The doorvamp's insidiously seductive scent-an unusual trait thought to be an evolutionary adaptation against the hunters' tracking abilities-swirled around her in a sinister caress as she thanked him and walked through.
The air-conditioned lobby was a seemingly endless space dominated by deep gray marble shot through with discreet veins of gold. As an example of wealth, good taste, and subtle intimidation, it took first prize. She was suddenly very glad she'd traded in her usual jeans and T-shirt combo for a pair of tailored black pants and a crisp white shirt. She'd even tamed her slithery hair into a French twist and stuffed her feet into high heels.
Those heels hit the marble with sharp businesslike sounds as she crossed the lobby. As she walked, she noted everything around her, from the number of vampire guards, to the exquisite-though slightly odd-flower arrangements, to the fact that the receptionist was a very, very, very old vampire . . . with the face and body of a well-maintained thirty-year-old.
"Ms. Deveraux, I'm Suhani." The receptionist rose with a smile and walked out from behind her curving desk. It, too, was stone, but of a jet so well polished, it reflected everything with mirror perfection. "I'm so pleased to meet you."
Elena shook the woman's hand, sensing the flow of fresh blood, the beat of a racing heart. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Suhani who it was that she'd breakfasted on-the blood was unusually potent-but she caught the impulse before it could get her into trouble. "Thank you."
Suhani smiled and, to Elena's eyes, it was a smile filled with old knowledge, with centuries of experience. "You must've made good time." She glanced at her watch. "It's only seven forty-five."
"The traffic was light." And she hadn't wanted to start this meeting out on the wrong foot. "Am I too early?"
"No. He's waiting for you." The smile faded, to be replaced by a slightly disappointed expression. "I thought you'd be . . . scarier."
"Don't tell me you watch Hunter's Prey?" The disgusted comment was out before she could stop it.
Suhani gave her a disconcertingly human grin. "Guilty, I'm afraid. The show is just so entertaining. And S. R. Stoker-the producer-is a former vampire hunter."
Yeah, and she was the Tooth Fairy. "Let me guess, you expected me to carry a big sword and have eyes that glow red?" Elena shook her head. "You're a vampire. You know none of that is true."
Suhani's expression slipped to reveal a cooler darkness. "You sound very certain of my vampirism. Most people never guess."
Elena decided now was not the time for a lesson in hunter biology. "I've had a lot of experience." She shrugged, as if it didn't matter. "Shall we go on up?"
Suhani was suddenly, and, it seemed, honestly, flustered. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I've kept you waiting. Please follow me."
"Don't worry. It was only a minute." And she was grateful for the chance it had given her to settle her thoughts. If this elegant but sensitive vampire could deal with Raphael, then so could she. "What's he like?"
Suhani's stride faltered for a second before she caught herself. "He is . . . an archangel." The awe in her voice was mixed with equal parts fear.
Elena's confidence took a nosedive. "Do you see him often?"
"No, why should I?" The receptionist gave her a puzzled smile. "He has no need to pass through the lobby. He can fly."
Elena could've slapped herself. "Right." She came to a standstill in front of the elevator doors. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." Suhani began to key in a security code on the touch screen mounted on a small plinth beside the elevator. "This car will take you straight up to the roof."
Elena paused. "The roof?"
"He'll meet you there."
Startled, but knowing a delay would gain her nothing, Elena entered the large, mirror-paneled car and turned to face Suhani. As the doors shut, she was uncomfortably reminded of the vampire she'd locked into a crate less than twelve hours ago. Now she knew what it felt like to be on the other side. If she hadn't been so certain she was under surveillance, she might have given in to the urge to drop her professional facade and start pacing like a crazy woman.
Or a rat stuck in a maze.
The elevator began to rise in a smooth movement that shrieked money. The glowing numerals on the LCD panel ticked over in a stomach-curdling sequence. She decided to stop counting after the car passed floor number seventy-five. Instead, she made use of the mirrors to ostensibly smooth down the twisted strap of her purse . . . while actually ensuring her weapons remained well hidden.
No one had ordered her to come in unarmed.
