Archangel's Kiss

8

Elena woke alone, but there was a cup of coffee waiting for her on the nightstand—right next to Destiny’s Rose. Raphael had given her the priceless treasure—a sculpture carved impossibly from a single diamond—not long after they first met. She kept trying to return it, only to find it back on her bedside table the next morning.

Eyes on the gift, one that was undeniably romantic, she struggled up into a sitting position and drew in the intoxicating scent of fresh coffee. However, she’d hardly taken a sip when she felt it—the cool stroke of satin blended with the promise of a pain that would hurt oh-so-good.

“Dmitri.” Throat husky, she put down the cup and tugged the sheet above her breasts.

Just in time.

The vampire walked in with the most perfunctory of knocks. “You’re late for training.”

Her eye went to the envelope in his hand. “What’s that?”

“It’s from your father.” He handed it over. “Be down in half an hour.”

She barely heard him, her eyes fixated on that envelope. What did Jeffrey Deveraux want now? “I’ll be there.” Words forced out past the rocks in her throat.

Dmitri left her with a kiss of diamonds and cream, a sensual taunt that trapped the air in her throat, made her thighs press together in involuntary reaction. But the distraction was momentary. All too soon, she was alone, staring at the envelope as if it might grow fangs and strike. “Don’t be a coward, Ellie,” she told herself and reached out to slit it open. It was, she saw, addressed to her care of the Guild.

Her lips twisted. How he must’ve hated that, having to go through his daughter’s filthy, inhuman occupation to get to her. Abomination. That’s what he’d called her the final night she’d spent under his roof. She’d never forgotten, would never forget.

Her fingers clenched on the enclosed letter as she almost ripped it from the envelope. For an instant, she didn’t understand what she was seeing, then she did and her emotions crashed in a violent wave.

It wasn’t from her father. The letter had come from the Deveraux family solicitors—a note advising her that they’d paid the fees for her storage unit out of courtesy for her father’s business, though the items in that unit now belonged solely to her.

The paper crumpled in her fist. She’d almost forgotten . . . no, that was a lie. She’d deliberately put the memory out of her mind. Her inheritance from her mother, she understood. Marguerite Deveraux had left Elena half her small personal estate, the other half going to Beth.

But the things in that storage unit . . . they were from Elena’s childhood.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

“Come here, little hunter. Taste.”

Shoving aside the blankets with hands that wouldn’t work right, she got out of bed, the letter lying abandoned on the sheets as she stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Her fingers slipped off the knob. Biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, she tried again. Finally, thankfully, the water came down in a soft, warm rain. It washed away the sleep, but nothing could erase the memories now that they’d awakened.

Ariel had been the best big sister any girl could want. She’d never once told Elena to go away, though Elena knew she must have been a pest with her constant need to know what was going on in her teenage sister’s life. Mirabelle, the oldest of them all, had been more apt to snarl, but Belle had also taught Elena to play baseball, spending long, patient hours teaching her how to throw, how to catch.

Yin and Yang, her mother had called her two oldest. Ari was the sweetness, Belle the spice.

“Belle, where do you think you’re going dressed like that?”

“Aw, come on, Mom. It’s all the rage.”

“It might be all the rage, mon ange, but you’ll be grounded for a month if your father sees your butt hanging out of those shorts.”

“Mom!”

Elena remembered sitting at the kitchen table, giggling, as her long-legged fifteen-year-old sister stomped upstairs to change. Across the table, Beth, too little at five to really understand, had giggled with her.

“And you two little monsters, eat your fruit.”

Her heart twisted at the memory of her mother’s uniquely accented voice; her fingers rose to her cheek, searching for the faded echo of Marguerite’s kiss. “Mama.” It came out a broken whisper, a child’s plea.

There’d been so much blood later. Elena had slipped, fallen hard. And heard Belle’s dying breaths as she met Ari’s horror-filled eyes. Even then, her sister had been trying to protect her, trying to tell her to run, her voice a gurgle as blood filled her throat. But Slater Patalis hadn’t been interested in killing Elena. He’d other plans for her.

“Sweet little hunter.”

Jerking off the water, Elena stepped out and dried herself off with a concentrated kind of focus. She snapped out her wings like she’d seen Raphael do, then gasped at the pain that radiated down her back. Embracing the pulses of hurt because they broke the endless loop of memory, she dressed in workout gear—loose black exercise pants with a white stripe down the sides, and a severe black tank with a built-in bra.

As with all the clothing she’d found in the wardrobe that was hers, it had clearly been designed with wings in mind, the tank pulled tight at the halter neck, and having three panels—one on each side of her wings, the other down the middle of her back—that looped into a wide strap she wrapped around her waist then locked at the sides using adjustable clasps. Extra support was provided by boning around the breast area. Satisfied her body wouldn’t distract her from what she needed to learn, she plaited the damp mass of her pale hair into a braid close to her skull.

Then, unused to leaving things a mess, she made the bed—stuffing the letter in a drawer—and walked out. The bedroom, with its walls of glass, was connected to the large living area she’d already used. Across the hallway outside the living area lay what appeared to be an office and a small but well-appointed library, both with clear walls that brought the mountains inside. Books filled the low shelves, some old, some new, but she’d also glimpsed a sophisticated computer station. It all sat at the very top of the stronghold, above the soaring central core. More living quarters spread out below, rooms for the Seven, other angels and vampires. But the top wing was private, Raphael’s.

