A Caress of Wings: A Renegade Angels Novella (An eSpecial from New American Library)

by Day, Sylvia

  “Trevor.” She touched him, gently stroking across his back. He was so focused on controlling his raging desire that it took him a moment to realize . . .

  She was caressing him with her wings.

  He spun with a groan. The woman he desired above all others stood naked before him, displaying a body of breathtaking perfection. As tiny as she was, her curves were full and luscious. Her stomach was flat and lightly muscular. She was tight and hard, yet soft and warm. Everything he’d ever admired or lusted over in the female form was framed by those wings resembling the light of dawn. He was awed by all that creamy, flawless skin surrounded by pale pink feathers that darkened into deep amethyst tips with gilded edges.

  His eyes burned with tears of wonder and love, his entire being overwhelmed by the beauty of her. As he watched, her wings stretched toward him, curling around him so they were enfolded together. He felt the tips brush across his back, even as her hands reached for the knot of his towel. Extending his arms to either side, he ran his fingertips down her feathers. She gasped and shivered, her nipples furling into tight tips.

  “Your wings,” he murmured. “Touching them turns you on?”

  “I didn’t know.” Her wide blue eyes looked into his. “It’s never happened before.”

  The miracle of her soothed his ragged need, giving him the strength he needed to make love to her with the gentleness and respect she deserved. Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead to hers. “I’m going to love you, Siobhán. Long and well. Forever.”

  “Start now.”

  Tilting his head, he pressed his lips to hers.

  Chapter 12

  Siobhán stepped out of the shower and shook out her hair, spraying water all over the gorgeous, sexy vampire lounging against the bathroom’s doorjamb.

  “Watch it, angel,” Trevor purred, his amber eyes bright with sensual promise. His arms were crossed over his bare chest, his jeans hanging low on his lean hips in a way that made her stare with greedy delight. “I can get you wet, too.”

  “You just did,” she reminded, shivering as she recalled how he’d bent her over the edge of the bed and slid into her from behind, his hands stroking over the sensitive backs of her splayed wings as he rode her. She’d clawed at the comforter, muffling her cries as the pleasure inundated her in endless waves. “For nearly two hours. We have to work now.”

  “I know.” He smiled and kissed the tip of her nose as she slipped past him. “That’s why I let you shower alone. Let me clean up and I’ll join you.”

  She squeezed his hand as she moved into the bedroom. She headed toward the armoire for her clothes, feeling so blessed to have found Trevor. He often thanked her for finding him and saving him, in more ways than one, but she knew he’d saved her, too.

  A knock came to their bedroom door and she snatched up her robe, rushing over to answer it.

  Malachai stood in the hallway, looking grim. “Siobhán. Adrian’s plane just landed. He’ll be down here in just a few minutes.”

  She took a deep breath, surprised to feel a nervous fluttering in her stomach. But she wasn’t afraid. The decision she’d made to be with Trevor had brought her the first true happiness of her entire existence. She would make the choice again, with joy. “Thank you.”

  Firm in her decision, Siobhán dressed and prepared to face Adrian, the angel who wielded the Creator’s vengeance against angels who’d taken mortal mates . . .

  * * *

  Read on for an excerpt from

  A Hunger So Wild

  A brand-new book in Sylvia Day’s Renegade Angels Series

  On sale July 3, 2012.

  * * *

  Elijah Reynolds stood naked on a rock in the woods surrounding Navajo Lake and watched his dreams burn along with the decimated outpost below him. Acrid black smoke plumed into the air in wide, thick funnels that could be seen for miles.

  The angels would know a rebellion had begun long before they reached the ruins.

  Around him, lycans yipped with celebratory joy, but he felt none of it. He was cold and dead inside, his life as he’d known it scorched to embers in the smoldering devastation that had once been his home. He excelled at one thing: hunting vampires. Doing what he enjoyed came from working for the Sentinels—the most elite of all warrior angels. That indentured servitude, while chafing, was a small price to pay to do what he loved. But very few lycans felt the same, which had led to this result. Everything that mattered to him was gone and what was left was a battle for independence his heart wasn’t invested in waging.