The elevator whispered to a smooth stop. The doors opened. Not giving herself a chance to hesitate, she headed out and into a small glass enclosure. It was immediately obvious that the glass cage was nothing more than the shell that housed the elevator. The roof lay beyond . . . and it had not even a token railing to stop an accidental plunge.
The archangel clearly didn't believe in putting his guests at ease.
But Elena wouldn't call him a bad host-a table set with croissants, coffee, and orange juice sat in solitary splendor in the middle of the wide open space. Another look and she saw that the roof wasn't bare concrete. It had been paved with dark gray tiles that glimmered silver under the sun's rays. The tiles were beautiful and unquestionably expensive. An extravagant waste, she thought, then realized that to a being with wings, a roof was assuredly not a useless space.
Raphael was nowhere to be seen.
Putting her hand on the doorknob, she pulled open the glass door and walked out. To her relief, the tiles proved to have a rough surface-the wind was soft right now but she knew that this high, it could turn cutting without warning, and heels weren't exactly stable at the best of times. She wondered if the tablecloth was bolted to the table. Otherwise, it would probably fly off and take the food with it sooner rather than later.
Then again, that might be a good thing. Nerves didn't make for easy digestion.
Leaving her purse on the table, she walked carefully to the nearest edge . . . and looked down. Exhilaration raced through her at the incredible view of angels flying in and out of the Tower. They seemed almost close enough to touch, the temptation of their powerful wings a siren song.
"Careful." The word was soft, the tone amused.
She didn't jump, having felt the push of wind engendered by his near-silent landing. "Would they catch me if I fell?" she asked, without looking his way.
"If they were in the mood for it." He came to stand beside her, his wings filling her peripheral vision. "You don't suffer from vertigo."
"Never have," she admitted, so terrified of the sheer power of him that she sounded absolutely normal. It was either that or start screaming. "I've never been up this high before."
"What do you think?"
She took a deep breath and a step backward before turning to face him. The impact hit her like a physical blow. He was . . . "Beautiful." Eyes of such pure undiluted blue it was as if some heavenly artist had crushed sapphires into his paints and then colored in the irises with the finest of brushes.
She was still reeling from the visual shock when a sudden wind swept across the rooftop, lifting up strands of his black hair. But black was too tame a word for it. It was so pure it held echoes of the night, vivid and passionate. Cut in careless layers that stopped at the nape of his neck, it bared the sharp angles of his face and made her fingers curl with the urge to stroke.
Yes, he was beautiful, but it was the beauty of a warrior or a conqueror. This man had power stamped on every inch of his skin, every piece of his flesh. And that was before she took in the exquisite perfection of his wings. The feathers were a soft white and appeared dusted with gold. But when she concentrated, she saw the truth-each individual filament of each individual feather bore a golden tip.
"Yes, it's beautiful up here," he said, breaking into her fascination.
She blinked, then felt her face color, having no idea of how much time had passed. "Yes."
His smile bore a hint of mockery, of male satisfaction . . . and of pure, lethal focus. "Let us have breakfast and talk."
Furious at having allowed herself to be blindsided by his physical beauty, she bit the inside of her cheek in reprimand. She wasn't going to fall into the same trap again. Raphael clearly knew how striking he was, and he knew the effect it had on unsuspecting mortals. Which made him an arrogant SOB she should have no trouble resisting.
Pulling out a chair, he waited. She halted a foot away, very conscious of his height and strength. She wasn't used to feeling small. Or weak. That he could cause her to experience either sensation-and without any apparent effort-made her angry enough to chance reprisal. "I'm not comfortable with anyone standing behind me."
A spark of surprise in those blue, blue eyes. "Shouldn't it be me who fears a knife in the back? You're the one carrying concealed weapons."
The fact that he'd guessed at her weapons meant nothing. A hunter was always armed. "The difference is, I'll die. You won't."
With a small, amused wave of his hand, he walked to the other side of the table, his wings brushing over the squeaky clean tiles to leave behind a shimmering trail of white gold. She was certain he'd done it on purpose. Angels didn't always shed angel dust. When they did, it was immediately collected up by mortals and vampires alike. The price for a speck of the bright stuff was more than that for a flawlessly cut diamond.
But if Raphael thought she was going to get down on her knees and scrabble, he had another think coming.
