by Nalini Singh
She revised her conclusion: Kumar and Lee must’ve been alive but immobilized when the fire was set. The two had been burned alive.
Flexing her left arm to ease a muscle ache deep within, she turned the page with her right hand. With no viable DNA samples recovered and the fire so hot it had damaged the men’s teeth—though the pathologist had made a note the teeth damage could’ve been perimortem—Kumar and Lee had been identified by the process of elimination.
No one else in the building was missing; further, neither man had accessed any of their accounts in the aftermath. A neighbor had seen the two come home that evening, but no one had seen them leave—and neither had been spotted since.
Nevertheless, was it possible either Kumar or Lee had pulled off a hoax and was the murderer?
Possible, Elena decided, but unlikely. Especially since both victims had been of a slender and short build, while the man who’d knocked on doors the night of the fire was uniformly described as tall and well built. Muscular. That coincided with what Elena had seen on Al and Anita’s security footage.
Flexing her arm again, she turned another page.
As the victims had been vampires, the police had copied the Tower into their investigation, but the Tower hadn’t interfered, leaving the seasoned human detective in charge to do his job. That detective had uncovered Nishant Kumar’s qualifications as a chemist, been able to link him to new designer drugs that catered to the vampiric market.
Elena sat up straight at the drug connection.
Bored old near-immortals were constantly hunting for a new rush. Ninety-nine percent of the designer drugs just didn’t work, the vampiric metabolism simply too efficient—it was why honey feeds were so popular. However, every so often, one of the designer drugs would work just enough to make it viable . . . and deadly.
Umber, the last big vampiric drug to hit the market, had turned ordinary, law-abiding vampires into murderous machines. One of the saddest cases Elena had heard of involved a vampire who’d torn the woman he loved to shreds.
Picking up the phone on Raphael’s desk, where she’d set up shop, she called the detective in charge.
“Santiago,” was the gruff response on the other end.
“Hello, detective.” Detective Hector Santiago and Elena had worked more than one case side by side over the years, where the Guild’s job intersected with the police force’s. Their relationship had hit a wobble when she first became an angel, became consort to Raphael, her loyalties different, but the two of them had figured out a way through it.
“So now you call me.” A mechanical groan on the other end, probably Santiago’s chair straining as he leaned his big body back. “After blowing off my cookout.”
“Gimme a break, Santiago,” she said, settling into the familiar banter as if it was a favorite old coat. “I was on the other side of the freaking world at the time.” She and Raphael had flown to visit Caliane.
“Excuses, excuses.” Rasping sounds this time, Santiago likely rubbing the salt-and-pepper stubble on his jaw. “You got a case?”
“No, I wanted to ask you about a recent one of yours. Nishant Kumar and Terence Lee.”
“The deep-fried vamps,” Santiago said at once. “We figured the vics to be humans at first—my whole career, I’ve never seen vampires burned down that bad.”
Elena squeezed her forearm to ease the increasing ache even Nisia’s healing abilities couldn’t keep at bay. “The drug connection, you ever track down specifics?”
“Nothing but rumor—and I dug deep.” A rumble of frustration down the line. “Ash and that slow-talking smart-ass husband of hers hooked me up with folks who’d normally rabbit if they smelled a cop, and my own informants were happy to talk, too.”
“Unusual.” Quarter residents usually clammed up to outsiders; they couldn’t afford to shit in their own pond.
“Kumar and Lee had a history of running scams,” Santiago told her. “Penny-ante stuff like mixing up an innocuous substance and telling low-level buyers it was a powerful designer drug—you know, poisonous shit the junkies would never be able to afford.”
Elena nodded. “You have a note in the file that it’s possible they did stumble on a dangerous drug at some point.”
“Yeah. I got approached by a couple of vamp street hookers—Red Cutie and Monique Darling—who swore up and down that Lee and Kumar had given each of them a taste of a ‘high’ that caused psychotic hallucinations then a blackout. When the women came to—in a back alley in Red’s case, and dumped in the stairwell of her building in Monique’s—their clothes weren’t quite right, and both were sure the bastards had raped them.”
