Archangel's Kiss gh-2

by Nalini Singh

  She felt her heart skip a beat at the certainty in his tone. “In that eternity, will you tell me your secrets?”

  “I haven’t shared my secrets for more sunrises than you can imagine.” He tugged her even closer. “But until I met you, I’d never claimed a hunter, either.”

  There was something strange about scent-tracking through the Refuge. It wasn’t only that she seemed to be developing the ability to track angels—that came and went, the new scents static in the back of her mind—it was that she could feel eyes on her every step of the way. “You’d think they’d never seen a hunter before,” she muttered under her breath.

  Illium, walking beside her, vivid interest in his own eyes, took her words for a question. “Many of them haven’t.”

  “I guess.” She frowned as she caught a hint of a scent that tugged at her instincts, but it whispered away so fast, she couldn’t pinpoint the elements that made up the whole. “Maybe they’re just checking you out.” Bare-chested and with the lithe muscle of a man who knew how to use his body, he was, as Sara would put it, “deliciously bitable.”

  A wicked smile. “Your wings are trailing in the snow.”

  Glancing behind her, she saw the white tips encrusted with ice. “No wonder they feel numb.” She pulled the wings back up, realizing they’d entered one of the main thoroughfares. It bustled with activity, but beneath it all was a hum of lethal anger. “Do all vampires know about this place?”

  “No, only the most trusted.”

  Which made the assault on Sam all the more egregious. But of course, everyone knew the vampire had been nothing but a tool. It was the angel who mattered, the angel who’d be put to death in the most painful way known to immortals—and they’d had a long time to come up with methods of torture. Catching a minute hint of citrus, she angled left, to a section almost free of angelic eyes. “Any orange groves in this direction?”

  “No. They’re in Astaad’s and Favashi’s parts of the Refuge.”

  Chocolate. Oranges. Faint, so faint.

  Going down on one knee, she brushed aside the snow with her bare hand, having learned that while she felt the cold, she was in no danger of frostbite.

  “I could dig for you,” Illium offered, crouching across from her, his forehead almost touching hers as he leaned in. One of his feathers floated to the ground, an exotic accent against the pristine white. “Should I?”

  She shook her head. “I need to go down layer by layer, in case the snow trapped his—” Her fingers scraped against something hard, colder than the snow. “Feels like a pendant or a coin.” Brushing off the white flecks that melted at contact with her skin, she angled it to catch the light.

  Her breath turned to ice in her chest.

  “That’s Lijuan’s symbol.” Illium’s voice was low, hard, her laid-back escort replaced by the man who’d amputated his enemies’ wings with clean efficiency.

  “Yes.” She’d never forget that kneeling angel with a deaths-head face as long as she lived. “What kind of an archangel uses that as her personal symbol?”

  Illium didn’t answer, and she hadn’t really expected him to. Fighting her instinctive urge to throw the disturbing thing into the deepest crevice she could find, she brought the medallion to her nose, and drew in a long breath.

  Bronze.

  Iron.

  Ice.

  Oranges glazed in chocolate.

  “The vampire touched this.” Wanting no further contact with the artifact, she placed it in Illium’s outstretched hand. “Let’s go.”

  “Have you got the scent?”

  “I might have.” She could feel it tugging at her, buried beneath all the snow, in constant danger of being melted away if the winter sun turned blazing in one of the rapid transitions she’d come to expect up here.

  Pulling on that faint thread, she began to walk. “What’s down there?” Her target was a covered passageway between two neatly shut-up buildings. It appeared a black hole into nowhere.

  “A small internal garden.” Illium’s sword made a shushing sound as he slid it out of its scabbard. “The angels who reside here are currently in Montreal, but there should be a lamp burning on the wall.”

  “Let’s go.” It got very, very dark less than a meter into the passage, but light appeared at the other end not long afterward. She sped up her pace, exiting into the bright white scene that awaited with a silent sigh of relief.

