Archangel's Kiss

19

The next day brought an unwelcome surprise. With the scent trail having grown cold, and Raphael’s people working the other facets of the hunt, she’d returned to getting her body back in fighting shape—the angel who’d already harmed two of Raphael’s own wouldn’t find her the easy target he seemed to assume she was. She had every intention of thrusting a Guild dagger right between his ribs when he came after her.

Unfortunately, she’d forgotten that Dmitri had returned to the Tower.

“You’ll be dead two seconds after you run out of bullets if that’s your sole means of defense.” Galen swallowed up her gun in his hand, his pale green gaze about as friendly as your local grizzly bear’s. “Secondary weapon?”

“Knives.” She’d never admit it in a million years, but she was already starting to miss Dmitri’s wicked brand of humor.

“If you’re going to be using knives,” Galen said as she entered the training ring, a simple circle of beaten earth in front of a large wooden structure without windows, “then you need to learn to draw them without nicking your wings.” He picked up what looked like a rapier from the table, though the guard was far simpler than the intricate ones she’d seen in another hunter’s collection. Handing it to her, he said, “I need to see what you’ve got.”

“I said knives,” she told him, dropping her wrist as she tested the weight of the blade. “This is much longer than anything I’ve used.”

“Knives take you too close to the target.” He was suddenly in her face, a short, lethally sharp blade nicking her throat, her breasts crushed against the male heat of his bare chest. “And you aren’t fast enough to win against another angel.”

She hissed out a breath but didn’t back off. “I could still gut you.”

“Not as fast as I could cut your throat. But that isn’t the point of this exercise.”

Feeling blood begin to trickle down her throat, she shut out the anger and ran through her options with cold-blooded focus. Her sword hand was effectively useless—he was too close. Given the lack of leverage, her other hand wouldn’t do much damage, either.

Except angelic wings were extremely sensitive.

Grabbing his wing with her free hand, she brought up the sword with the other. Galen danced out of reach, the knife disappearing so fast she barely caught the movement. “Wings,” she said, realizing the bastard had taught her something critically important, “give me an advantage in terms of surprising an opponent, but get too close and they become a weakness.”

“At this stage, yes.” Galen swiveled the rapier he’d picked up. The slender dueling sword looked far too delicate for his big hand. She’d bet her newfound fortune that his personal weapon of choice was something closer to a broadsword. Heavy, solid, effective.

“Guess I’ll be using the crossbow to chip vamps from now on,” she said, thinking wistfully of the necklets that had been her favorite method of immobilizing her targets.

Embedded with a chip that neutralized a vampire by temporarily rewiring the brain, the special weapons were a hunter’s sole advantage against stronger, faster opponents. She’d debated getting some very illegal copies for personal use now that she was surrounded by vamps, but had realized all too quickly that the first time she used one, she’d not only create a shit storm that might bury the Guild, she’d cost Raphael the loyalty of the vampires under his command. The chips were closely regulated for a reason—vampires didn’t want to spend their lives looking over their shoulders.

Elena understood exactly how they felt—it was a bitch to lose control over your body, to become a puppet. And the fact of the matter was that most of the ones around her these days were too strong to be affected by the chips. That was a secret she’d take to her grave. Because sometimes, all a hunter had was the element of surprise, of the vampire’s belief that he’d been neutralized.

“You plan to return to your position within the Guild?” Galen’s tone was the embodiment of disapproval.

“What else am I going to do? Sit around looking pretty?”

“You’re a liability.” Cool, hard words. “Out in the field, you’d be a sitting duck for anyone wanting to get to Raphael by taking you hostage.”

“That’s why I’m out here adding to my bruises.” She would not back down. “Raphael doesn’t want a princess. He wants a warrior.”

My lovers have always been warrior women.

Her archangel had said that to her. And now that they’d set the boundaries, he was using her skills, her talents. She wasn’t about to let a grim-faced martinet change the very bedrock of their relationship.

“He almost died because of you.” A slash of the blade, so close that she reacted instinctively to block the blow.

Twisting away, she raised her rapier. “He chose to fall with me.”

“Sometimes, even an archangel makes mistakes.” A blur of movement.

But she’d read his feet, was already sliding out of reach. When she turned, it was to see several strands of her hair lying on the beaten earth of the ring, sliced clean through by Galen’s blade. He might have looked like a bruiser, but he could move. “I guess the gloves are off.”

“If they were, you’d be dead.” Snapping back to a waiting stance, he glanced critically at her hand. “You need to change your grip. The way you’re holding it now, I could break your wrist with a single hit.”

“Show me.”

He did, adding, “The rapier is, at heart, a thrusting weapon. Use it.”