And these men had been Harrison’s friends? Fuck.
“No memories, though—couldn’t even get dates from them because their sense of time is fucked up after years on drugs,” Santiago added. “But both women remembered that they woke up wet, their clothes sticking to their skin. Their take was that the two rapists hosed them off inside and out to get rid of DNA. Not that they would’ve reported it.” Tiredness in his voice now. “You know what it’s like in the Quarter.”
“Yeah. Quarter takes care of its own—except it’s vamp-eat-vamp.” Elena’s stomach churned at the idea of Harrison being involved in such repugnant crimes. If it proved true, it’d destroy Beth. “If a woman did remember what had been done to her . . .”
“Hell of a motive,” Santiago agreed. “But then I had the guy who warned people too early. No smoke, none of the early evacuees saw any sign of a fire. I had him as the doer.”
“You had no luck tracking him down?”
“People were so happy the bastards were dead, they weren’t particularly interested in finding out who’d done it. If anyone knew the identity of the firebug, they weren’t telling. I got handed plenty of dirt on the dead guys, but other than the two street girls, no one came forward as a victim of rape.”
Laric walked in during the last part of Santiago’s statement and placed a fresh glass of Nisia’s energy drink in front of her. Smiling her thanks up at him, she said to Santiago, “The pros weren’t suspects?”
“Had airtight alibis for the time the fire was set—one locked up for disorderly behavior, the other admitted to a local clinic after a john broke her collarbone. I checked to see if they had pimps who’d maybe taken exception to the lack of payment for use, but these two are individual operators.” More mechanical groans, followed by tapping, a pen hitting a desk over and over. “Don’t vamps get a payout after their Contract?”
Putting down the glass after drinking most of the mixture, she said, “Yes, some more generous than others.”
“Add in a hundred extra years to figure life out and they end up selling their bodies to losers on the street. I don’t fucking get it.” Not waiting for a response, he said, “Why’re you so interested in the deep-fried rapists?”
Elena told him the truth. There were many things she could never tell him, secrets that would endanger his life, but three connected attacks against vampires didn’t fall under that umbrella. “Asshole threatened my sister and niece.”
“Fucker.” No give in his voice; Hector had a prettily plump wife he doted on and four energetic boys who were his pride and joy. “Blakely and/or Acosta might’ve been dealers, but there’s a strong case for saying Blakely at least used the rape drug on women—would explain the amputation of his genitals.”
Elena had been thinking the same. “Eric Acosta was a honey feed addict who sourced his own drugs. Could be he bought the rape drug for Simon Blakley, had his hand hacked off for his trouble.”
“Works,” Santiago said. “But I’ll tell you one other thing—there are flat-out insane vampire gangs in the Quarter. Crazy bastards don’t blink at disemboweling a man to make a point. Lee and Kumar could’ve been whacked for encroaching, same with Blakely and Acosta.”
“It feels too personal.” Elena went
to drink the last of Nisia’s concoction but almost dropped the glass when her forearm spasmed.
Clenching her jaw to withhold her grunt of pain, she put the glass back down. “There’s also the timeline,” she managed to say. “Lee and Kumar were murdered two months ago, Blakely and Acosta only the night before the attempt on Harrison.”
“Serious escalation,” Santiago agreed. “Boy’s on a rampage. More bodies are gonna start turning up.”
They wouldn’t, Elena vowed, be of Beth or Maggie.
After hanging up the call with Santiago, the detective having promised to talk to a few informants, Elena swallowed hard and pushed up the sleeve of her top. Her forearm was rigid, the muscles bunched tight, but nothing was translucent or lava-like. The good news ended there.
Because what she could see was a new crack in her skin. She brushed off the lint clinging to it. Where the hell was that stuff coming from? It must’ve been the tissue to end all tissues that had gotten in with her laundry.