"You don't fear me," he said now.
She wasn't stupid enough to lie. "I'm petrified. But I figure you didn't make me come all this way just so you could push me off the roof."
His mouth curved, as if she'd said something funny. "Take a seat, Elena." Her name sounded different on his lips. A binding. As if by speaking it, he'd gained power over her. "Like you said, I have no plans to kill you. Not today."
She sat with the elevator cubicle at her back, aware of him waiting with old-world chivalry until she'd done so. His wings draped gracefully over the specially designed chair back as he followed suit. "How old are you?" she found herself asking before she could nip her curiosity in the bud.
He raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Do you have no sense of self-preservation?" It was a casual comment but she heard the steel beneath the surface.
Chill fingers trailed over her spine. "Some would say not-I am a vampire hunter."
Something dark and exquisitely dangerous moved in the crystalline depths of those eyes no human would ever have. "A born hunter, not a trained one."
"Yes."
"How many vampires have you captured or killed?"
"You know the number. It's why I'm sitting here."
Another gust of wind whipped across the roof, this one strong enough to rattle the cups and pull strands of hair from her twist. She didn't try to pin them back, keeping her full attention on the archangel instead. He was watching her in turn, much as a large beast of prey might watch the rabbit it was eyeing for dinner.
"Tell me about your abilities." It was nothing less than an order, his tone a blade that whispered warning. The archangel no longer found her entertaining.
Elena refused to look away, even as she dug her fingernails into her thighs to anchor herself. "I can scent vampires, differentiate one from the pack. That's it." A useless skill-unless one was a vampire hunter. It sort of made the term "career choice" an oxymoron.
"How old does the vampire have to be for you to sense his or her presence?"
It was an odd question and one she had to pause to consider. "Well, the youngest I've tracked was two months old. And he was the outer limits. Most vamps wait at least a year before trying anything funny."
"So you've never had any contact with a younger vampire?"
Elena had no idea where he was going with this line of questioning. "Contact, sure. But not as a hunter. You're an angel-you have to know they don't exactly function well the first month or so after being Made." It was that stage in their development that continued to fuel the myth about vampires being lifeless zombies given will.
They truly were creepy in the first few weeks. Eyes wide open but with nobody home, flesh pallid and wasted, movements uncoordinated. It was why the hate groups preferred to target new vamps. Most people found it far easier to mutilate and torture someone who looked like a walking corpse than someone who could be their best friend. Or brother-in-law, in Elena's case. "That young, they can't feed themselves, much less run away."
"Nevertheless, we will do a test." The archangel picked up the glass of juice beside his plate and took a drink. "Eat."
"I'm not hungry."
He put down the glass. "It's a blood insult to refuse an archangel's table."
Elena had never before heard the term, but if it involved blood, it couldn't be anything good. "I ate before coming here." A flat-out lie. She hadn't been able to keep down much more than water, and that with effort.
"Then drink." It was an instruction so absolute, she knew he expected instant obedience.
Something snapped inside her. "Or else?"
The wind stopped. Even the clouds seemed to freeze.
Death whispered in her ear.
Elena's instincts were screaming at her to grab the knife in her boot, do some damage, and get the hell out, but she forced herself to stay in place. The truth was, she wouldn't make it more than two feet before Raphael broke every single bone in her body.
It was exactly what he'd done to a vampire who'd thought to betray him.
That vampire had been found in the center of Times Square. He'd still been alive. And he'd still been trying to scream-"No! Raphael, no!" But his voice had been a rasp by then, his jaw hanging on by stringlike tendons, his flesh missing in places.
Elena-out of the country on a hunt-had seen the news footage after the event. She knew the vamp had lain there in agony for three hours before being picked up by a pair of angels. Everyone in New York, hell, everyone in the country, had known he was there, but no one had dared help him, not with Raphael's mark blazing on his forehead. The archangel had wanted the punishment witnessed, wanted to remind people of who and what he was. It had worked. Now the mere mention of his name evoked visceral fear.
But Elena wouldn't crawl, not for anyone. It was a choice she'd made the night her father had told her to get on her knees and beg, and maybe, maybe, he'd accept her back into the family.
