Angels' Blood (8 page)

“No.” His hand closed over her wrist. “I don’t wish to wait. We’ll fly.”

Her heart stopped. Literally. When it kicked back to life, she could barely speak. “What?” It was an undignified squeak.

But he was already opening the door, tugging her along.

She dragged her heels. “Wait!”

“We fly or we go to your home. Choose.”

The arrogance of the command was breathtaking. As was the fury. The Archangel of New York did not like being told
no
. “I choose neither.”

“Unacceptable.” He pulled.

She resisted. She wanted to fly more than anything, but not in the arms of an archangel who might drop her in his current mood. “What’s so urgent?”

“I won’t drop you . . . not tonight.” His face was so perfect it could’ve belonged to some ancient god, but there was no compassion in it. Then again, the gods had hardly been merciful. “Enough.”

And suddenly she was on the roof, with no knowledge of having taken the steps from the landing. Rage flowed through her in a jagged wave of white lightning, but he wrapped his arms around her and rose before she could do much more than part her lips. Survival instincts kicked in. Hard. Locking her arms around his neck, she held on for dear life as his wings gained momentum and the roof fell away at dizzying speed.

Her hair whipped off her face, the wind bringing tears to her eyes. Then, as if he’d gained enough altitude, Raphael altered the angle of his flight, sheltering her against the wind. She wondered if he’d done it on purpose, then realized she was falling into the trap of trying to humanize him. He wasn’t human. Not even close.

His wings filled her vision until she dared turn her head and look at the view. There wasn’t much to see—he’d taken them above the cloud layer. Goose bumps broke out on every inch of her skin as the cold seeped into her bones. Her teeth threatened to chatter, but she had to speak, had to let the anger out before it carved a hole in her soul. “I told you,” she gritted out, “not to mess with my mind.”

He glanced down. “You’re cold?”

“Give the man an award,” she said, breath misting the air. “I’m not built for flight.”

He dived without warning. Her stomach went into free fall even as wild exhilaration raced through her bloodstream. She was flying! It might not have been by choice, but she wasn’t going to cut off her nose to spite her face. Holding on tightly, she absorbed every second of the experience, tucking away the sensory memories to savor later. It was then that she realized she had no reason to fear an accidental fall—Raphael’s arms were like rock around her, unbreakable, immovable. She wondered if he even felt her weight. Angels were supposed to be far stronger than either humans or vampires.

“Is that better?” he asked, lips against her ear.

Startled at the warm timbre of his voice, she blinked and realized they were now skimming just above the high-rises. “Yes.” She wouldn’t thank him, she thought mutinously. It wasn’t as if he’d asked her permission before launching them heavenward. “You didn’t answer me.”

“In my defense”—an amused comment—“it wasn’t so much a question as a statement.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you continue to push into my mind?”

“It’s more convenient than wasting time waiting while you talk yourself into something.”

“It’s a kind of rape.”

Chill silence, so cold the goose bumps returned. “Be careful with your accusations.”

“It’s the truth,” she persisted, though her stomach was shriveling into a terrified little ball. “I said no! And you went in anyway. What the hell else do you call it?”

“Humanity is nothing to us,” he said. “Ants, easily crushed, easily replaced.”

She shivered, and this time it was out of pure fear. “Then why allow us to live?”

“You amuse us occasionally. You have your uses.”

“Food for your vampires,” she said, disgusted at herself for having seen anything human in him. “What—you keep a prison full of ‘snacks’ for your pets?”

His arms squeezed, cutting off her breath. “There’s no need. The snacks offer themselves up on silver platters. But you’d know that—your sister is married to a vampire, after all.”

The implication couldn’t have been clearer. He’d as much as called her sister, Beth, a vamp-whore. The derogatory term was used to describe those men and women who followed groups of vampires from place to place, offering their bodies as food in return for whatever fleeting pleasure the vampire deigned to give. Every vamp fed differently, hurt or pleasured differently. Some vamp-whores seemed determined to taste, and be tasted by, each and every one of them.