With her skin clear, the discoloration around the break in her flesh was impossible to miss. Bruise-colored, it spread out from the cut in a strangely delicate bloom. That wasn’t the worst part. When she turned her arm to look at the underside, she found more breaks. Not only that, but her wrist protruded noticeably, and the ring she wore on her right pinky finger fell off in front of her eyes.
She’d lost more weight.
Curling her fingers into her palm, she decided against going to the infirmary. No one knew what was happening to her, Nisia couldn’t help her any more than she’d already done, and the threat to Beth and Maggie remained. She’d be smart, take several of the Legion with her in case of a sudden decline, but she had to keep moving on this. Time was falling away from her like water from a gushing tap.
Child of mortals. Vessel unawakened.
She jerked to her feet, her head swiveling to the balcony doors out of instinct. But no ghostly woman with lilac hair stood outside, her hand pressed to the window. No, it was a golden-eyed owl that sat on the edge of the balcony, its feathers whiter than the snow.
Don’t be afraid of the owls.
Mouth dry and heart thudding like a live creature trapped inside her ribcage, she walked to the doors and slid them open with quiet stealth. The owl just watched her, unperturbed. When she stepped out into the icy air, it turned its head and lifted a talon to preen its feathers.
Elena held her breath until her chest ached . . . and hunkered down to touch the bird.
29
Its feathers were luxuriantly soft under her palm, its body warm.
And it looked at her with its golden eyes suddenly fathomless, the gold holding the glow of an old, old power.
It is a sadness, child, to die. But it must be so. One must die for one to live.
You must die.
“Who the hell says so?” Elena growled, her hand tensing on the owl’s back.
The silence was . . . odd. As odd as the way the owl watched her. When it tipped its head to the side, she was reminded forcefully of the Legion.
It is written in time.
The earth will boil.
The marker will fall.
And the one to die will falter.
Elena’s wing threatened to drag as if in silent agreement. “Fuck destiny and fate,” she said without care. “I will fight to my last fucking breath.”
The owl looked at her again, its eyes endless and beautiful and strange. Under her hands, its warmth was a soft glow, and in her mind spoke the voice that wasn’t there. Child of love. Child of grief. Child of courage. Watch for the broken blade. Watch for the mourner. He is your death. A long sigh . . . and the owl spread its wings.
Unwilling to even attempt to cage the wonder and wildness of it, Elena removed her hand and watched the owl take flight. It went up into the sky . . . and was no longer there. She made herself look at the part of the balcony where it had sat.
No clawprints in the snow, no signs of disturbance at all.
“Elena.”
She jumped up, her knives in her hands even as she turned. “Oh, it’s you.”
The Primary stared at her from his silent crouch on the far side of the balcony, his eyes a deeper blue today and his skin carrying a touch of gold. “Who did you speak to?”
Breath rough, Elena put away her knives. “Did you see the owl sitting there?”
“No.” Wind blowing back his hair. “We felt you reach for us. Will we fly again?”
Her phone rang before she could answer. “I’ll take this inside.” She was cold deep within her bones. “You want to come in?”
“I will watch the snow and remember it.”
Leaving the Primary to his unfathomable vigil, she stepped in, phone to her ear. “V, what is it?”
“You still in Raphael’s office? I’m patching in a call on his screen.”
“Thanks.”
The screen cleared to reveal a woman with curls of golden brown against skin the shade of rich honey. Her eyes were a clear brown with a burst of gold in the center, the wings that rose up behind her shoulders the evocative shade of bitter chocolate. “Andi.” Elena’s blood grew hot. “Did Jess put you on my research question?” Mated to Naasir, the young angel was Jessamy’s student and a nascent historian in her own right.
“The white owls.” Andromeda’s voice trembled. “Legend says they are Cassandra’s—she’s often described as having lilac hair and it’s said she clawed out her eyes to stop her visions.”
. . . tears of dark red.