Elena hadn't spoken to her father in a decade.
"You should have a care," Raphael said into the unnatural silence.
She didn't collapse in relief-the air continued to hang heavy with the promise of menace. "I don't like to play games."
"Learn." He settled back in his chair. "You will live a very short life if you expect only honesty."
Sensing the danger had passed-for now-she unclenched her fingers with an effort of will. The force of the blood rushing back into them was painful in its extremity. "I didn't say I expected honesty. People lie. Vampires lie. Even-" She caught herself.
"Surely you're not going to practice discretion now?" The amusement was back but it was tempered with an edge that stroked like a razor across her skin.
She looked into that perfect face and knew she'd never met a more deadly being in her life. If she displeased him, Raphael would kill her as easily as she might swat a fly. She'd be smart to remember that, no matter how the knowledge infuriated her. "You said I had to do a test?"
His wings moved slightly at that instant, drawing her attention. They truly were beautiful and she couldn't help but covet them. To be able to fly . . . what an amazing gift.
Raphael's eyes shifted to look at something over her left shoulder. "Less a test than an experiment."
She didn't twist around, had no need to. "There's a vampire behind me."
"Are you sure?" His expression remained unchanged.
She fought the urge to turn. "Yes."
He nodded. "Look."
Wondering which was worse-having her back to an enigmatic and highly unpredictable archangel, or to an unknown vampire-she hesitated. In the end, her curiosity won out. There was a distinctly satisfied expression on Raphael's face and she wanted to know what had put it there.
Shifting, she turned sideways with her whole body, the position allowing her to keep Raphael in her peripheral vision. Then she looked at the two . . . creatures who stood behind her. "Jesus."
"You may go." Raphael's voice was a command that awakened abject terror in the eyes of the one who looked vaguely human. The other scuttled away like the animal it was.
She watched them leave through the glass door and swallowed. "How old was . . ." She couldn't call that thing a vampire. Neither had it been human.
"Erik was Made yesterday."
"I didn't know they could walk at that age." It was an attempt to sound professional though she was creeped out to her toes.
"He had a little help." Raphael's tone made it clear that that was all the answer she was going to get. "Bernal is . . . a fraction older."
She reached for the juice she'd rejected earlier and took a drink, trying to wash away the stink that had seeped into her pores. The older vamps didn't have that ick factor. They-except for the unusual ones like the doorvamp-simply smelled of vampire, like she smelled human. But the very young ones, they had a certain rotten-cabbage/putrid-flesh smell that she always had to scrub three times over to get rid of. It was why she'd begun collecting the body washes and perfumes. After her initial contact with one of the newly Made, she'd thought she'd never get the smell out of her head.
"I didn't think a hunter would be so disturbed at the sight of the just-Made." Raphael's face appeared oddly shadowed, until she realized he'd raised his wings slightly.
Wondering if that implied focus or anger, she put down the glass. "I'm not, not really." True enough now that that first, instinctive flash of disgust had passed. "It's the smell-like a coating of fur on your tongue. No matter how hard you scrape, you can't get it off."
Open interest showed on his face. "The feeling is that intense?"
She shivered and looked around the table for something else to take the edge off. When he pushed a cut grapefruit in her direction, she dug into it with relish. "Uh-huh." The citrus fruit's acidic juices dampened the reek a little. At least enough that she could think.
"If I asked you to track Erik, could you?"
She shivered at the memory of those almost-dead/ not-quite-alive eyes. No wonder people believed those stories about vampires being the walking dead. "No. I think he's too young."
"What about Bernal?"
"He's on the bottom floor of the building right now." The barely Made vampire's odor was so noxious, it permeated the building. "In the lobby."
Golden-tipped wings spread to shadow the table as Raphael put his hands together in a slow clap. "Well done, Elena. Well done."
She looked up from the grapefruit, belatedly aware she'd just proven how good she was when she should've flubbed it and gotten out of this, whatever "this" was. Shit. But at least he'd given her some idea of the job. "Do you want me to track a rogue?"
He rose from his chair in a sudden, liquid movement. "Wait a moment."