  But it was done and couldn’t be undone. He’d live with it.

  “Alpha.”

  Elijah’s jaw clenched at the designation he’d never wanted. He glanced at the nude woman who approached him. “Rachel.”

  Her gaze lowered.

  He waited for her to speak, then realized she was doing the same in reverse. “Now you want to follow orders?”

  Her hands linked behind her back and her head dropped. Irritated by her lack of conviction, he turned away. He’d told her a revolt was suicide. The Sentinels would hunt them, exterminate them. The lycans’ one purpose for existence was to serve the angels; if they no longer did that, they no longer had a place in the world. But she wouldn’t listen. She and her mate, Micah—Elijah’s best friend—had incited the others to this act of sheer fucking stupidity.

  He sensed the approaching male lycan before he heard him. Turning his head, Elijah watched a golden wolf step into view then shift midstride into the form of a tall blond man.

  “I’ve rounded up those with self-preservation instincts, Alpha,” Stephan said.

  Which confirmed Elijah’s suspicion that some had fled the battle without considering the brutal days certain to lie ahead. Or perhaps some of the smarter ones had returned to the Sentinels. He wouldn’t hold it against them.

  “Montana?” Rachel asked hopefully.

  He shook his head, reminding himself that he’d promised Micah on his death bed that she’d be looked after. “We’d never make it that far. Sentinels will be breathing down our necks within hours.”

  One of the Sentinels had flown away during the conflict, blue wings spread wide as she raced to report the uprising. The rest had stayed and fought, but the razor-sharp tips of their wings had offered too little protection against the size of the Navajo Lake pack, which had needed thinning for months. Seriously outnumbered, the Sentinels had fought to the death, knowing that’s what their captain, Adrian, would do and expect. During the weeks that Elijah had been a member of Adrian’s pack, he’d seen for himself how tenacious and committed the Sentinel leader was. Only one thing could split Adrian’s focus, and even she couldn’t dull the angel’s killer instinct.

  “There’s a network of caves near Bryce Canyon.” Elijah turned his back to the Navajo Lake outpost for the last time. “We’ll hole up there until we’re organized.”

  “Caves?” Rachel asked, scowling.

  “This was no victory, Rachel.”

  She flinched away from the undercurrent of anger in his tone. “We’re free.”

  “We were hunters and now we’re prey. That’s not an improvement. We kicked the Sentinels when they were already down. They were outnumbered twenty-to-one, taken by surprise, and lacking Adrian, who’s dealing with so much shit right now his head isn’t fully in the game. This was a one-shot, one-kill deal.”

  Rachel’s shoulders went back, thrusting her small breasts forward. Nudity was nothing to a lycan; flesh or fur, it was all the same. “And we took it.”

  “Yes, you did. Now trust me to handle the rest.”

  “This is what Micah wanted, El.”

  Elijah sighed, his anger swallowed by a tide of regret and grief. “I know what he wanted—a home in the suburbs, a nine-to-five-job, carpools, and play dates. I would do anything to give you that dream . . . to give it to any other lycan with a wish for the same . . . but it’s impossible. You’ve dumped a task in my lap that I failed before I began, because there’s no way
for me to succeed.”

  And they couldn’t know what that failure cost him. He would never say. He could only make the best of what he had to work with and try to keep those who were now dependent on him alive.

  He looked at Stephan. “I want teams of two sent to the other outposts. Preferably mated pairs.”

  Mates would protect each other to the death. In times like these, when they would be hunted while separated from their pack, they’d need all the support they could get.

  “Notify as many lycans as possible,” he went on, rolling his shoulders back to ease the tension in his neck. “Adrian will cut off outside communication to and from all the outposts—cell phones, the Internet, snail mail. So the teams will need to tackle the task directly, face-to-face.”

  Stephan nodded. “I’ll see to it.”

  “Everyone needs to withdraw whatever money they’ve got socked away before Adrian freezes their accounts.” As “employees” of Adrian’s aviation corporation, Mitchell Aeronautics, their stipends were deposited in an employee credit union that Adrian had complete access to.