  It was, as Illium had said, an enclosed garden, a private retreat from the world beyond. In summer, it likely overflowed with blooms, but it had a unique kind of charm even in the arms of winter. The fountain in the middle lay still, its two upper basins and pool filled with snow. More snow covered the statues that ringed the pool, some inside, some outside, all caught in motion.

  Walking closer, she felt an unexpected delight spark to life inside her—the statues were all of children, each face drawn with a loving hand. “There’s Sam!” she said, seeing a smaller version of the child angel, one foot in the fountain, hands on the rim, pure mischief in his expression. “And there’s Issi.”

  “Aodhan used them as models.” At her questioning look, he added, “One of the Seven.”

  “He’s gifted.” Each statue was meticulously detailed, down to the torn button on a shirt or the hanging lace of an abandoned shoe. As she circled the artwork, her smile faded, her gut raw with the knowledge that someone had defiled this place.

  Oranges dipped in chocolate.

  And below that . . . the putrid ugliness of rot just begun.

  18

  Fury arcing through her in a cold wave, she brushed off enough snow from the rim that she could perch on it. She didn’t have to clear much in the fountain itself before her fingers bumped against flesh gone blue with cold. Withdrawing her hand, she jerked her head at Illium. “I think we just found the vamp who took Sam.”

  “Another desecration.” The bones of his hand cut white against skin as his fingers clenched on the grip of his sword. “I’ve told Raphael.”

  “Not Dmitri?” Raphael’s second-in-command ran any number of things, and with Raphael having scheduled an early-morning “discussion” with Dahariel, she’d figured the vampire would be the one to deal with this.

  “He left for New York soon after Sam was found,” Illium told her, sheathing Lightning in a fluid motion. “Venom’s the youngest among us. With Galen having been recalled from the Tower, there are some who may get ideas.”

  She thought of how much time Raphael was spending away from his Tower because of her, to give her time to become strong enough to deal with the world, wondered what it was costing him. “But, if necessary, Venom could hold off a challenge long enough for help to arrive?”

  “Of course. He’s one of the Seven.” Illium’s tone said everything about the requirements for membership in that very exclusive club. “The Tower is also built to be defensible. There are over a hundred angels and the same number of high-level vampires either in or around the Tower at any time.”

  Quite an army, she thought. But archangels didn’t rule because they were benevolent beings. They ruled because they had power and weren’t afraid of using it to enforce their decrees. At that very instant, an example of that power landed in the garden—a full wing of angels led by Galen.

  The red-haired angel walked directly to the fountain, and it was the first time she’d really had a chance to examine him. He looked, she was surprised to note, like a bruiser. Well over six feet tall, his shoulders were wide, his thighs thick with muscle, his biceps—one ringed by a thin metal band—that of a man who’d earned his body, and not through a workout in any gym. And his face—square jaw, sensual lips, the kind of mouth that made women think hot, sweaty, distinctly unangelic thoughts.

  His eyes cut to the body. “You believe this is the vampire who took Sam?”

  Shaking off her startlement at this angel who looked so very earthy, so very human, she nodded. “He has the right scent and as far as I know, no one’s ever been able to mimic that well e
nough to fool a hunter-born.”

  A curt nod, red hair aflame in the sunlight. “Give us room to dig him out.”

  Shifting back, she watched as they uncovered then removed the body, taking care to ensure they overlooked nothing. As she’d expected, the head was missing—beheading was the most efficient way of killing a vampire, followed closely by burning. Leaving Galen and his troops to check the fountain and the surrounding area for the head, she began to crisscross the garden. “No trail,” she finally muttered, staring at the now empty fountain. “Vamp was dropped from above.”

  “Either the leader or one of his angelic followers.” Illium’s familiar voice, his wings the most vivid point of color in all the white as the angels who’d come with Galen left, taking the body with them.

  Galen’s own wings reminded her of a northern harrier’s—a dark gray with white striations that only became visible when he spread them in preparation for flight. “The head isn’t here,” the red-haired angel began when there was a gust of wind, the powerful backlash of wings raking up the snow.

