Angels' Blood (28 page)

She knew she hadn’t imagined that dark whisper in her head. “Get out.”

The man she was following gave her a startled look over his shoulder. She pretended to be engrossed in her nails.

Narrowing her eyes, she gritted her teeth and wondered if it was worth the headache to keep him out of her head.

She halted, stared at the back of the manager’s jacket, able to smell his fear. “Who exactly did you call a few minutes ago?”

When he glanced at her, his eyes were panicked, a rabbit’s. “No one, Ms. Deveraux.”

She gave him a cold smile that made it clear he’d pissed her off well and good. “Show me the box.”

Clearly surprised by the reprieve, he did as ordered. She waited until he’d placed the long, metal box on a viewing table before waving him off. He was nothing, an ant in Raphael’s army. Alone, she stared at the opposite wall. “Raphael?”

Nothing.

Lips pressed tightly together, she unlocked the box and took off the lid, expecting . . . she didn’t know what she was expecting, but it wasn’t what she found. Jewelry boxes, letters bound with ribbon, photos, a receipt for a small storage locker. On top of it all was a black leather notebook, the edges embossed gold. She reached out her finger, touched, then drew back and slammed the box closed. She couldn’t do this. Not today. Calling the bank manager back after she’d relocked it, she had him return the box to its place in the vault. “How long has this been here?”

He glanced at the file in his hand. “It looks like it was opened almost fifteen years ago.”

She grabbed the file before he could stop her, staring at the signature on the bottom of the first page.

Fifteen years ago. The summer he’d wiped her mother and older sisters from the face of the earth. Except this box told another story. Damn him! Shoving the papers back at the manager, she strode out through the moneyed opulence of the bank and toward heavy glass doors a security guard reached out to open. “Thanks.”

His smile turned into shock an instant later. Elena followed the direction of his gaze to find an amazingly beautiful man with blue wings leaning nonchalantly against a lamppost directly outside. The stream of traffic had disappeared from this side of the street, but the other side was so full, it was as if the entire population of New York had decided to walk by.

She stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Illium.”

“At your service.” He waved his hand at the low-slung Ferrari behind him. It was fire-engine red. Of course.

She raised an eyebrow. “How do you fit the wings inside?”

“Alas, I can only watch.” He threw her the keys.

Catching them reflexively, she scowled. “Whose million-dollar car is that and what did he do to you?”

“Dmitri’s. And just because.”

It almost made her laugh and that, she couldn’t have predicted. “The map?”

His eyes—a vivid, shimmering gold, startling against black hair dipped in blue—shifted to the car. “In the glove box.”

Not that she wouldn’t enjoy needling Dmitri by taking his prized possession out for a run, but . . . “I need a vehicle that won’t stand out.”

“There’s an underground garage two blocks east. Pull into it and switch.” He stepped away from the post, flared out his wings.

“Showing off?”

“
Oui, oui.
” A smile full of pure male charm.

“Is the hair real?”

A nod. “So are the eyes. In case you were wondering.” Another teasing smile.

She saw a single feather drift to the curb. “You’ll cause a riot if you don’t pick that up.”

He followed her gaze. “I’ll take it and drop it from the sky. Someone will find magic.”

Snorting, but oddly touched by the idea, she unlocked the car and got in. Across the street, camera phones continued to snap at insane speed. She rolled her eyes. “Fly off before they mug you.”

“I may look pretty, Elena, but I’m rather dangerous.” The finest hint of a British accent whispered through.

“That,” she said, “I never doubted.” Starting the engine, she pulled out and away, aware of him taking off behind her. He might be dangerous but he was no archangel. And what the hell had Raphael been thinking, sending her such a—

He’d known, she realized.

He’d known why Jeffrey had summoned her, why he’d finally deigned to speak to a daughter he considered worse than the lowest street trash.

Not only had he known, he’d accurately predicted her reaction.

And he’d provided her with the most perfect revenge possible. She started to grin. Jeffrey Deveraux’s unwanted daughter was considered important enough for an angelic escort so flamboyant, she’d be surprised if there was anyone in the state who hadn’t already heard about it.

Her phone rang on cue.