  “Most have already done that,” Rachel said quietly.

  So, she’d thought that far ahead, at least. Elijah sent her off to gather the others; then he turned to Stephan. “I need the two lycans you trust the most for a special assignment: Find Lindsay Gibson. I want her whereabouts and status.”

  Stephan’s eyes widened with surprise at the mention of Adrian’s mate.

  Elijah struggled through the driving urge to find Lindsay himself, a mortal woman he considered a friend, the only one he had left now that Micah was dead. In so many ways, she was a mystery. She’d stumbled into their lives without warning, displaying skills no mere human should possess and garnering the Sentinel leader’s attention in ways Elijah had never witnessed or heard of.

  Unlike the Fallen, who had lost their wings because they’d fraternized with mortals, the Sentinels were angels above reproach. The sins of the flesh and the vagaries of human emotion were far beneath their lofty stations. Elijah had never seen a Sentinel show even a flicker of desire or longing . . . until Adrian took one look at Lindsay Gibson and claimed her with a fierceness that surprised everyone. The Sentinel leader protected her life with more care than he did his own, putting Elijah in charge of her safety despite knowing that he was one of the rare, anomalous Alphas that were swiftly weeded out of the lycan packs.

  It was during the course of his protection of Lindsay that a friendship had developed between them. Their easy camaraderie ran deep enough that they would die for each other. I’d take a bullet for you, she had told him once. Not many people had friends like that and Elijah had none now but her. He may have become the lycan Alpha, but Lindsay’s safety wasn’t a concern he’d ever relinquish. She had gone missing under the Sentinels’ watch, and he wouldn’t rest easy until he knew she was okay.

  “I want her found and safe,” Elijah said, “by whatever means necessary.”

  Stephan nodded. The unchallenged acquiescence gave Elijah the first hope that they just might have a chance in hell of surviving after all.

  * * *

  “Fuckin’ A.” Vash eyed the hazmat suit she held in her hand and felt a shard of icy fear piece her gut.

  Dr. Grace Petersen rubbed at one bleary eye with a fist. “We’re not entirely sure how the disease is transmitted. Better to be safe than sick, trust me. Bad piece of business.”

  Pulling on the suit, Vash forced her mind to clear out the rising panic. She focused on reviving the scholarly skills and mind-set she’d been sent to earth with as a Watcher. It had been a long time since she’d approached anything without the warrior’s mindset she’d cultivated as a vampress, but this was a battle she couldn’t fight with her fangs or fists.

  “You’ve got balls of steel, Gracie,” she said, through the receiver in her headpiece.

  “So says the woman who takes on opponents the size of a double-decker bus.”

  Suited up, they entered the sealed antechamber of the quarantine room, then stepped through to the inner room once given the green light to do so. Inside, a man lay on an exam table as if sleeping, his features peaceful in repose. Only the intravenous lines in his arms and the rapid lift and fall of his chest betrayed his illness.

  “What are you giving him?” Vash asked. “Is that blood?”

  “We’re transfusing him, yes. We’re also keeping him in a medical coma.” Grace looked up at Vash through her face shield, her features weary and austere. “His name is King. When he was mortal, he went by the name of William King. He was my primary assistant until this morning, when he was bitten by one of the infected vamps we caught yesterday.”

  “It takes hold that quickly?”

  “Depends. According to preliminary reports from the field, some vamps are immune. Others take weeks to show symptoms. Still more are like King and succumb within a matter of hours.”

  “And what are the symptoms, exactly?”

  “Mindless hunger, unreasoned aggression, and an unnaturally high tolerance for pain. We’re calling them Wraiths.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re shadows of their former selves. Lights on, no one home. Their minds and personalities are shot, but their bodies are still cruising right along with the party. The ones I’ve managed to keep alive more than a handful of days lose pigment and melanin in their hair and skin. Even their irises turn gray. And check this.”

