Archangel's Blade (27 page)

 

 

Dmitri's eyes opened to see the wall of his Tower office. He
rarely slept—it seemed a waste of time when he needed very little to survive. But after returning from Honor's apartment, he'd sat down at his desk, his mind on the hunter who threatened to make him feel things that had long gathered dust in his soul. Minutes later, he was asleep and dreaming of the only woman who had ever owned his heart.

Though he had taken her as a man takes a woman on their wedding night, Ingrede had always been his, their families' farms side by side. They'd tumbled in mud together as children, gorged themselves on summer fruit on lazy days gilded by the sun, and taught each other the things one knew and the other did not.

When she had smiled at him that day over the wildflowers, the emotion that had burst within him had been incandescent. And it had stayed true as the years passed, as they grew. Looking back, he couldn't imagine he'd ever been that innocent boy who'd gotten up before dawn to clamber up a mountainside, except that his love for Ingrede still felt as deep, as true.

It wasn't Ingrede's.

Pushing off his desk, he stalked to the plate-glass window that faced out into the hush of a Manhattan caught between night and day, the steel buildings soft gray shadows rather than glittering bulwarks. It was perhaps the only time the city was quiet, a mere two hours between the end of the nightlife and the beginning of the daylight rush.

He'd lived here for hundreds of years, seen it grow from nothing to a city whose heartbeat spoke to millions far and wide. He'd considered leaving it at times, had done so during his sojourn in Neha's court, young and still filled with an anger that had had no outlet. And then, of course, there had been Favashi. Lovely, gracious Favashi who had been a queen in the making, her home filled with music and art and warmth—the perfect trap for a man who had sought solace for centuries and found none.

Why have you never asked me more about Favashi?
he asked the angel he could see coming toward the Tower, his wingspan distinctive, the gold filaments bright even in the dull light.

Raphael's reply was brutally honest.
It didn't seem a subject you cared to discuss.

You could at least have called me a fool,
he said as Raphael landed on the balcony outside,
beaten some sense into me.

“There was,” Raphael said, walking into the room even as he folded his wings to his back, “no need. Favashi was a good choice of mate for someone of your strength.”

Favashi had never wanted a mate. “If I wanted to be turned into her personal menace.”

“You are mine after all.” A slight curve of his lips.

“That's just a bonus.” As he spoke, he realized more had changed in Raphael than simply his wings. The archangel had been his friend for centuries, but he'd become a remote, distant being over the past two hundred years.

Dmitri hadn't really paid attention to the transformation because he'd been on the same path. But now the blue of Raphael's eyes was touched with humor and he spoke to Dmitri as they once had on a field far from civilization, two very different men who'd found common ground. “She came here while you were away,” he said, wondering what it said about him that he'd not just noted the difference in Raphael, but responded to it.

“As she is not injured or dead, I take it you controlled yourself.”

“Without difficulty.” The truth was, while his pride had been pricked by the way Favashi had played him, his anger toward her had always been a cold thing. If Honor did anything similar, he realized, told him lies of love with such a sweet face, there would be no cold, only the most deadly of blood fury.

A rustle of wings. “If we are asking questions,” Raphael said, “then I have one of my own. Why have you never blamed me for Isis's interest in you?”

“Because,” Dmitri said, “Isis's madness was her own. And if there was any penance to be paid, you paid it in that room beneath her keep.” Chained to the wall opposite Dmitri, Raphael had been forced to watch Dmitri's violent, forced conversion, to witness Isis's other atrocities, to listen to Dmitri's shattering scream as Isis whispered of what she had done to Ingrede and Caterina.

And he'd been there at the end, a silent guard, when Dmitri had held his son's tiny body in his arms and cried until he had no tears left inside him, his self that of a hollow man. “I thought I died in that room,” he said, his hands fisting with the memory of how very fragile Misha's bones had been, how effortless it had been to snap them.

The archangel said nothing for a long time. When he did speak, it was nothing expected. “I thought you had, too.”

Dmitri met those eyes of pitiless blue. “Why keep a dead man walking, then?”

“Perhaps I knew what you would one day become.” The cold answer of an archangel.
Or perhaps it was because you weren't the only one who made a vow in that place of horror.

Dmitri shoved a hand through his hair. “You should laugh at me, Raphael. I warned you against becoming involved with a hunter, and yet I find myself in much the same position.” Honor was becoming too important, a compulsion that wasn't only sexual, wasn't only physical.

“It is no hardship,” Raphael said. “To have a hunter by your side.”

But she wasn't simply a hunter. She was the woman who awakened memories of a life he'd lost an eon ago. Ingrede's laughter . . . it had been so very, very long since he'd heard it, but when Honor laughed, he felt as if he could almost reach out and touch his wife. A strange madness and one he had no will to fight—his heart ached with a need that had survived immortality, survived his every depravity, survived his own will.