She was at a stoplight, so she answered. “Sara, you have big ears.”

“And you’re keeping company with what I hear is an angel straight out of wet-dream territory.”

“They’re all good-looking.” But that wasn’t enough. Not for her.

“But most don’t have wings of blue touched with silver.”

“TV?”

“Camera-phone images. Don’t usually see angels walking the streets.” A whispered sigh. “I’ve had reports of this one being in the city, but no close-up pictures till now. He’s some kind of pretty. I could just take a bite out of that firm—”

Elena started laughing. “Down, girl, you’re married, remember?”

“Mmm, talk about taking a bite out of something. Deacon—”

“Too-much-info alert!” The light changed. “I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

She was about to turn into the garage when a blue feather fluttered into her lap. Her lips twitched but it was too late to glance up by then. Nosing the car into the darkness of the garage, she brought it to a halt near the still figure of the vampire who’d driven her to Raphael’s. He was wearing sunglasses in spite of the underground gloom. She supposed if she had eyes like his, she would, too.

Getting out, she undid her ponytail and quickly braided Illium’s feather into her hair just above her ear. “If Bluebell isn’t careful,” the vamp murmured, “he’ll lose his feathers all over again.”

Ponytail redone, she retrieved the map and nodded at the old-model sedan behind him. “Keys?” She threw him the ones for the Ferrari.

“In the ignition.” Sliding the keys into a pocket, he straightened from his leaning position against the passenger-side door. “Raphael wants you to check in every ten minutes.”

“Tell the boss I’ll call him when I have something to report, Snakey.”

He pushed the sunglasses to the top of his head, giving her the full impact of those eerie eyes. “I prefer Venom.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not serious.”

“It’s better than a pansy-assed name like Illium. What the hell does that mean anyway?” A sharp smile that flashed fang.

Deliberate, very deliberate, she thought. Despite his flawlessly modern speech, Venom was far too old to make mistakes. “Are you?”

“What?”

“Venomous?”

Another savage smile. He touched the tip of one fang with his tongue and when he drew it away, she saw a pearl of golden liquid. “Try me and see.”

“Maybe later, after I’ve survived Michaela.”

He laughed, a rich masculine sound that caused a woman stepping off the elevator at the other end of the garage to drop her purse and stare openmouthed. Venom didn’t seem to notice, his eyes fixed on Elena. Reaching up, he slid the sunglasses back over his eyes. “No one survives the High Priestess of Byzantium.”

Goose bumps crawled over her flesh at the ancience implied by that title. Not responding, she opened the door to the sedan and got in—after cranking down all four windows. As she drove away, she saw Venom head for the woman by the elevator.

She’d been driving for ten minutes when she realized
she’d forgotten to call Sara back. Spotting an unoccupied loading zone, she pulled off and dialed.

Her friend picked up on the first ring. “Rumor mill’s going crazy. They’re saying the blue angel flew away with you in his arms.”

“Angels don’t sully themselves carrying mortals.” Except when they wanted said mortal somewhere pronto. “Anything else I should know about?”

“Missing girls—fifteen in the past week.” Her voice was pure Guild Director. “Get the bastard, Ellie.”

“I will.”
Fifteen?
Where the hell were the other seven bodies? “Any timelines?”

“You don’t have this already?”

“No.” So either the angels didn’t know everything, or they were keeping her in the dark. Her hand tightened on the phone. “Give it to me.”

“Not much to give. One bunch disappeared two days ago—looks like the same night. And the second lot was last night, maybe very early morning.”

“Thanks, Sara. Kiss Zoe for me.”

“You okay?” Concern in every word. “I swear, Ellie. You give the word and we’ll find a way to pull you out.”

She knew they would. The Guild had survived centuries because it was built on a backbone of absolute loyalty. “I’m fine. I have to get this guy.”

“Fine. But if it gets too hairy, remember we’ve got your back.”

“I know.” Her throat grew thick. Sara knew. Because her next comment was designed to make Elena grin.

“You know how spooky Ashwini is. She called an hour ago to tell me she has a secret stash of handheld grenade launchers she thought I might want to know about. My response was, ‘What the fuck?’ ”

“As usual with Ash,” Elena said, laughing.

