Archangel's Blade (4 page)

Scanning his eyes over her again, he noted the jagged pulse in her neck, but it was the skin covering the spot that held his attention. “Whoever you allowed to feed from you,” he said in a smooth murmur he was well aware held a caressing stroke of menace, “wasn't very tidy.” Her scars denoted a vampire who'd torn and ravaged.

Her hand clenched on the handle of the laptop bag she'd shrugged off her shoulder. “That's none of your business.”

Surprised she'd found the guts to say that to him in spite of the terror that rippled through her, raw and bleeding, he raised an eyebrow. “Yes, it is.” He'd bedded many a beautiful woman, left some sobbing with pleasure, others from a sensual viciousness that had taught them to never again attempt to play him. Honor wasn't beautiful. There was too much fear in her. Dmitri might like a little pain in bed, but in most cases, he preferred his partners enjoy it, too.

This broken hunter, with her terror that turned the air caustic, would quiver and shatter like fractured glass with the first touch of his mouth. And still he wanted to run his fingers over that skin meant to be gilded by the sun, to trace the lush curves of her lips, the long line of her neck, the compulsion strong enough that it was a warning. The last time he'd allowed his cock to overrule his head, he'd almost ended up an archangel's pet assassin.

Turning, he walked around to behind the sleek sprawl of his desk and picked up the garbage bag sitting on the floor. “I assume you have some experience with tattoos?”

Lines on her forehead, confusion momentarily wiping out the far more distasteful dominant emotion he'd perceived thus far. “No. My specialty is in ancient languages and history.”

Clever of the Guild Director. “In that case, tell me everything you can about this ink.” Using gloves this time, he pulled out the head and set it on the bag, the stump sticking to the plastic with a sucking sound.

The hunter stumbled backward, her eyes locked on the gruesome evidence of violence. When she jerked her gaze back to him, he saw a grim fury on that face that had already shown itself to be so expressive, he wondered if she'd ever won a poker game in her life. “You think that's funny?”

“No.” The truth. “Seemed no point in putting him in the freezer when you were on your way.”

It was such an inhuman thing to say that Honor had to take a minute, reset her mental parameters. Because the fact was, regardless of his dark masculine beauty and modern speech, she wasn't facing a human. Not even close. “How old are you?” The media speculations ran from four to six hundred, but at that instant, she knew they were wrong.
Very
wrong.

A faint smile that made the hairs rise on the back of her neck. “Old enough to scare you.”

Yes.
She'd been trapped with vampires who had wanted only to hurt her, bore the scars of their abuse even now, but never had she been in the presence of someone who chilled her blood with his mere presence. Yet though he was known to be a powerful son of a bitch, ruthless as a gleaming edge, Dmitri functioned fine in the human world. Which meant he could mask the lethal truth when he wanted to, but this was who he was beneath the civilized black on black of his suit—a man who looked at a severed head the same way he might a bowling ball.

Keeping that knowledge in mind, she put her laptop bag down on the glass of his desk, since there were no chairs on this side, and forced herself to lean closer to the decapitated head. “He's been in water?” The skin was soaked and pulpy, gone a wrinkled white—an obscene reminder of happy hours spent in the bath.

“Hudson.”

“He needs to be looked at by a proper forensic team,” she muttered, trying to see the full lines of the tattoo. “I need access to lab equipment so I can—”

Gloved hands in her vision, shoving the head back into the garbage bag. “Follow me, little rabbit.”

Heat burned her gut, seared her veins to fill her face, but she grabbed her laptop and did as ordered. His back was solid and strong in front of her, his hair gleaming a rich, evocative black under the lights. When she didn't step up beside him, he shot her an amused look over his shoulder—except the laughter didn't reach those watchful eyes that whispered of ages long gone. “Ah, an old-fashioned woman.”

“What?” It was taking all of her concentration to breathe, her body close to adrenaline overload.

“You obviously believe in walking three steps behind a man.”