  Grace brushed the bangs back from King’s forehead with a gentle, slightly trembling hand. “Sorry, buddy,” she whispered, before reaching for a corded handheld device that looked like a retail checkout scanner. Holding his wrist, she aimed at his forearm and activated a pale bluish glow. Ultraviolet light.

  Vash bent closer, examining the targeted skin. It rippled minutely, as if the muscle beneath it was having a spasm, but that was the only sign of irritation. “Holy shit. UV tolerance?”

  “Not quite.” Turning off the device, Grace set it aside. “There’s no real immunity at work—the flesh is still burning; it’s just healing at an accelerated rate. The damaged skin cells are regenerating as quickly as they’re being destroyed. Ergo, no visible or lasting damage. I ran some tests on two of the other subjects we had in here. Same deal.”

  Their gazes met.

  “Don’t get excited,” Grace muttered. “That cellular renewal is what’s causing all the other symptoms. The insatiable hunger comes from the need to fuel the massive energy expenditure required for regeneration. The aggression comes from the hunger, which has to feel like starving to death—all the damn time. And the high pain tolerance comes from the fact that they can’t focus on anything else but the need to feed. They can’t seem to think, period. Have you seen a wraith in action?”

  Vash shook her head.

  “They’re like frenzied zombies. Higher brain function is subverted by pure instinct.”

  “So you’re transfusing him because he’ll die without a continuous intake of blood?”

  “I learned that the hard way. I sedated two of the captures so I could study them—you can’t get near them when they’re fully functional—and they liquefied. Their metabolisms are so accelerated that their bodies pretty much digested themselves. Pile o’ mush. Not pretty.”

  “Is it possible that Adrian cooked this up in a lab somewhere?” The Sentinel leader had been tasked with leading the elite unit of seraphim enforcers that had severed the wings from the Fallen. Using lycans as herding dogs, Adrian prevented the vampires from expanding into more widely populated areas. The result was both territorial and financial suppression.

  “Anything is possible, but I wouldn’t have made that leap.” Grace gestured at King. “I can’t see Adrian doing this. Not his style.”

  Truth be told, Vash couldn’t either. Adrian was a warrior to the core. If he wanted a fight, he’d do it face-to-face and hand-to-hand. But he had a lot to gain if the vampire nation withered away to nothing: his mission would be over and he could leave the earth—and its pain, mi
sery, and filth—behind. Assuming he’d even want to leave now that he had Lindsay, a mate who couldn’t go with him.

  Softening her voice, Vash conveyed her sympathy. “I’m so sorry about your friend, Gracie.”

  “Help me find a cure, Vash. Help me save him and the others.”

  That’s why she’d come, the reason Syre had sent her. Reports of the illness were cropping up all over the country, the spread so swift it was quickly becoming an epidemic. “What do you need?”

  “More subjects, more blood, more equipment, more staff.”

  “Done. Of course. Just get me a list.”

  “That’s the easy part.” Crossing her arms, Grace shot another glance at King. “I need to know where the Wraith virus first appeared. Which part of the country, which state, which town, which house, which room in the house. Down to the minutia. Male or female. Young or old. Race and build. I need you to find the very first person who got sick. Then I need you to find number two. How did they know number one? Did they live in the same house? Share the same bed? Or was the connection more tenuous? Were they blood relations? Then find number three and four and five. We’re talking six degrees of separation gone wild. I need enough data to establish a pattern and point of origin.”

  Suddenly feeling suffocated by the hazmat suit, Vash strode toward the door. Grace met her there and typed in the code that released the seal to the antechamber.

  “You’re talking about a hell of a lot of manpower,” Vash muttered, following Grace’s example and standing on a painted circle on the floor. Something sprayed from the exposed piping over her head, surrounding her suit in a fine mist.

  “I know.”

  There were tens of thousands of minions, but their inability to tolerate sunlight seriously hindered their usefulness. The original Fallen had no such restriction, but there were less than two hundred of them. Far too few to provide the blood to minions that would grant them temporary immunity. Certainly not enough to manage the pavement-pounding necessary to carry out the requested task in a timely manner.