The hallway—which led eventually to stairs cut into the side of the central core—was a symphony of clean lines broken up by the unexpected. A scimitar, ancient runes burned into the blade itself, was mounted on the left wall, the steel gleaming wicked sharp. She could see Dmitri holding that blade, wondered if it had been his once upon a time. Because Dmitri was old, one of the oldest vampires she’d ever met.

A few feet down, a handwoven tapestry covered most of the right wall. She’d spent almost half an hour staring at it yesterday, compelled by something she didn’t understand. Now, in spite of her need to get out, to combat the churning in her gut with raw physicality, her feet hesitated, then stopped. There was a story woven within those precise threads, a story she desperately wanted to understand.

The panel showed an angel silhouetted golden against the sun, his face obscured by shadow as he headed downward to a forest village engulfed in flames. Another angel rose up toward him, her hair a rippling fall of black down her back, her wings the purest white Elena had ever seen. The flying strands of her hair hid her face, until she, too, was a shadow. But the faces of the villagers as they writhed in agony . . . each had been woven in exquisite detail, down to the screaming horror in the eyes of a woman who stood trapped as flames licked at her skirts, began to blister the skin of her arm.

Who were the two angels? Were they trying to help the burning? Or were they the reason for the massacre? Most important of all, Elena thought, shivers trailing over her skin, why did Raphael have this disturbing image in a place where he couldn’t help but see it almost every single day?

Raphael looked down at the injured vampire, even more sharply conscious of the calculated nature of the insult, the care that had been taken to beat Noel so that his face was so much ground meat—but one eye remained undamaged, a dull blue visible around the swelling caused by his other injuries. His remaining eye was nothing but pulp. His nose was gone, but his lips untouched, perfect in their form.

Below the neck, he’d been all but crushed, his bones in so many pieces that some were dust. Raphael had broken a vampire not long ago—punishment for disloyalty. He’d snapped Germaine’s bones, each with a single move of his hands. It had been a brutal penalty, one Germaine would remember for the rest of his existence, but Raphael had taken no pleasure in it.

Noel’s attackers had most assuredly taken pleasure in what they’d done, continuing to savage him far beyond the point of sending a message. The brand lay a malignant cancer over the flesh of his breastbone, but their healer, Keir, had also found boot imprints on his back, his face. The dagger hadn’t been the sole thing they’d left inside the vampire, either. Shards of glass had been shoved deep into his wounds, where his flesh would grow over them. He’d been battered in other ways, too, his body assaulted by something that had cut and torn. The only mercy was it appeared to have been done after he lost consciousness.

Raphael would’ve liked to be absolutely certain that he wasn’t capable of such meaningless viciousness, but part of him wasn’t so sure. Nadiel, too, had once been considered the greatest of archangels.

However, one thing was certain—Raphael would not countenance the slaughter and torture of his people. “Who did this to you?” he asked.

The vampire’s good eye remained dull. He’d survive, but whether his mind would be the same . . . “I don’t know.” The answer was surprisingly clear, so clear that Raphael revised his opinion of Noel’s chances of a true recovery. “Was jumped.”

“You’re not young,” Raphael said, having gotten Noel’s history from Dmitri. It seemed the vampire was a trusted member of the team that operated below the Seven, a man Dmitri had been planning to bring to Raphael’s attention for his intelligence and loyalty. “You shouldn’t have been so easily taken.”

“More than one. Wings. Heard wings.”

Raphael had executed an archangel. He felt no compunction in taking out an angel who sought to make his name by brutalizing those who looked to Raphael. “Markings?”

“I couldn’t see.” His good eye shifted toward Raphael. “They took my eyes when the beating started.”

The dullness of the vampire’s gaze suddenly made sense. The eye hadn’t been left undamaged after all—it had simply begun to regenerate before its mate. “Did you sense anything about your attackers?”

“They said I was a message from Elijah.” A cough rasping out of his chest.

Raphael called no archangel friend, but he didn’t call Elijah an enemy either. “Male or female?”

“I was half insane by then.” Flat words. “To me it sounded like pure evil. But at least one of them got off on the pain. While they were branding me . . . someone laughed and laughed and laughed.”

Elena was on her way back to shower and change from the training session with Dmitri when something cut through the air with a chilling whistle. She hit the ground hard, smashing one elbow on the stone paving and scraping the palm of her other hand. Her wings escaped damage, but only because she’d remembered to fall to her side. The payoff would be a giant bruise on her left flank, a bone-deep pain in her arm.

She lifted her head with hunter cautiousness the instant after she hit the earth, knowing she’d be a sitting duck if she didn’t move. Sensing nothing, she made the decision to rise to her feet. Even then, all she heard was silence; this part of Raphael’s territory was filled with trees that seemed to thrive on the crisp mountain air, no angelic residences within a hundred feet.

Wondering if she’d just given herself a good hard whack for no reason, she began to turn in a slow circle. That whistling noise, it had sounded so much like—Her eye fell on the hilt of a throwing knife still quivering as it lay embedded in the trunk of a tree directly in line with where she’d been standing. Limping over on a slightly twisted ankle, she took a sniff of the knife before touching it.

Fur and diamonds and all things good girls shouldn’t want.

“Goddamn vampire.” She was so annoyed at herself for having missed him shadowing her that it took her two attempts to pull off the piece of paper wrapped around the hilt and secured with a rubber band.

The message was written in a strong masculine hand, flowing bold and dark.

This is not a Refuge for you. You’re prey. Don’t forget.