It was beyond tempting to reach for a blade. Or maybe her gun.

Smiling, as if he'd read her thoughts, he strode to an elevator different from the one she'd ridden up in and, ripping off one of the gloves, placed his palm on the scanner. The pad glowed green for a second before the doors opened and he waved her in. She refused to enter. Maybe he was so old that she didn't have a hope in hell of ever defeating him should he come after her—but logic had no chance against the primal animal within, the one who knew the monsters could hurt you easier if you couldn't see them coming.

“And here I was being courteous,” he drawled, stepping inside the steel cage and waiting for her to enter before pressing something on the electronic pad to one side.

The elevator dropped at a speed that had her stomach jumping into her mouth, but that didn't scare her. It was the creature in the elevator with her who did that. “Stop it,” she said when he continued to stare at her with those eyes of darkest brown. Yes, she'd been fascinated by him once, but that had been from a distance.

Up close, she was very aware it wasn't safe to be alone with him. He was, she thought, capable of amusing himself by tearing her to shreds with nothing but the exquisite silk of his voice . . . before he really began to hurt her.

“The boyfriend,” he murmured, eyes dipping to her neck again, “obviously didn't take the care with you he should have.”

Hysterical laughter threatened to bubble out of her, but she brazened it out. He had to have tasted her fear, but she'd give him nothing else. “Never left marks of your own, Dmitri?”

He leaned against the wall. “Any marks I leave are very much on purpose.” Sensual tone, provocative words, but there was something hard in his gaze as he continued to stare at the ravaged flesh of her neck.

The scar wasn't that bad—just looked like a vampire had gotten a little carried away while feeding. That had been at the end. At the start, they'd tried to keep her as undamaged as possible so she could continue to provide them with pleasure. Those ones, the “civilized” vamps who had been almost delicate about feeding while she was naked and blindfolded, their hands stroking over her breasts, between her thighs, had been the most horrifying. And they were
still out there
.

A wash of cooler air, the doors opening.

Having never taken her eyes off Dmitri, even as her memories threatened to suck her under, she stepped out beside him. Her attention was caught by the glass walls on either side, beyond which lay offices, computers . . . and state-of-the-art labs. “I've never heard of all this being down here.”

Dmitri pushed through into a lab. “New addition. Don't talk about it or I'll have to pay you a visit one quiet midnight while you're tucked up nice and tight in your bed.”

Every muscle in her body went tight at that almost lazy comment. “I don't make it a habit to gossip.”

“Here.” He deposited the rubbish bag and its contents on a steel table. The horrific nature of his task should have eroded the allure of sex he wore like second skin—if you liked your sex kissed by blood and pain. It didn't. He remained sophisticated and sexy and very much a creature she did not want in her bedroom any time of day or night.

His lips, the lower one just full enough to tempt a woman with fantasies of sin, curved as if he'd read her thoughts. “Do you need help to peel off the skin?”

“No.” Her reaction upstairs had been incited by shock at
his callousness—she didn't have a problem working with the grisly find on her own. “I'll take the best photographs I can, given the condition of the victim, and I'll mostly work off them. But I want to use the microscope on the tattoo itself, too, make sure I don't miss any fine details.”

More at ease now, she slid out the slim digital camera she'd tucked into the side pocket of her laptop bag. “A pathologist should examine the head before we consider removing the skin.” She clicked on the camera. “Have you got someone asking around the tattoo parlors?” If they lucked out, she might have a clean photograph to work from.

“Yes.” Snapping on a glove to replace the one he'd removed, he pulled the head out of the bag and stretched the skin tight over the man's cheekbone as she took a number of highresolution shots from different angles. “That should do for now.” As he put the head down onto a tray and got rid of the trash bag, she set up her laptop and transferred the photos onto the hard drive.