The rest of the morning passed in an increasingly grueling manner.

Three hours later, she was dripping sweat, and they’d drawn a crowd of curious onlookers. Galen didn’t let up, ordering her into another sparring session. She could feel her wings dragging, her leg muscles quivering.

Bastard. Refusing to let him drive her into the ground, she avoided his blows with deliberately sluggish movements . . . until he dropped his guard for the barest fraction of an instant. Then she lunged. The rapier hit his shoulder, sinking in several inches.

Red dripped down the tanned skin of his chest.

A horrified gasp from the onlookers. But Galen just wrenched his body away from the blade, lowered his own weapon, and held out his hand for hers. “Good. You should’ve done that an hour ago.”

Wanting to stab him with it, she handed over the rapier. “I’ve got the basics, but it’ll take me time to become effective with this.” Time she didn’t have.

“We’ll focus on throwing knives later, but you need some skill with a longer blade in case you have to fight in close quarters.” Pale green eyes locked with hers. “If you plan on surviving Lijuan’s idea of a ball, you need to stop acting human and go directly for the jugular.” He left the training ring without another word.

All she wanted to do was collapse in a puddle of jelly, but pride kept her upright.

No one got in her way as she left the ring, though she felt eyes on her the entire distance to Raphael’s stronghold. Guns and knives, she thought as she entered, were the lightest, most versatile weapons for everyday use. The rapier was a bit too long, but a shorter sword . . . yeah, that might work.

Too bad about the miniature flamethrower in her stash. It wouldn’t exactly be easy to carry around on a day-to-day basis—and while it’d be effective against vampires, it’d only enrage an angel. The best she could hope for with an angel was to disable him—or her—long enough to get a head start.

She was so busy going over her options that it took her several minutes to realize she’d turned right instead of left after entering the main hallway. Might as well keep going, she thought, too damn exhausted to turn back—the passage would eventually spit her out into the central core. Rubbing the back of her neck, she saw the walls here were hung with lush jewel-toned silks that shifted in the breeze coming in through the windows high above. The carpet underneath her feet echoed the theme, being a deep rose accented with the faintest hint of amethyst.

A giggle carried on the air currents.

She froze, realizing the import of her surroundings. Rich and exotic and almost too vibrant, the colors stroking over her with velvet fingers. The last time she’d been in a place this soaked with sensuality, it had been the vampire wing of the Tower. And Dmitri had all but fucked a woman in front of her. It didn’t matter that they’d both been clothed; that curvy little blonde had been a whisper’s breath away from orgasm.

It was too late to turn back. Steeling her spine . . . and sensing the familiar, primal scent of a tiger on the hunt, she began hauling ass. But her head insisted on turning toward an open doorway, insisted on glimpsing that sleek, muscled back of flawless brown touched with gold, insisted on watching that silver-maned head bend over the neck of a woman who sighed in unmistakable sexual submission.

A woman with wings.

Her feet bolted themselves to the floor. Naasir was feeding from an angel, and from her breathy moans, the way her hands clutched at his biceps, it was obvious who held the reins. Unable to look away, she watched Naasir close his fingers over the flesh of one plump breast. The angel’s head fell back, exposing her neck—begging for another blood kiss—as he lifted his head. As he turned. As those eyes of liquid platinum locked with Elena’s.

Shivering, she wrenched her own head back around and continued on her way as fast as her legs would carry her. It was a relief to exit into the central core of the house with its vaulted ceiling and abundance of light. Dear God. There’d been sex in those eyes, on that face, but there’d also been a darker need, a darker hunger . . . as if he’d as easily tear open his lover’s chest and drink straight from her still-pumping heart as fuck her.

Goose bumps broke out over her spine. She pitied the hunter who ever had to track that silver-eyed beast of prey through the night.

Twenty minutes later, she was clean, a towel wrapped around her body as she sat on the bed rubbing her calves, and contemplating the walk to Jessamy’s classroom. But her mind insisted on returning to the disturbing tableau she’d glimpsed in the vampire wing, the foreignness of it all suddenly overwhelming.

This place, with its piercing beauty and secrets, its violence wrapped in peace, it wasn’t home. She was mortal in her heart—and there were no mortals here. Cranky taxi drivers zipping by in the rain, snappily dressed investment bankers with cell phones surgically attached to their ears, bruised and bloody hunters cracking jokes after a difficult track—that was her life. And she missed it all until she couldn’t breathe.

Sara would understand.

Holding the towel more firmly around herself—wings and all—she picked up the phone. Hoping desperately that her best friend was awake, she listened to it ring on the other end.

“Hello.” A deep, masculine tone, as welcome as Sara’s would’ve been.

