Angels' Blood gh-1 Page 7

  “Your point?” He grazed his mouth over her own pulse.

  She jerked, wondering how the hell she’d ended up in an archangel’s arms—a man she’d been planning to knife in the heart. “I don’t like how the vampires use their abilities to enslave humans.”

  “But what if the humans want to be enslaved? Do you see anyone complaining?”

  No. All she could see were the lush brushstrokes of sensual play, an erotic mix of male and female, vampire and human. “Did you bring me to a damn orgy?”

  He chuckled again, and this time, the sound was warm, liquid, like melted caramel over her skin. “Sometimes they cross a few lines but this is what it seems. A party where partners may be found.”

  His hands slid up and down her arms, his breath ruffling the curling hairs at her temple. For a fleeting second, she wavered. What would it feel like to lean back, to let Rapha—Oh, Jesus. What was happening to her? “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.” She struggled in his hold.

  He tightened it, his wings coming around to cut off her view of the room, his chest hot and hard at her back. “Are you sure?” His lips whispered over skin so sensitized, she had to fight the urge to shiver. “I have not taken a human lover for eons. But you taste . . . intriguing.”

  8

  Human lover.

  The words unlocked her from the prison of sensory delight the Archangel of New York had spun with cool control. She was a toy to him, nothing more. After he was done, she’d be discarded like all unwanted toys. Used up. Forgotten. “Find someone else to amuse yourself with. I’m not in the market.” She pulled away, and this time, he let her go.

  Wary, she spun around to face him. She expected anger, perhaps fury, at being denied, but Raphael’s face was a mask, watchful, unbreakable. She wondered if he’d been playing with her all along. Why the hell would an archangel take a human lover when he had a harem of stunning vampire beauties to pick from?

  Say what you would about the dietary requirements, vampirism sure did do great things for the skin and body. Any vampire over five decades old was svelte, with flawless skin. Their allure, too, grew with each passing year—though the intrinsic force of it depended on the individual. Elena had met very old vampires who remained more prey than predator, but the truly powerful ones . . .

  Some, like Dmitri, were good at hiding their strength, their incredible charisma, until they wanted to use it. Others had gone too far along the timeline and leaked power almost continuously. But even the weak ones, the ones who’d never be anything close to what Dmitri was now, were stunningly beautiful.

  “I get the lesson,” she said when he remained silent. “I should be more tolerant of other people’s sexual practices.”

  “An interesting way to put it.” He finally lowered his wings, folding them neatly behind his back. “But you’ve only glimpsed the tip of the iceberg.”

  She wondered if the TV anchor had his fingers in the vamp’s panties by now. “I’ve seen enough.” Her face grew hot at the sense that all sorts of erotic things were going on behind her back.

  “A prude, Elena? I thought hunters were free with their affections.”

  “None of your damn business,” she muttered. “We either leave or I accept Dmitri’s offer.”

  “You think that matters to me?”

  “Sure.” She met his eyes, forced herself to hold her ground. “Once that vamp sinks his fangs into me, I won’t be able to walk or work.”

  “I’ve never heard a man’s cock described as a fang before,” he murmured. “I’ll have to share your estimation of his skills with Dmitri.”

  Elena knew her blush was burning up her cheeks but she refused to let him win this verbal skirmish. “Fang, cock, what’s the difference? It’s all sexual to a vampire.”

  “But not to an angel. My cock serves a highly specific purpose.”

  Lust—sharp, dangerous, unbidden—squeezed her chest so tight she could barely breathe. Her blush receded as all the heat in her body shifted. To low, damp places. “I’m sure it does,” she said sweetly, standing firm even as her body betrayed her. “Servicing all those vampire groupies must get tiring.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Your mouth could get you into more trouble than you can handle.” Except he was looking at that same mouth with anything but censure. He was looking at it as if he wanted it wrapped around him.

  “No way in hell,” she croaked out past the thickening in her blood.

