Archangel's Blade (40 page)

Cupping the angel's hand, Honor leaned closer. “He's written something on his palm.”

“Eris,” Raphael said, his vision acute. “The word is ‘Eris.' ”

Dmitri frowned. “Neha's consort? No one has seen him for centuries.” Even as he spoke, his eyes fell once more on the leaves from the sugar maple tree. “Neha,” he said, an old piece of knowledge jarred loose in his mind, “has no properties in this territory, but Eris had a liking for it before he went into seclusion.” Whether that seclusion had been by choice was debatable, for Dmitri had heard rumors that Neha's consort had betrayed her with another woman, been punished for it for the past three hundred years.

It wasn't impossible that Kallistos's position in Neha's court had allowed him access to Eris, and, whatever else he had become, Isis's lover had proven intelligent. More so perhaps than Eris—who had always been Neha's gleaming ornament of a consort, a beloved plumed bird the archangel had showered with jewels and silks. “Kallistos must be using Eris's estate as his base.”

“Go,” Raphael said, gathering the hurt angel's body closer to his own. “Take all the men you need.”

“Sire.”
I won't leave the city vulnerable. There's still a chance Neha's hand is behind this.
The archangel hated everyone who had helped execute her daughter, Anoushka—Raphael was amongst that number.
This may be a trap to draw us away.

Raphael's blue eyes were relentless.
You will take Illium.

I am not blinded by the past.
His decisions were rational, coldly so.

Nevertheless.
Raphael's expression changed the barest fraction.
I would not lose my second.

Dmitri bowed his head in a slight nod. “Honor,” he said after the archangel walked out with his living cargo, “I'm going to take the chopper to Vermont—”

Stalking to stand face-to-face with him, she pushed at his chest. “If you're even thinking about leaving me behind, think again.”

He should've stood firm, would have had it been any other woman. But Honor . . . she had her hooks so deep into him that it made the
old
, merciless part of him go motionless, examine the situation—and his sudden vulnerability—with icy focus. To destroy this strange, wonderful something between them, all it would take were a few well-chosen words of utmost cruelty.

Honor was smart, but she was also tender of heart. She didn't know the depths to which he could go, the wounds he could inflict. He could make her bleed without ever raising a hand. “I am not a good man, Honor,” he said, touching his fingers to her jaw.

Instead of shying, she leaned into the touch. “You're my man.”

The echo of Ingrede's words tangled with Honor's, but then, his wife had been tender of heart, too. He'd protected that heart with all his strength . . . and he knew that despite the deep weakness she created in him, he would do so once more with Honor. It was a strange thing, to feel such tenderness again, to know he was capable of it. “Come. It's time to beard the monster in his den.”

 

 

Venom was the one who most often piloted the chopper
for use by the Seven, but Dmitri knew how to do it—he'd been curious when the machines had been invented. Though he found more pleasure in handling cars, he'd kept up the useful skill. Now, having delayed only long enough to change and gather weapons, he lifted the black machine off the helipad situated not on top of the Tower, but several floors below, on a balcony cut
into
part of the building.

“Illium?” Honor's voice came through crystal clear, both of them miked, ears protected against the noise of the blades.

“He's already on his way.” The blue-winged angel was one of the fastest fliers amongst his kind and would beat them to Vermont. “I've been in contact with the Made who live in and around the general region of Eris's property.”

“I rang a couple of hunter friends nearby, too.” Her scent twined around him in the confines of the cockpit, fine ropes he knew he'd never break. “None of them had heard anything.”

“Neither had my people—but Kallistos is no youth.” He wouldn't have done anything to draw attention to himself near his lair. “I'm certain we'll find him there.”

“One way or another,” Honor said, reaching out to brush her fingers over his jaw in an unexpected caress, “tonight will finish this.”

“How do you understand?” That it savaged him to realize this small piece of Isis survived when his family's ashes had been scattered by the wind so long ago, entire civilizations had risen and fallen in that time.

No longer touching him, she said, “I know you, Dmitri.” A fisted hand over her heart, her voice soft, potent with raw emotion. “Right here, so deep it feels as if you've been a part of me since the instant I took my first breath.”

Reaching out, he brought her fist to his lips, pressed a kiss to the knuckles. She robbed him of words, of sophistication, until he was once more the man he'd been with his wife—harder, deadlier, but with the capacity to feel emotions both beautiful and terrifying. He would spill blood for the mortal by his side, split open his veins if she asked, slay demons and enemies until the world shivered at the sound of his name.

But he would not mourn her. Because a man didn't survive such a loss twice.

 

 

Having landed far enough from the house that their arrival
should've gone unnoticed, Dmitri looked up as they began to navigate the heavy woods that led to Eris's estate, attempting to spot Illium. Not even a hint against the starless night sky, but when Dmitri said,
Illium
, the response was immediate.

Breaking the mental contact, he relayed Illium's words to Honor. She nodded, the gun she'd chosen as her main weapon held to her side. He preferred the blade. The scimitar he carried was an old favorite, and it often sat on display in Raphael's home at the Refuge—but the last time he'd been at the angelic stronghold, Dmitri had felt driven to take it down, bring it to New York.

“The runes on your blade,” Honor asked as they continued to walk through the thick quiet of the woods, the rustling of the leaves the only sound. “What do they mean?”

“You should know,” he said with a provocative smile. “It was another witch who put them on the blade for me, after all.”

A green-eyed glance as sharp as the gleaming edge on his scimitar. “Careful, or I might decide to turn you into a toad.”

