Archangel's Blade (13 page)

“Elena and Raphael are on their way,” he now said. “Be landing around six tonight.”

Giving a crisp nod, Dmitri slid into the car. “Honor. Stop flirting with Illium. It only encourages his vanity.”

“He's right.” Illium walked around to open the passengerside door for her. “I'm also a gentleman, unlike some people.”

As she got in the car, their eyes met and she wondered who he was beyond the startling beauty and the charm, this Illium with his wings of blue. “Thank you.”

His responding look was assessing . . . almost gentle. “You're not like the others.”

“What?”

Dmitri roared away before Illium had a chance to respond. When she glanced back, it was to see him watching them with a distinctly considering expression on his face, his wings spread to catch the early morning sunlight. Silver threads glittered, turning him into a living mirage. “I thought,” she said, after he disappeared from view, “angels were higher up in the food chain than vampires.” And yet Illium had taken orders from Dmitri.

“He's one of the Seven, Raphael's elite guard,” Dmitri told her as they turned out of the gates. “I lead them.”

Raphael's second.
The reason for the title was suddenly so much clearer. “I've never met an angel like Illium.” Regardless of his stunning appearance, he had seemed more “human” than any other immortal she had ever met.

A hard glance. “Flirt with him if you want, Honor, but you're mine.”

The blunt words were a shock . . . and not. “I don't know what
this
—between us—is,” she said, acknowledging the dark fire that had burned between them from the start, “but I do know that for my mental health, I need to stay far, far away from you.”

“Too bad.” Said with the same lack of emotion with which he'd shot Valeria.

It scared her. A sane response. What wasn't sane was that she wanted to reach out and touch the brutal angle of his jaw, soften him somehow. Impossible. “If it comes down to it, I'll die to hold on to my freedom,” she said, letting the wind whip her hair off her face. “I won't ever be a prisoner again, yours or anyone else's.” It was a vow she'd made as she lay a broken doll in a hospital bed, one she'd spill the dark red of heart's blood to keep.

Dmitri shifted gears with the ease of a man used to power. “I don't intend to break you, Honor.” The harsh edge replaced by black silk, sinful and tantalizing as the rich scent of chocolate seeped into her very bones. “I intend to seduce you.”

A burst of heat low in her body, a pulse of attraction that followed no rules of rational behavior . . . and an obsession she couldn't fight. “Ever had a woman say no to you, Dmitri?”

“Once.” He turned the corner with a smile that made her want to cup his face, trace those beautiful lips with her own. “I married her.”

 

 

Dmitri wasn't certain why he'd told Honor that, when he
spoke of Ingrede to no one. Raphael alone knew, and the archangel respected his wish to keep silent on the matter, on the wound that had never healed. “Tommy,” he said, changing the direction of the conversation when Honor opened her mouth as if to ask him about the only woman in his long, long life who had ever held his heart, “is Thomas Beckworth the Third.”

Honor's gaze lay heavy on him but she took the cue. “Tommy is a common name.”

“Valeria confirmed.” When she'd realized that begging and pleading wasn't going to work, the female vampire had attempted to hold the information hostage. It had only taken a couple of broken bones to end that. Dmitri had made certain those breaks echoed the half-healed fractures he'd seen on the X-rays taken after Honor's rescue.

“Please, Dmitri,” Valeria had cried. “Don't turn into a monster because of a mortal.”

It had made him smile in genuine amusement. “Dear Valeria, I was a monster before you were born.” He'd become one the instant the cottage burned, taking the best part of him with it.

“According to a search I asked Venom to run while you were upstairs,” he said, glancing away from a memory that would haunt him for all eternity, “seems like Tommy's gone to ground.”

A whisper of scent, wildflowers in bloom as Honor shifted in her seat. “He can't know we're onto him.”

The scent of her wrapped around him, touching him on a level he didn't permit any woman. “No,” he said, hand tightening on the steering wheel, “but he's connected enough that he must have realized you were working for me.”