  He didn’t pretend not to understand her out-of-the-blue comment. “Then I shall make sure we are very much in heaven when it happens.” Eyes darkly indigo with challenge, he turned to open the door.

  She stalked out—after sneaking a last, guilty look at the festivities. Dmitri was staring straight at her, his lips brushing the milk-and-cream skin of the blonde’s arched neck, his hand lying perilously close to the soft rise of her breasts. As the door closed, she saw his fangs flash bright. Her stomach twisted in a vicious shock of hunger.

  “Would you go to his bed sweetly?” Raphael asked against her ear, his voice an unsheathed blade. “Would you whimper and beg?”

  Elena swallowed. “Hell, no. He’s like double-frosted chocolate mud cake. It looks good, you want to eat the whole thing, but in reality it’s too sickly sweet.” Dmitri’s sensual nature was suffocating, heavy, a blanket that repelled even as it attracted.

  “If he is cake, what am I?” Cruel, sensual lips against her cheek, her jaw.

  “Poison,” she whispered. “Beautiful, seductive poison.”

  Behind her, Raphael went so still she was reminded of the calm before a storm. But when the storm hit, it was delivered in a silky smooth voice that shoved deep inside her, laying her bare. “Yet I think you would rather drown in poison than gorge on cake.” His hands closed over her hips.

  Lust in her throat, brutal and demanding. “But then, we both know about my self-destructive streak.” Stepping away, she put her back to the wall and faced him, willing her body to stop readying itself for a penetration she’d never allow. “I have no desire to be your chew-toy.”

  The lines of his face might’ve been starkly masculine, but at that instant, his lips were pure temptation, soft, bitable, sensual in a way only a man’s mouth could be. “If I were to splay you out on my desk and thrust my fingers into you right now, I think I’d find different.”

  Her thighs clenched as need spasmed through her. The image of those long powerful fingers thrusting in and out of her as she lay helpless was suddenly the only thing she could see. Closing her eyes just made it worse so she flicked them open to stare fixedly at the black shimmer of the opposite wall. “I don’t know what kind of kinky shit goes on in this building, but I don’t want any part of it.”

  He laughed, the sound full of dark, male knowledge. “Perhaps you’ve led a more sheltered life than I’d believed if you think of that as kinky.”

  It was a taunt that dared her to respond. She fought the urge. So what if she wasn’t as openly sexual as some of the other hunters? So what if the testosterone gang had named her the Vestal Virgin after she turned them down one after the other. She wasn’t, in fact, a virgin, but if it would keep her safe from Raphael’s erotic games, she’d play along. “I’d like to stay sheltered, thank you very much. Can we please have this meeting before I fall asleep?”

  “My bed is very comfortable.”

  She could’ve slapped herself for giving him that opening, especially when her brain began to supply her with visions of him in bed, wings stretched out, thighs bare, co—She gritted her teeth. “What did you want to tell me?”

  His eyes gleamed, but all he said was, “Come.” He began to stride back to the elevator.

  Running, she caught up, irritated at the way he expected her to obey. Like she was a puppy. However, for once, she kept her mouth shut. She wanted to get as far away as possible from the vampire floor with its reek of sex, pleasure, and addiction.

  The elevator ride was short, and this time when she exited, it was into a classy setup. C
ool white was the overriding theme, with elegant accents of white gold. But when Raphael ushered her into his office, she found that his desk was a huge black chunk of polished volcanic stone.

  If I were to splay you out on my desk and thrust my fingers into you right now, I think I’d find different.

  She cut off the thought before it could crawl into her mind again, remaining on the far side of the desk as Raphael circled it to stand by the glass, his gaze on the city lights and, beyond them, the dark spill of the Hudson.

  “Uram is in the state of New York.”

  “What?” Startled but pleased by the abrupt shift into work mode, she raised her hands to fix the mess the wind had made of her hair, pulling it back into a tight ponytail. “That makes our job stupid-easy. All I have to do is alert the hunter network to be on the lookout for an angel with dark gray wings.”

  “You’ve done your homework.”