“But you know,” Sara continued, “the damn things would come in handy against you-know-whats. Just one word, Ellie. That’s all we need.”

“Thanks, Sara.” She hung up before she could give in to the urge to say too much. Then, taking a deep breath, she restarted the engine and continued on toward Archangel Tower. Unsurprisingly, Michaela had spent most of her time either at her estate or around the Tower, with the occasional stop at a high-end department store. Elena was waiting to turn off the main avenue, intending to circle around, when it whispered past.

The bite of acid laced with blood.

Screeching to a halt, she got out, ignoring the swearing cabbie behind her, and did a very careful three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn.
There.
Jumping back into the car, she double-parked and stepped out. Now that she had the scent, she’d be far more effective on foot.

Rich, dark, chocolate. Sinful. Seductive.

She halted, sniffed. “Dmitri.” The vampire had either passed this way or was in the vicinity. With most vampires, it wouldn’t have mattered—she could separate out the scents. But Dmitri’s presence was too strong, and when added to the fact that Uram’s trail was older . . . “Shit.” Pulling out her phone, she called Raphael.

“Elena.”

Her blood fired from the inside out at the sound of that voice—sex and ice, pain and pleasure. “Dmitri’s scent is messing up my trace.”

“You’ve found signs of Uram?”

“Yes. Can you get Dmitri out of here?”

A pause. “He’s already leaving.”

“Thanks.” She ended the call. Much longer and that voice of his would creep into her soul and take up residence. Instead, she cleared her head, centered herself, and began scanning again.

Dmitri’s scent was fading at a phenomenal rate. Unless he could run very fast, he’d had access to a vehicle. She didn’t particularly care. All that mattered was that she’d lost—No, there it was. She turned left, moving at a light jog.

She was five blocks over when something made her glance up. The previously bright sky was turning a dull gray, heavy with clouds. But she caught a flash of blue, one that disappeared in the next instant. Illium. Bodyguard duty? Shrugging it off, she came to a standstill in the midst of an area that seemed mostly residential, though she could see a grocer’s tucked discreetly between two apartment buildings.

Foot traffic was lighter than in the crush of shops she’d left behind, but steady. She attracted a few nervous stares and it was then that she realized she had one of her long, thin throwing knives in hand.

“Ma’am.” A shaky voice.

She didn’t turn. “Officer, I’m on a hunt. My Guild card is in the left back pocket.” Hunters had carry permits for all sorts of weapons. And she never went anywhere without them.

“Ah—”

She showed him her empty left hand. “I’m going to reach for it. Okay?” Acid on the wind. Thick, dark blood. Damn, damn! She needed to be chasing that, not pandering to some baby cop who didn’t know enough about hunters to be out on the streets. What the hell were they teaching them in the Police Academy these days?

A cry from the woman in front of her and then a flash of blue swept down the street. Elena glanced at the cop, saw him staring up dumbfounded, and ran. She knew he wouldn’t come after her. He’d had that look on his face.
Angelstruck.
Approximately five percent of the population was born susceptible to the phenomenon. She’d heard they’d discovered medication to combat the effect, but that most people didn’t want to be “cured.”

“When I see an angel, I see perfection,” one man had said in a recent documentary. “For the fragment of time I spend caught up in their magic, real life ceases to exist and heaven is in my grasp. Why would I give that up?”

For a small, painful instant, Elena had envied the angelstruck. She’d lost her innocence, her belief in a heavenly caretaker, eighteen long years ago. Then the camera had cut to an image of the speaker as he was angelstruck and she’d come close to throwing up. Pure adoration, worshipful and blind. A devotion that turned angels into gods.

No, thanks.

Ten minutes later, the scent was an ache in her throat, a layer of fur on her tongue. She looked around and found herself in one of the moneyed areas of the city, somewhere east of Central Park. Very, very moneyed, she realized, looking at the elegant size of the buildings. No huge apartment complexes here. A moment’s pause and she had it—the locus. Leaving it to Raphael to smooth things over if anyone spotted her, she climbed over the locked wrought-iron gate to land in front of a freestanding town house. Seeing a very narrow pathway to the right-hand side, she walked down and around to the back.