“Leave my sister out of this.”

“Why?”

“She was with Harrison before he became a vampire. She’s no whore.”

He chuckled, but it was the coldest, most dangerous sound she’d ever heard. “I expected better from you, Elena. Doesn’t your family call you an abomination? I thought you’d have sympathy for those who love vampires.”

If she’d dared let go of his neck, she might just have clawed her nails down his face. “I won’t discuss my family with you.” Not with him, not with anyone.

You disgust me.
Almost the last words her father had said to her.

Jeffrey Deveraux had never been able to understand how he could’ve birthed a “creature” like her, an “abomination” who refused to follow the dictates of her blue-blooded family and sell herself in marriage in order to expand the sprawling Deveraux empire. He’d told her to give up the vampire hunting, never listening, never
understanding
that to ask her to stifle her abilities was to ask her to kill something inside of her.

“It must’ve been . . . interesting when your brother-in-law chose vampirism,” Raphael said, ignoring her words. “Your father didn’t disown either Beth or Harrison.”

She swallowed, refusing to remember the pitiful hope she’d felt when Harrison was accepted back into the family fold. She’d wanted so desperately to believe that her father had changed, that he’d finally look at her with the same love he lavished on Beth and the two younger children he had with his second wife, Gwendolyn. His first wife, Marguerite, Beth and Elena’s mother, was never spoken of. It was as if she hadn’t existed.

“My father is none of your business,” she said, voice harsh with withheld emotion. Jeffrey Deveraux hadn’t changed. He hadn’t even bothered to return her call—and she’d understood that Harrison had been allowed back because he was the scion of a major corporation that had deep ties with Deveraux Enterprises. Jeffrey had no use for a daughter who chose to indulge in her “disgraceful, inhuman” ability to scent vampires.

“What about your mother?” A dark whisper.

Something snapped. Letting go of his neck, she kicked out with her legs at the same time that she lifted her arms to do some damage to his oh-so-pretty face. It was a suicidal act, but if there was one topic on which Elena wasn’t rational, it was her mother. That this archangel, this
immortal
who cared nothing for the firefly span of human life, dared use Marguerite Deveraux’s ephemeral existence against Elena was unbearable. She wanted to hurt him in spite of the futility of the goal. “Don’t you ever—”

He dropped her.

She screamed . . . and came to a hard landing on her butt,
hands braced against the rough caress of expensive tile. “Ummph.” Swearing inwardly at the bitten-off sound of surprise, she sat on the ground, trying to catch her breath. Raphael stood above her, a vision out of a painting of heaven and hell. Either. Both. She could see why her ancestors had seen in his kind the guardians of the gods, but she wasn’t sure he wasn’t a demon. “This isn’t the Guild,” she managed to say after much too long.

“I decided we would talk here.” He held out a hand.

Ignoring it, she pushed herself to her feet, barely stifling the urge to rub at her bruised tailbone. “You always drop your passengers?” she muttered. “Not so graceful after all.”

“You’re the first human I’ve carried in centuries,” he said, those blue eyes almost black in the darkness. “I’d forgotten how fragile you were. Your face is bleeding.”

“What?” She lifted a hand to a tingling spot on her cheek. The cut was so thin she could hardly feel it. “How?”

“The wind, your hair.” Turning, he began to walk toward the glass enclosure. “Wipe it off unless you want to offer the Tower vampires a nightcap.”

She rubbed it off using the sleeve of her shirt, then fisted her hands, looking daggers at his retreating back. “If you think I’m going to follow you around like a puppy . . .”

He glanced over his shoulder. “I could make you crawl, Elena.” No trace of any humanity in his face, nothing but the glow of such power that she wanted to shade herself from it. It was an effort not to take a stumbling step backward. “Do you really want me to force you onto your hands and knees?”

At that second, she knew he’d do exactly that. Something she’d either said or done had finally pushed Raphael beyond his limits. If she wanted to survive this with her soul intact, she’d have to swallow her pride . . . or he’d break her. The realization burned going down and sat like a rock in her stomach. “No,” she answered, knowing that if she ever had the chance, she’d stab a knife in his throat for the insult to her pride.