“Deacon, it’s me.”

“Ellie, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“You, too.” Fisting her hand on the towel, she blinked away unexpected tears. “Is it late there?”

“No. I was watching Sesame Street with Zoe. She’s just gone to sleep.”

“How is she?” Elena hated that she’d missed out on a year of her goddaughter’s life.

“Caught a little cold,” Deacon said. “But Slayer’s got her back.”

Elena smiled at the reference to the slobbering hellhound of a dog who thought Zoe was his. “Sara?”

“You two must have a psychic hotline going.” Quiet humor, very Deacon. “She was about to call you but she went out like a light right after dinner. Had a tough few days at the Guild—almost lost one of her hunters.”

Elena’s heart crashed into her ribs. “Who?”

“Ashwini.” He named the hunter who’d first told Elena about Nazarach. “She got cornered by a pack of vamps in some back alley in Boston—apparently they were out to settle a score because she tracked one of them after he went rogue. They cut her up pretty bad.”

“Are they dead?” An ice-cold question.

“Ash killed two, wounded the others. Ink wasn’t even dry on the execution orders when their heads were delivered to the Guild, express delivery.”

“Probably their angel.” For the most part, angels did not like vampires acting out. It was bad for business. “Is Ash okay?”

“Doctors say no lasting damage. A month recovery tops.”

Relief made her entire body tremble. “Thank God.”

“What about you, Ellie?”

The care in those words had her swallowing. “I’m okay. Getting used to this new body. Things don’t work the same, you know?”

“I have an idea for a special crossbow for you.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to design it so you can strap it over one arm comfortably, instead of over your back. That way, you won’t have to worry about your wings.”

“Sounds good.”

“What do you think of lightweight bolts? They’ll do the job without weighing you down in flight.”

“Can you make it so it loads automatically?” Galen could go eat his sword, she thought. Childish, yeah, but it made her feel better. “I need speed.”

“Something with small spinning sawblades might be better—let me work on it. You can use the bolts for chipping and the blades for serious defense.” A pause. “You are coming back to the Guild?”

“Of course.” She was hunter-born. Wings didn’t change that.

Raphael met Neha’s eyes on the wide screen mounted on the wall. The Queen of Snakes, of Poisons, sat in a chair carved out of a light-colored wood that gleamed. The sheen did nothing to hide the fact that the carvings were of a thousand writhing snakes, their scales catching the light as Neha leaned back, the bindi on her forehead a tiny golden cobra.

“Raphael.” Her lips—red, lush, poisonous—parted. “I hear there is trouble in the Refuge.”

“An angel who seeks to become an archangel.”

“Yes, so my daughter tells me.” She waved an elegantly shaped hand, the bangles on her wrists making a delicate clinking sound. “There’s always one who seeks to rise above his station.” Reaching forward, she picked up something, the silk of her emerald-colored sari a quiet rustle. “But I agree, this one must be punished in a way that’ll never be forgotten. Our children are too rare to be used as pawns.”

Raphael knew that in spite of the way she’d phrased that, Neha was one of the few members of the Cadre who treated human children as precious. That didn’t stop her from ending adult lives—but any resulting orphans grew up in the lap of poisonous luxury, the memories of their parents’ agonizing deaths wiped from their minds.

“Anoushka,” she now said, stroking the python she’d placed in her lap, “says you know of the distasteful object that was left in her bed.”

“You have many enemies.” And Anoushka, he thought, was beginning to grow a phalanx of her own.

Her hand moved over the snake’s viridian skin, sleek, sensuous, as if she were petting a lover. “Yes.”

“Have you heard anything from the others that may help in the hunt?” The one they sought may well have made mistakes in any acts predating the assaults within the Refuge.

“Titus and Charisemnon have closed their borders—none of my people can get in or out.” An irritated light filled those dark eyes. “Favashi mentioned something about losing a few of her older vampires two months ago. She hasn’t yet tracked down the perpetrator.” This time, Raphael saw open disbelief.

Neha, he knew, would have killed and kept killing until someone confessed. It wasn’t the best way to get to the truth—but then, the Queen of Poisons had never had a rebellion in her lands. “How is Eris?” It was only as the words left his mouth that he realized he’d lied to Elena. There was another long-term archangelic pairing. But it hadn’t been a lie with intent—he’d simply forgotten about Eris, as most people did.

“He lives.” Neha’s words were chilling in their very preciseness. “Anoushka is going through her people to find the traitor who defiled her bed. I’ll let you know if she unearths anything of value.”

As he terminated the connection, Raphael thought of the last time he’d seen Eris.

Three hundred years ago.