  “His pattern is as distinctive as yours,” she said. “Almost like a gypsy moth’s.”

  “You will not alert anyone.”

  She set her jaw, any lingering hint of desire dying a quick death. “How am I supposed to do my job if you cut me off from the very things I need to do it effectively?”

  “Those things will be useless to you in this hunt.”

  “Oh, come on!” she yelled at his back. “He’s a big fricking angel with one-of-a-kind wings. People will notice him. And could you face me when we’re talking?”

  He turned, his eyes blue flame. Power licked off him in waves she could almost feel. “Uram won’t stand out. Just like I don’t.”

  She frowned. “What are you talking about—Oh, fuck.” He wasn’t there anymore. She knew he had to be there but he was no longer visible to her sight. Swallowing, she walked to his last known position, and reached out.

  To touch warm, male skin.

  A ghostly hand closed over her wrist when she would’ve pulled back. Then one of her fingers was sucked into the mouth she’d stared at earlier, the hot-wet heat a violent provocation to the renewed pulse between her thighs. That was when she realized she couldn’t see that part of her finger. “Stop it!” Wrenching away, she stumbled back against the desk.

  Raphael appeared as a mirage, then solidified. “I was proving a point.” He shifted to stand in front of her, blocking her in.

  “You usually suck on people to prove a point?” Her fingers curled. “What the hell was that?”

  “Glamour,” he answered, tracing the shape of her mouth with his eyes. “It allows us to move hidden among the masses. It’s part of what makes an archangel out of an angel.”

  “How long can you hold it?” She tried not to wonder what he was thinking when he looked at her that way, tried to remember that he’d threatened Sara’s baby and her own life. But it was hard with him so close, so touchable. He looked almost human. Darkly, sexually human.

  “I can hold it as long as it takes,” he whispered and she had no doubt it was a double entendre. “Uram is older than I am. His power is greater. All he’d need to do is—” He cut himself off so abruptly, she knew he’d almost revealed too much. “At full power, he can hold the glamour close to indefinitely. Even weakened, he can still maintain it for most of the day, going to ground during the night hours.”

  “We’re hunting the Invisible Man?” She leaned farther back, until she was almost sitting on the desk.

  His hands were on the gleaming surface on either side of her hips without her knowing how he’d gotten so close. “That’s why we need your sense of smell.”

  “I scent vampires,” she said, frustrated, “not angels. I can’t scent you.”

  He brushed off the detail as if it meant nothing. “We must wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “For the right time.” His wings rose, blocking out the view, draping them in night. “And while we wait, I’ll indulge my need to see if you taste as tart as you sound.”

  The sensual web snapped. Not giving him warning, she used her agility to slide backward and off the other side of the desk, scattering paper as she went. “I told you,” she gasped, heart thudding at the narrow escape, “I don’t want to be your snack, your chew-toy, your fuck-buddy. Find a vampire to sink your fang into.” She strode out of the room and down the hall without waiting for an answer.

  Somewhat to her amazement, no one stopped her. When she reached the ground floor, she found a taxi waiting—for her. She was about to tell the driver to get lost when she realized she had no money. Since she had no desire to walk home in the creeping chill of midnight, she got into the backseat. “Get me the hell out of here.”

  “Of course.” The driver’s voice was smooth. Too smooth.

  She glanced up to meet his gaze in the mirror. “Vamps drive taxis now?”

  He smiled but couldn’t pull off Dmitri’s effortless charm . . . and he definitely couldn’t pull off the dangerous sensuality of the archangel who seemed determined to turn their “relationship”—hah!—sexual.

  It’d be a cold day in Lucifer’s personal kingdom before that happened. Sex was not on the menu. And neither was Elena.

  9

  Raphael watched the taxi pull away, surprised she’d taken it. Elena was proving the most unpredictable of all those under his command. Of course, she’d argue with that description, he thought, amused in the way only a lethally powerful immortal could be.

  The door opened behind him. “Sire?”