Raphael watched her for several long minutes, a cold standoff that turned her blood to ice. Around her burned a million city lights, but up on this roof, there was only darkness—except for the glow coming off him. She’d heard people whisper of this phenomenon but had never thought to witness it. Because when an angel glowed, he became a being of absolute power, power that was usually directed to kill or destroy. An angel glowed just before he tore you into a thousand pieces.

Elena stared back, unwilling—
unable
—to give in. She’d gone as far as she could. Anything else and she might as well crawl.

She hadn’t done it then. She wouldn’t do it now. No matter the cost.

Right when she thought it was all over, Raphael turned and continued on to the elevator cage. The glow faded between one breath and the next. She followed, disgustingly aware of the sweat that had broken out along her spine, the sharp taste of fear on her tongue. But overlaying that was a deep, deep anger.

Raphael the Archangel was now the most hated person in her universe.

He held the door open for her. She walked through without saying a word. And when he came to stand beside her, his wings brushing her back, she stiffened and kept her eyes locked on the elevator doors. The car arrived a second later and she walked in. So did Raphael, his scent like sandpaper against her hunter-born senses.

Her knife hand was itching for a blade, almost painfully needy. She knew the feel of cold steel would center her but that sense of safety would be an illusion, one that might put her in even more danger.

She clenched her teeth so hard her jaw protested. And when the elevator doors opened, she strode out without waiting for Raphael—only to come to an abrupt halt. Corporate decor sure had changed if this was considered business-appropriate. The carpet was a lush black, as were the gleaming walls. The sole pieces of furniture in her line of sight—a couple of small decorative tables—were also in the same exotically rich shade.

It shimmered with hidden color, with possibility.

Bloodred roses—arranged in crystal vases perched atop the small tables—provided a lush contrast. So did the long rectangular painting along one wall. She walked to it, mesmerized. A thousand shades of red in a fury that was somehow coolly logical, sensual in a way that spoke of blood and death.

Raphael’s fingers on her shoulder. “Dmitri is talented.”

“Don’t touch me.” The words dripped off her tongue like blades of ice. “Where are we?” She swiveled to face him, making a concerted effort
not
to go for a weapon.

Blue flames in his eyes but no violence. “On the vampire floor—they use this for . . . well, you’ll see.”

“Why do I need to? I know all there is to know about vampires.”

A faint smile on his lips. “Then you won’t be surprised.” He offered her his arm. She refused to take it. His smile didn’t falter. “Such rebelliousness. Where did you inherit it? Certainly not from your parents.”

“One more word about my parents and I don’t care if you break me into a million fucking pieces.” Said through gritted teeth. “I’ll cut out your heart and serve it to the street dogs for dinner.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure I have a heart?” With that, he began to move down the corridor.

Not wanting to follow a step behind, she caught up so they walked side by side. “A physical one, probably,” she said. “An emotional one? Not a chance.”

“What does it take for you to truly fear?” He seemed genuinely curious.

Once again, it appeared she’d skated the thin edge of danger and come out alive. But it had been a close call—she wondered how forgiving Raphael would be after she completed the job and was no longer of use. She wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

“I was born a hunter,” she said, making a mental note to organize an escape hatch. Siberia sounded good. “Not many people know what that means, the inevitable consequences.”

“Tell me.” He pushed through a glass door and waited until she’d passed before closing it. “When did you realize you had the ability to scent vampires?”

“There was no realization.” She shrugged. “I could always do it. It took me until I was about five to understand it was something different, abnormal.” The word slipped out, her father’s word. She felt her mouth thin. “I thought everyone could do it.”

“As a young angel might think everyone can fly.”

Curiosity spiked out of the anger. “Yes.” So there were child angels. But where? “I knew our neighbor was a vampire before anyone else did. I accidentally ratted him out one day.” She still felt bad about that, though she’d only been a child at the time. “He was trying to pass as human.”