  Elena felt her heart catch all over again as Raphael landed. “We found the head,” he said, his tone freezing the air around them. “It was left on Anoushka’s pillow, the sekhem branded on its forehead.”

  Elena was quite certain the vampire must have been alive for that humiliation. His fear when he realized the jackal he worshipped had turned on him would have been agonizing—because he knew exactly what was coming.

  “A jeer,” Galen said. “Aimed at Neha through her daughter.”

  “Or a very clever double play,” Elena murmured, recalling the notes she’d read on Anoushka. Intelligent, ambitious, and with several powerful vampires and angels in her court, she could have pulled it all off. But then, so could Nazarach and Dahariel.

  “If she is a true victim,” Illium said, “how did anyone get that close? Anoushka’s guards are deadly.”

  “No security is absolute. And it’s beginning to appear as if this angel laid his plans months in advance.”

  “Jason?” Elena guessed.

  A hard nod, Raphael’s hair blue black under the winter sun. “One of his men managed to get out a message from Charisemnon’s court—there’s no evidence of the girl-child ever crossing the border. Yet Titus is adamant he has proof in the form of a recording that was sent to him.”

  It was Galen who spoke next. “Are we certain the one behind this is still in the Refuge?”

  “The political games may well have been run from a distance, but these are too personal. He’s close, eager to see the results of his acts.” Raphael’s voice held a remoteness that scared her. The last time he’d sounded that distant, he’d ended up holding her above a spiraling fall, a being who might have dropped her just so he could listen to her scream.

  Her blood a rush of thunder in her ears, she had to focus to hear his next words.

  “Ignore the distractions. He may have begun this with the intent of proving his power, his entitlement to become Cadre, may have convinced himself these acts will lead to that goal—”

  “—but really, the bastard just enjoys his sick little games,” Elena completed, her gut churning. Because that kind of a sociopath? He wouldn’t stop until he was forced to stop. And he’d already shown he had a taste for children.

  Chrome blue eyes met her own. “Our aim hasn’t changed. We hunt for the blood insult to Noel, to Sam. And for the renewed threat on Elena’s life.”

  She blinked, feeling the sun’s increasing heat against her skin. “What?”

  “A Guild dagger was jammed into the mouth of the head left in Anoushka’s bed.”

  Angry at the vicious acts, at the continued mockery of a Guild that had given her a family when her own had thrown her out like so much trash, she felt her mind calm, her brain chill. “Forensics lab?” Even if she hadn’t had that conversation with Raphael about possible trace evidence on Noel’s battered body, she’d have intuited the Refuge had such a lab. Because while angels might look like beings out of myth and legend, they were, for the most part, ruthlessly practical. She wouldn’t be surprised if they had a central DNA bank.

  “The body’s being processed,” Galen said, “and I’ll have people go over the scene one more time, but I predict we’ll find nothing of value, just as with Noel and Sam.”

  “The only clue was the dead vamp’s scent,” Elena said, knowing that that was why he’d died. It was disturbing to know her talent had signed his death warrant, but then, hadn’t he done that himself the night he decided to help brutalize a child? Her jaw tightened. “Do we know who he was?”

  “He looked to Charisemnon,” Raphael said. “A midlevel vampire seduced by the promise of more.”

  It was such a human motive that she knew he was right. Because vampires had once been human after all. “Are there still only three possibles?”

  “Nazarach, Dahariel, and the Princess herself,” Illium confirmed.

  “Any of the three like to live in the past?”

  “No.” Illium again. “Anoushka keeps a court like her mother, but she also owns a chemical plant that manufactures poisons. They’re all aware of modern forensic techniques.”

  “Then we go back to basics, watch them until they make a mistake.”

  “Nazarach,” Raphael said, “has been under constant surveillance since the attack on Noel, but that doesn’t prove his innocence. Dahariel is Astaad’s, and will require more care.”

  “Even with what was done to Sam?”

  The answer was that of an archangel. “Dahariel is as integral to the smooth running of Astaad’s territory as Nazarach is to mine.”

