks. I opened my eyes. Rafe was staring back at me.
    He had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. Not that I’d tell him that. It would be awkward and, besides, he’d only say something inane in return like
I eat a lot of carrots
. But they were. Yellow tourmaline flecked with gold. A most unusual color.
    I blinked and scooted back, raising my hand to my jaw. The blood, swelling, and soreness were gone.
    â€œWhat does your mother do for the Divinity?” I said instead.
    â€œShe’s one of the Amanita,” he said.
    My gaze met Rafe’s again. I was suddenly glad I hadn’t known that earlier. The Amanita were an old, powerful order of Angels. There were only four of them at any given time and each of them was more dedicated to the order than to anything else, even their own families. No one knew what the exact requirements were for entry into the Amanita but there were rumors of secrecy pacts sealed with an Angel’s equivalent of sacrifice, tales of initiation rites that some did not survive, and myths of mysterious magical practices. I suddenly wondered if that’s what Peter might have meant when he’d said
Halja has magic that’s more powerful than waning or waxing . . . More powerful even than faith magic
.
    â€œRafe,” I said, sitting up straighter, “do the Amanita practice faith magic like the rest of the Angels?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œBut that’s not all they practice, is it?”
    He looked at me keenly.
    â€œNo . . . they also practice perennial magic.”
    â€œI didn’t think anyone
could
practice perennial magic.”
    I didn’t know much about it, other than it was more ancient than the Amanita, but I’d always thought of perennial magic as magic that was associated with a place or a thing, rather than magic that could be wielded by a person.
    Rafe made some noncommittal sound. I thought that would be the end of the discussion—that he wouldn’t want to say anything more—but then he said:
    â€œThe Amanita are sworn to
eradicate
the practice of perennial magic. They claim it’s blasphemous. The order was founded in medieval times as a response to Metatron and his magical experiments. The Amanita loathed Metatron. They believed he was the worst thing to ever happen to the Divinity.”
    My eyebrows shot up. I’d never heard