“I think Jessamy mentioned her once.” Elena frowned, fighting to remember what her friend had told her. “She was an archangel long ago?”
“Cassandra is more myth than memory now. Many people think she never existed, the few of her prophecies that survived, nothing but the fantasies of a Sleeping poet.” Andromeda’s curls vibrated with her energy. “Ellie, the legends say she was kin to the Ancestors—the first ones of our kind, the angels said to Sleep under the Refuge.”
Elena staggered inside at the idea of an archangel of such enormous age. Cassandra had Slept a long time. “Is she waking now?” she asked, a rasp in her throat. “Is that why I see her owls?” Elena had spoken to Jessamy right after leaving Nisia, given the historian the necessary background to her request.
“Jessamy and I don’t know.” Andi hugged an old book with a battered leather cover. “We spoke to Caliane, and she says she dreamed in her Sleep. You may be part of Cassandra’s dream—she might not be conscious she’s woken enough to impact the world.”
Rubbing at her forehead, Elena tried to quiet the incipient headache. “Do you know anything else about her?”
“Not yet,” Andromeda said. “But I won’t stop hunting.”
After saying good-bye to the other woman, Elena got dressed for the weather then went outside and asked the Primary the same question she’d asked Andi.
The gargoyle that was the Primary didn’t so much as blink as snow began to fall on him. Within seconds, he was coated in a fine layer of white, a stone creature who had always been on the balcony in that position. When he spoke, his voice was inside Elena’s head, his lips unmoving. We remember the snow. She loved the snow. She loved our first aeclari.
And Elena knew. Cassandra ascended during the Cascade of Terror, didn’t she? A time of such violent energies that it had changed the fabric of the world—and given an archangel the terrible gift of endless foresight.
The Primary didn’t answer, only said, She saw what was to be. She dug out her own eyes to stop. But she could not stop seeing. She saw you, Elena.
Elena stared at the Primary. “What?”
We did not understand then. We did not know. The Primary’s voice held an echo now, the others of the Legion coming through. Mortal born. Mortal fall. Mortal heart. Ambrosia’s sweet kiss. Wings of dawn. Wings of night. This will be.
/> * * *
• • •
Elena’s heart still felt like ice ten minutes later, though she’d come inside again to give herself time to calm down before she went looking for Jade on the ground while Vivek continued to try to find an electronic trail. He’d even contacted both Claire Vargas and Andreas’s Nara, but so far had nothing. In this case, talking to certain connected people might get her the answer faster.
Mortal born. Mortal fall. Mortal heart. Ambrosia’s sweet kiss. Wings of dawn. Wings of night. This will be.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” She screamed it out and felt immediately better. “Right, Ellie, pack it away until your archangel gets home. Your focus is fixing this mess of Harrison’s.”
She couldn’t think about how if Cassandra had foretold her ascension to angelhood so long ago that she’d been forgotten by immortals, then it was unlikely the Sleeping archangel was wrong about her upcoming death. So she’d push that cheery thought aside till she had Raphael beside her. She knew her limits, and she knew this was archangel-level insanity.
She’d just taken a step to the balcony door when her pants sagged.
Giving in to another scream because, goddamn it, she could not get a break, she wrenched her belt tighter around her waist and carried on—after grabbing three chocolate bars and ripping into one as she decided to talk to Ash and Janvier before she headed out. The two might have contacts inaccessible to her.
Also, she needed to brief them on what she’d discovered this morning. She was pretty sure she’d heard them in the hallway earlier, but if they’d left the Tower, she’d call. No point letting her research go to waste if her brain turned to paste when her wings sent her on a swan dive into a skyscraper.
She ran into Dmitri during her search. Dressed in a slick black-on-black suit, his hair brushed perfectly, he just raised an eyebrow when he saw her.
Elena pointed the half-eaten chocolate bar at him. “Mess with me and I will shoot you through the heart, I swear to God. I am so far past hangry, I’m homicidal.”