Gripping the back of her neck, he brought her to him for the kiss he'd been wanting to claim for hours. A long dark tangling of tongues, he indulged in her until she shuddered, her lips ripe and swollen. “After this is over,” she said, touching her fingers to her kiss-wet mouth, “I think I want to spend a month locked in a bedroom with you.”

His lips curved. “That could be arranged.” The bedroom games he wanted to play with Honor were beyond decadent, beyond sinful. “The house should be coming up soon.”

“There,” Honor whispered a bare two minutes later.

Hidden in the midst of what felt like thousands of sugar maple trees shivering in the whispering night wind, the house sat private and cocooned from the outside world. Though they'd come out behind it, Honor had no doubt what she was seeing accurately reflected the overall architecture. Despite the serene setting, it was no fairy tale, no elegant retreat. It reminded Honor of nothing so much as a hulking beast, a monument to gothic excess.

Two snarling gargoyles guarded the back steps, their fangs bared and claws unsheathed. From what she could make out in the dark, that was simply the beginning—she was fairly certain more gargoyles peered out from the roof, including a giant batlike creature silhouetted against the pitch-black sky.

The ivy that covered most of the building added to the impression of decaying menace, as did the spread of leaves deep on the ground. As if decades' worth of forest debris had collected on top of each other, until now, the ground was forever lost. Walking across the leaves—soft this time of year, concealing rather than betraying their passage—Honor kept her gun in hand as Dmitri's blade cut a dark wound through the night, his stride as confident and quiet as a hunting cat's.

She touched his arm when they reached the bottom of steps that led onto a narrow porch, pointed. “Look.”

No ivy or moss covered the central part of the stone steps. As if they had been used recently and often. When she bent down and cautiously flicked on her flashlight, shielding the beam with her palm, she was able to glean a faint path in amongst the organic matter that covered what may once have been a manicured lawn. A single nod to Dmitri, before she flicked off the flashlight and they headed slowly and silently up the steps and to the back door of the monstrosity of a house.

Dmitri angled his head.

It was strange—in a wonderful kind of way—how perfectly she understood him. Bending, she duckwalked to the nearest window. She could see nothing beyond, but she kept going, checking window after window.

The only thing that lay beyond was a stygian darkness. Since the house was enormous, that meant nothing, but she turned and straightened up enough to shake her head at Dmitri before moving past him to check the other side, while he kept watch, a silent, dangerous predator almost indistinguishable from the night. It was at the third window that she saw it.

Heading back to Dmitri, she whispered the results in his
ear, his scent familiar, welcome. “Light appeared a second ago. Flickering, as if from a candle.” The glow of it had been diffuse in a way no electric lamp could mimic. “Deep inside the house.”

Dmitri raised his hand . . . toward one of the gargoyles on the roof.

Wings unfurled and Illium flew in silence toward the front, ready to block any attempt at escape.

“Could be a diversion,” she said, heart pounding from the rush of adrenaline caused by the unexpected sight. “Kallistos might be waiting behind the door.”

Dmitri shook his head. “I smell nothing to indicate that, and my senses are acute.” Reaching out, he twisted the doorknob with care. When it opened under his hand, he said, “A trap then.” His lips held a faint smile. “Don't get hurt, Honor, or you'll be waking up with fangs.”

She froze. “I haven't been tested.” All short-listed Candidates were tested for
something
during the acceptance process. Theories as to what ranged the gamut, but the tests themselves were compulsory.

“Blood,” Dmitri murmured, “is not difficult to obtain, especially when it comes to active hunters.”

“Ever heard of privacy?” she muttered under her breath as he pushed the door wide and slid inside.

She followed him—into unrelieved darkness, the light she'd glimpsed hidden by the arrangement of the walls. Cutting through it with an unerring step, Dmitri made his way to the hallway. She shadowed him, rising up on tiptoe when he lowered his lips to her ear. “Stay out of sight. There's no reason for him to believe I brought you.” At her nod, he added, “And privacy is such a modern concept.”

Deciding she'd yell at him later, she used every ounce of her skill to conceal her presence as they moved down the hallway, while Dmitri did the opposite, striding down with heavy, booted footsteps until the light came into view. It originated from a room that flowed off the hall toward the front of the house, had been reflected by the ornamental mirror opposite.

That mirror, carved with grapes and mythical creatures covered in gold, showed her nothing beyond a candle flame as Dmitri passed out of the doorway and into the dark beyond, while she pressed her back to the wall, ready to go in when needed.

“Dmitri.” A rough kind of a voice, raspy yet deep.

“Your throat never recovered.”

“I shouldn't have displeased her as I did.” A sound that might have been a sigh.

“Your mistress wasn't known for her patience—or the care with which she handled her toys.”

The civility of the conversation made the hairs rise on the back of Honor's neck. She knew full well she was listening to two predators circling each other. Only one of them would survive the night.

 

 

Kallistos had lost none of his beauty in the intervening
years. He had, in fact, grown further into that delicate bone structure that showcased eyes of brilliant copper, and lips so soft and well-shaped, more than one angel had been seduced by their perfection. His body, too, was a thing of beauty. Slender, but with incredible muscle tone—the air barely stirred when he moved, his tread that of a dancer.

“An exquisite creature,” Isis had called him the day she took Dmitri to her bed—and forced Kallistos to watch.

“I have been an ill host.” Kallistos waved his hand toward a tray set with a crystal decanter filled with bloodred liquid that shimmered in the candlelight. “We are two sophisticated men, are we not?”

Dmitri took in the flush high on Kallistos's cheekbones, the glitter in those copper eyes, asked, “How long since you slept?”