Honor caught the lines of tension around his mouth, had to curl her fingers into her hand to stop the urge to lean over and stroke them away. This madness, it might just get her killed.

“We'll go to Tommy's home,” he continued when she didn't interrupt, “see what we can discover.”

That home proved to be as ostentatious within as Valeria's had been elegant. Ornate scrollwork on the moldings, wallpaper so ugly it had to have been bought more with reference to cost than taste, the furniture clunky and covered in floral fabric as hideous—and undoubtedly as expensive—as the wallpaper.

But the bedroom was what took the cake.

“Wow,” Honor said, staring at the enormous circular bed covered in pink satin sheets as well as thousands of bloated pillows edged in white fur. “I didn't think people actually had beds like this outside of a porn set on steroids.” Unable to stop herself, she looked up. “A mirrored ceiling. I'm shocked.”

Dmitri began to laugh, and it was a wild, beautiful sound that cut off with harsh abruptness. “Honor, leave the room.” An order coated in frost.

Her stomach clenched. It would've been so easy to turn on her heel, to allow him to shield her—and that was what he was attempting to do, this dangerous creature who would never be human—but to do so would be to give in to the bastards who had tried to destroy her. “No more running,” she said, keeping her tone calm through vicious force of will. “Show me.”

A taut moment, dark, dark eyes examining her. “Honor.”

“Some battles,” she said softly, holding that gaze full of secrets so very
old
, “a woman has to fight on her own.”

His cheekbones cut against his skin as he said, “Behind you.”

The blown-up black-and-white photograph covered the entire wall facing the bed. It was of a naked woman hanging from heavy chains by her wrists, her legs spread and manacled to the floor. Her head was slumped, her hair falling around her face, the side of her breast bleeding where a vampire had fed.

It was Honor.

Walking across to that image that threatened to catapult her back into a nightmare, she took out a blade and slowly, methodically, began to cut it to pieces. “I forgot,” she said, swallowing her rage when it threatened to drown her, “that he took pictures.”

The sound had humiliated her anew when she had thought herself hardened to everything her abusers could do to her. “Then he began bringing the video camera.” Which meant there were recordings of her somewhere, recordings where she tried not to scream as Tommy hurt her. That was why she'd forgotten—because she couldn't bear the shame of knowing others, perhaps her friends, would see her trapped and helpless and degraded . . . but of course, she had never
truly
forgotten.

“We'll find the original images and recordings.” Dmitri began going through the bedroom with quiet, focused fury, ripping out drawers, emptying shelves. “He'll have kept them for himself, a secret thing, because as soon as they got out, he knew I'd slit his throat.”

“You can't know that.” A pain in her chest, so huge, so heavy.

Dmitri walked over to help her pull off the last piece, watched in silence as she tore it into even smaller shreds. “No matter what,” he said, when the last scraps fluttered to the ground at her feet, a thousand black and white moths, “those images will never see the light of day.”

In his eyes, she saw a chilling prophecy of death.

 

Tommy wasn't the smartest of men—they found the memory
cards holding the photos and videos in a wall safe. Dmitri said nothing when she disappeared to the car—and to her laptop—to check that the images gave no clues that could lead to the identification of the other members of this sick little group.

“I'm going to destroy these,” she said to him when he walked out, having found nothing else useful in the bedroom. It was evidence, should be handled with care. Except it was
her
. Naked and bound and dishonored. Rational or not, she wanted the images gone, so no one else could ever see them.

Walking around to the trunk, Dmitri opened it to pick up a small hammer from what turned out to be a sleek toolkit. She used it to smash the memory cards into dust, then took the pliers he held out to cut the metal components into tiny, tiny bits. Dmitri was a cool-eyed audience throughout, but that cool was edgy by the time they finished going through the house—Tommy had left no clues as to his whereabouts.