She watched, transfixed, as he walked to the edge of the roof. He was a being of such incredible splendor that simply seeing him move made her heart squeeze. It didn't matter that she knew it was a mirage, that he was as deadly as the filleting knife she carried strapped to her thigh. No one, not even she, could deny that Raphael the Archangel was a man made to be admired. To be worshipped.
That utterly wrong thought snapped her out of her dazed state. Pushing back her chair, she stared hard at his back. Had he been messing with her head? Right then, he turned and she met the agonizing blue of his eyes. For a second, she thought he was answering her question. Then he looked away . . . and walked off the roof.
She jumped up. Only to sit back down, blush reddening her cheeks, when he winged upward to meet an angel she hadn't seen until that moment. Michaela. The female equivalent of Raphael, her beauty so intense that Elena could feel the force of it even from this distance. She had the startling realization that she was looking on at a midair meeting between two archangels.
"Sara's never going to believe this." She forgot the stench of young vampire for the moment, her attention hijacked. She'd seen photos of Michaela, but they came nowhere close to the reality of her.
The other archangel had skin the color of the most exquisite, fine milk chocolate and a shining fall of hair that cascaded to her waist in a wild mass. Her body was quintessentially female, slender and curvy at the same time, her wings a delicate bronze that shimmered against the richness of her skin. Her face . . . "Wow." Even from this distance, Michaela's face was perfection given form. Elena fancied she could see her eyes-a bright, impossible green-but knew she had to be imagining it. They were too far away.
It made little difference. The female archangel had a face that would not only stop traffic, it would cause a few pileups in the process.
Elena frowned. Despite her appreciation for Michaela's looks, she was having no trouble thinking straight. Which meant the damn arrogant blue-eyed bastard had been f*cking with her mind. He wanted her to worship him? They'd see about that.
No one, not even an archangel, was going to turn her into a puppet.
As if he'd heard her, Raphael said something to his fellow archangel and winged back down to the roof. His landing was a lot more showy this time. She was sure he paused to display the pattern on the inside surface of his wings. It was as if a brush dipped in gold had started at the top edge of each wing and then stroked downward, fading to white as it neared the bottom. In spite of her fury, she had to face the truth: If the devil-or an archangel-came to her and offered her wings, she might just sell him her soul.
But the angels didn't Make other angels. They only made blood-drinking vampires. Where angels came from, no one knew. Elena guessed they were born to angelic parents, though, come to think of it, she'd never actually seen a baby angel.
Her thoughts derailed again as she watched the fluid grace of Raphael's walk, so seductive, so-
Rising to her feet, she sent her chair crashing to the tiles. "Get. Out. Of. My. Head!"
Raphael came to a standstill. "Do you intend to use that knife?" His words were ice. Blood scented the air, and she realized it was her own.
Looking down, she found her hand clenching on the blade of the knife she'd drawn instinctively from the sheath at her ankle. She'd never have made such a mistake. He was forcing her to hurt herself, showing her she was nothing but a toy for him to play with. Instead of fighting, she squeezed harder. "If you want me to do a job for you, fine. But I won't be manipulated."
His eyes flicked over the blood seeping from her fist. He didn't have to say anything.
"You might be able to control me," she said in response to the silent mockery on his face, "but if that would've gotten the job done, you'd have never gone through the farce of hiring me. You need me, Elena Deveraux, not one of your little vampire flunkies."
Her hand unclenched in a violent spasm as he made her release the blade. It fell to the ground with a thud cushioned to softness by the blood that had pooled below. She didn't move, didn't attempt to stem the flow.
And when Raphael walked to stand less than a foot from her, she stood her ground.
"So, you think you have me over a barrel?" The sky was a seamless blue but Elena felt storm winds whip her hair completely out of its coil.
"No." She let his scent-clean, bright, of the sea-settle over the lingering coat of vampire on her tongue. "I'm ready to walk away without a backward look, return the deposit you paid the Guild."
"That," he said, picking up a napkin and wrapping it around her hand, "is not an option."
Startled by the unexpected act, she closed her hand to help slow the bleeding. "Why not?"
"I want you to do this," he responded, as if that was reason enough. And for an archangel, it was.
"What's the job? Retrieval?"
"Yes."