  And Anoushka was Neha’s daughter. “You can’t go after them without risking war.”

  “Dahariel appeared disgusted by the attack on Sam,” Raphael said, his expression impenetrable, “but his home is filled with vampires who all but whimper at the sound of an angel’s wings.”

  Elena’s mind shot to the last—and only—time she’d seen Holly Chang. The woman had turned hysterical at the sight of Raphael’s wings after the trauma of having been forced to witness Uram’s atrocities. What was Dahariel doing to elicit the same reaction from almost-immortals who’d lived hundreds of years?

  Illium extended his hand as a stiff breeze lifted the snow into the air. But it couldn’t erase the lingering spoor of murderous violence. “The medallion that led us here.”

  Taking it, Raphael traced the lines of the metal sphere as if searching for something. She knew he’d found it when his fingers went still. “This could’ve only been acquired through the death of one of Lijuan’s men.”

  “Do you think she’s involved?” Elena asked.

  “No. She’s too busy playing with her reborn.” He closed his fingers around the medallion even as the hairs on the back of her neck rose at the reminder of Lijuan’s preferred form of amusement. “Elena—the trail?”

  “Snow’s melting,” she said, frustrated. “Trail’s history.”

  “Patience, hunter,” Raphael said with the confidence of a being who’d seen centuries pass. “He made a mistake in killing one of his own men—fear will loosen tongues.”

  “Then I guess we hope that he—or she,” she added, remembering Anoushka, “continues to strike out at his own people.” She stared at the fountain. “At least they’ll die a cleaner death than if we catch them.”

  The scent of the wind, clean and harsh. I’d say you were losing your innocence, but your nightmares tell me you lost that a long time ago.

  Yes, she admitted, giving him a glimpse of the most secret corner of her heart. There was so much blood that day. I could see it on my skin even at the funeral.

  19

  The next day brought an unwelcome surprise. With the scent trail having grown cold, and Raphael’s people working the other facets of the hunt, she’d returned to getting her body back in fighting shape—the angel who’d already harmed two of Raphael’s own wouldn’t find her the easy target he seemed to assume she was. She had every
intention of thrusting a Guild dagger right between his ribs when he came after her.

  Unfortunately, she’d forgotten that Dmitri had returned to the Tower.

  “You’ll be dead two seconds after you run out of bullets if that’s your sole means of defense.” Galen swallowed up her gun in his hand, his pale green gaze about as friendly as your local grizzly bear’s. “Secondary weapon?”

  “Knives.” She’d never admit it in a million years, but she was already starting to miss Dmitri’s wicked brand of humor.

  “If you’re going to be using knives,” Galen said as she entered the training ring, a simple circle of beaten earth in front of a large wooden structure without windows, “then you need to learn to draw them without nicking your wings.” He picked up what looked like a rapier from the table, though the guard was far simpler than the intricate ones she’d seen in another hunter’s collection. Handing it to her, he said, “I need to see what you’ve got.”

  “I said knives,” she told him, dropping her wrist as she tested the weight of the blade. “This is much longer than anything I’ve used.”

  “Knives take you too close to the target.” He was suddenly in her face, a short, lethally sharp blade nicking her throat, her breasts crushed against the male heat of his bare chest. “And you aren’t fast enough to win against another angel.”

  She hissed out a breath but didn’t back off. “I could still gut you.”

  “Not as fast as I could cut your throat. But that isn’t the point of this exercise.”

  Feeling blood begin to trickle down her throat, she shut out the anger and ran through her options with cold-blooded focus. Her sword hand was effectively useless—he was too close. Given the lack of leverage, her other hand wouldn’t do much damage, either.

  Except angelic wings were extremely sensitive.

  Grabbing his wing with her free hand, she brought up the sword with the other. Galen danced out of reach, the knife disappearing so fast she barely caught the movement. “Wings,” she said, realizing the bastard had taught her something critically important, “give me an advantage in terms of surprising an opponent, but get too close and they become a weakness.”