Her body alert to his every small movement, she was aware of Dmitri placing the head in the freezer, stripping off his gloves, and cleaning his hands. So when he appeared beside her chair without warning, the emotion he awakened was so bone-chilling, so vicious, parts of her mind just shut down. And when he lifted her hair off her neck to touch the sensitive skin of her nape, she—

The next thing she knew, she was standing several feet from Dmitri, a tall stool with legs of beaten steel lying on its side between them. A line of blood marked his cheek, but his eyes were focused on the door at her back. “Out!”

Only when the door shut did she realize that someone had attempted to intervene. Sweat dampened her palms, beaded on her spine.
Remember,
she told herself,
remember.
But the time was gone, a black spot drenched in the panic that was a vile taste on her tongue. “I hit you.”

Raising his hand, he rubbed a finger on his cheek, came away with a dark red slick on his fingertip. “Something about me seems to make women want to use knives.”

Oh, God.
She looked down, realized she was gripping a blade in her hand, the tip wet. “I don't suppose you'll accept an apology.” It came out calm, her mind so shocked it was numb.

Sliding his hands into his pockets, Dmitri said, “No, but you can pay for your crimes later. Right now, I need what you can give me on this.”

“I want to consult some of the texts at the Academy library,” she said, forcing her brain into gear, though her hand refused to release the knife she'd apparently pulled from the sheath on her thigh.

“Fine. But remember, little rabbit, not a word to anyone.” He moved close enough that the dark heat of him lapped against her in a quiet threat that made her glad for the blade. “I am not a nice man when I'm angry.”

She held her position, a ragged attempt to erase the humiliation of the panic attack. “I'm fairly certain you're not a nice man at all.”

His answer was a slow smile that whispered of silk sheets, erotic whispers, and sweat-damp skin. The unhidden intent of it had her heart slamming hard against her ribs. “No,” she said, voice raw.

“A challenge.” He wasn't touching her and yet she felt caressed by a thousand ropes of fur, soft and lush and unmistakably sexual. “I accept.”

 

 

Dmitri made the call an hour later, having had to deal with
another matter in the interim. “Sara,” he said when the Guild Director answered her cell.

“Dmitri.” A cool greeting. “What do you need?”

“To know why the hunter you sent me just sliced my face.” The wound had already healed, but it made the perfect opening gambit.

Sara sucked in a breath. “If you've done something to her, I swear to God I will get my crossbow and pin you to the side of the fucking Tower.”

Dmitri liked Sara. “She's being chauffeured home as we speak.” The blood debt was between him and Honor; it would be settled in private. “I gave her a human driver.”

Sara muttered something under her breath. “She's the best person for the task.”

He stared out at the jewel-bright skyline of Manhattan. “Who did that to her neck?” Cold burned through his veins, a vicious response to the scars of a woman he didn't know and who would simply be another bedmate for so long as she amused him. Because while her resistance was intriguing, would make for an interesting diversion, he had no doubts that she would end up in his bed—and she'd crawl into it with pleasure.

Then Sara spoke, and the cold turned frigid. “The same bastards who kept her chained up in a basement for two months.” It was a brutal summary. “She was barely alive when we found her. They'd carried on with their sick games even though three of her ribs were broken and she was bleeding and feverish from wounds that—” Sara bit off her words, her rage a finely honed edge, but Dmitri didn't need anything more.

He remembered the incident. The Guild had requested Tower assistance, been granted it at once. However, involved in the reconstruction of a Manhattan that had been badly damaged by the battle between Uram and Raphael—and, more important, focused on holding Raphael's territory while the archangel spent the majority of his time in the Refuge, waiting for his sleeping consort to wake—Dmitri hadn't taken personal control of the investigation. That was about to change. “Status of her attackers?”

“Ransom and Ashwini killed two of the four they found at the scene. The other two were turned over to the Tower, but they were hired muscle at best, allowed to—” A ragged breath. “The ones behind this were smarter. They left no forensic clues and Honor was always blindfolded. We'll get them.” Icy words. “We always do.”