  “Dmitri, you are to stay away from the hunter.”

  “If the sire so wishes.” A pause. “I could reduce her to begging. She would no longer disobey your orders.”

  “I don’t want her to beg.” Raphael was surprised to find that to be true. “She’ll be more effective with her spirit intact.”

  “And after?” Dmitri’s voice was full of sensual anticipation. “May I have her after the hunt? She . . . draws me.”

  “No. After the hunt, she’s mine.” Any begging Elena would be doing would fall on his ears alone.

  10

  He was going to kill her.

  Elena sat bolt upright in her beautiful artwork of a bed. The headboard was a one-of-a-kind design of the most delicately formed metal, while the white-on-white sheets and puffy comforters were embroidered with tiny, tiny flowers. To the right of her bed were sliding French doors that led out onto a small private balcony she’d turned into a miniature garden. And beyond that lay the view of Archangel Tower.

  Inside, the walls were papered in a heavy cream design with accents of blue and silver that echoed the deep blue carpet. The curtains on the French doors were gauzy and white, though there was a heavier set of brocade curtains she usually kept tied back. Huge sunflowers bloomed against the white porcelain of the large Chinese vase in the opposite corner of the room, bringing the sunshine inside.

  She’d been given that vase by a grateful Chinese angel after she tracked down one of his wayward charges. The young vampire—having barely completed her Contract—had decided she didn’t need angelic protection anymore. Elena had found her huddling terrified in a sex shop that catered to a very weird set of clientele. The job had taken her into the bowels of the Shanghai underworld, but the vase was a piece of light, unblemished by time. The whole room was a haven, one she’d spent months getting just right.

  But right then, she could’ve been sitting on a dirt floor in a hovel somewhere south of Beijing. Her eyes were open but all she saw was a frozen image of that vampire in Times Square, the one not a single fucking person had dared help. She knew she wouldn’t end up that way, not if Raphael wanted the whole thing swept under the rug, but she was most certainly dead.

  He’d told her about glamour.

  As far as she was aware, no hunter, no human, knew about that particular little piece of archangelic power. It was akin to seeing the face of your kidnapper—no matter what he says after that point, you know you’re done for.

  “No. Fucking. Way.” Clenching her hands on her beautiful Egyptian cotton comforter, she narrowed her eye
s and considered her options.

  Option 1: Attempt to back out.

  Probable result: Death after painful torture.

  Option 2: Do the job and hope.

  Probable result: Death but probably no torture (good).

  Option 3: Get Raphael to give her an oath not to kill her.

  Probable result: Oaths were serious business so she’d live. But he’d still be able to torture her until she went insane.

  “So think of a better oath,” she muttered to herself. “No death, no torture, definitely no turning me into a vampire.” She bit her lower lip and wondered if the oath could be extended to her friends and family. Family. Yeah, right. They hated her guts. But she didn’t want them ripped open while she was forced to watch.

  Blood hitting tile.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  A whistling, gurgling plea.

  Looking up to find Mirabelle still alive.

  The monster smiled. “Come here, little hunter. Taste.”

  Drip.

  Drip.

  A wet, tearing sound, thick, obscene, out of a nightmare.

  Elena shoved off the comforter and swung her legs over the side of the bed, face ice-cold. That particular memory had the ability to destroy any and all warmth in her soul. Sitting there with her head in her hands, she stared down at the deep blue of carpet and tried to zone out. It was the only way to escape when the memories found a hole in her defenses and snuck inside, their talons as grasping and as venomous as that of—

  Something smacked to ground on the balcony.

  The gun she kept under her pillow was in her hand and pointed toward the French doors before she even realized she’d moved. Her hand was steady, her body flushed with adrenaline. Scanning the balcony through the gauzy curtains, she saw no one, but only a very stupid hunter would lower her guard that easily. Elena wasn’t stupid. She got up, unmindful of the fact that all she wore was a white tank top and mint green panties cut to mimic tiny shorts, the sides slit halfway up and decorated with pretty pink ribbon.