“Honor.” Dmitri angled his body to face her as he brought the Ferrari to a stop in front of Guild HQ. Holding her gaze, he reached out to touch a curling strand of hair that had escaped the clip at the base of her neck, taking care not to brush any other part of her. “So soft,” he murmured. “Feminine, beautiful, and tough to break.”

The pain in her chest, that horrible thing, it didn't lessen. But right then, she could've kissed him. He wasn't human, wasn't even good, but he had just given her back a piece of her pride that Tommy's evil had stolen. “I'll call you as soon as I have anything,” she said, and it almost sounded like a promise.

Rather than going up to see Sara once she entered the Guild building, she went down to the Cellars. The underground hidey-holes served a dual purpose—as a place for hunters to take cover when things got too hot, and a home for the Guild's sophisticated surveillance and data collection systems.

All of it run by a brilliant mind trapped in a body that had been crushed in a childhood accident. Vivek only had feeling in and above his shoulders, but if anyone thought that stopped him from being the best damn “information analyst,” a.k.a. spy, in the Guild's worldwide operation, they were probably going to get a rude surprise one of these days.

“Honor,” he said when she cleared his security protocols to enter the bunker that housed the computers from where—according to Guild rumors—he ruled the world. “Dmitri after you already?”

Startled, she stared . . . and glimpsed the lines of concern
on his face. “I'm not hiding from Dmitri.”

“Oh, good. Though if you do piss him off enough for that, try not to attempt to shoot him in broad daylight. Sara still hasn't forgiven Elena for that.”

Honor had heard of the incident; she'd even looked up the newspaper reports online. “I think a bullet wound might hurt him for a while, but I'm fairly certain he's too old to be killed by it even if you blew out the heart.”

Vivek winced. “Oooh, Elena doesn't know that.” Turning his chair around with a soft vocal command, he rolled over to the main computer panels to investigate a flashing alert. “So, did you come down here for my cheery company?” A sarcastic statement, but Honor had spent her childhood wrapped in loneliness—she understood the emotion better than most.

“I'm sorry I haven't visited,” she said. “Truth is, I probably wouldn't have left the Academy even now if Sara hadn't forced me into it.” It seemed impossible that she'd been that weak, beaten creature, but she had, and it was a truth she couldn't ignore. Because never again was she going back to that.

Vivek shot her a penetrating look. “It's safe, isn't it? People don't understand needing that.”

She thought of him here in his bunker, protected from a world that had discarded him when he became less than perfect. Except—“You have far more courage than I ever will, V.” Abandoned in an institution by his family, he'd literally made himself through the sheer, stubborn refusal to surrender.

“I was a kid when this happened,” he said, voice raw. “I had a lot of time to get over the self-pity as I lay rotting in that hospital bed, so don't give me kudos I don't deserve.”

Honor shook her head, but kept her silence. Then she asked what she'd come down here to ask, though the horror of it continued to be a jagged brick crushing her chest from the inside out. “I need you to do a search.” Anger and panic and nausea roiled in her stomach. “For images or video clips of me.”

Vivek's eyes flared with a rage so deep she might've been startled if she hadn't known he was hunter-born—wheelchair bound or not, he had the same instincts as the rest of the Guild. Now, turning to focus on his computers, he began to issue vocal commands so fast across so many different screens that she couldn't keep track.

A drop of ice trickled down her spine as she watched the hits come in one on top of the other. Swallowing the bile burning her throat, she forced herself to wait until he'd completed the search. “Show me.”

Image after image filled the screens.

She scanned every single page of results, with Vivek doing a double check. “Is that it?”

“Yes. I dug down as far as you can go, used multiple and wide-ranging search terms.”

Shuddering, she collapsed into a chair. “They're all file photos released when I disappeared, or candid shots taken after my rescue.”

Vivek continued to talk to his computers for the next ten minutes as he checked and rechecked. “Net's clean, Honor. Whatever images the bastards took, they haven't uploaded them.” A gleam in his eye. “I'd say they're too scared of the Tower.”