by Nalini Singh
It was as Dmitri and Honor were driving away from Sorrow’s that he got the call.
“Dmitri.” The rough male voice brought an ancient memory to life.
“Please.” A lifted hand, the boy’s back bloody from a vicious whipping.
“It’s all right,” Dmitri said, unable to feel pity, his heart stone, but aware this boy was another victim, no threat. “We won’t hurt you.”
“Is she dead?”
“Yes, the bitch is dead.”
“Kallistos.” He pulled over.
A rusty, painful-sounding laugh. “Very good.”
Dead air for several seconds.
Dmitri waited, knowing Kallistos would get impatient—according to the people Jason had in Neha’s court, this vampire, with his face and body that had mesmerized men and women alike over the centuries, had never quite mastered his temper.
“I hold the reins today, Dmitri.” Kallistos’s voice would never be smooth, his throat having been damaged at a critical juncture during his Making, but now it lost the veneer of sophistication. “You’ll do as I say or this rather pretty angel will die a slow and painful death.”
“Tell me what you want.”
“I’m sending you directions. Drive. If I see any hint of wings, I’ll gut him.”
Directions came into Dmitri’s in-box as the call ended. “This is only part of the route,” he said, after giving Honor a précis of the conversation.
“He doesn’t want to chance an angel flying ahead of you.”
Dmitri considered his options, made a call to Illium. “Alert Raphael as soon as he’s back in the city.” The archangel was on his way back from a meeting. “You’re too distinctive, Jason’s gone, and I don’t trust anyone else not to muck this up.”
Illium cursed. “I’ll fly out, meet Raphael partway.”
Hanging up, Dmitri turned to Honor. “Are you armed?”
“Always.”
Punching up the speed, he raced out of New Jersey and toward Philadelphia. More instructions came in as he drove, and it was seven hours later, the sky beginning to darken with the first faint streaks of the time between sunset and true night, that he found himself back in Manhattan. Mouth grim, he picked up the call as it came in.
“Have fun on your little drive?” Kallistos laughed, and it was the sound of metal grating.
Dmitri maintained his silence, guessing Kallistos would believe him to be in the grip of a rage that would disallow rational thinking. It didn’t. Dmitri’s hatred for Isis didn’t blind him—not now, not after he’d bathed in her blood.
“I left you a present.” Kallistos was almost giggling. “In one of the New York properties you own.” The other vampire hung up.
Telling Honor what Kallistos had said, he did an illegal U-turn and headed out toward Englewood Cliffs. Sire, he said, able to speak to Raphael since the archangel was directly overhead. If you and Illium will take these three—he relayed the addresses—I’ll take care of the fourth. He sent through the final address as well.
“We’re taking the closest property,” he said to Honor. “Raphael and Illium will reach the other locations much faster.” Kallistos, he thought, was long gone.
“What are the chances this might be the spot?”
He considered the high fences, the lane in the back that could be used to sneak onto the property. “It’s relatively private, and decaying enough to suit Kallistos’s sense of theater, from what we’ve seen so far.” Increasing his speed, he blew past startled motorists.
If it had been an older angel at risk, Dmitri wouldn’t have felt the overriding alarm he did now, but the one who’d been taken was young, his immortality not yet set in stone. Of course, most mortals or vampires would still be unable to cause him a fatal injury, but Kallistos was older than Dmitri; he had both the strength and the knowledge to murder an angel so vulnerable.
34
“We’re here.” Dark hair whipped off Dmitri’s forehead as he took them down a somewhat derelict street, before turning in through a pair of open gates that led to a decaying apartment complex.
“I’m guessing the value is in the land?”
“Millions.” Bringing the car to a halt behind the protective barrier of a pile of rubble, Dmitri got out and opened the trunk to retrieve a stunning blade too big to be covertly carried. No, this weapon was about power and intimidation.
It was, if she wasn’t mistaken, a scimitar. However, she didn’t get much of a good look at it before he was striding back, the weapon held to his side, his eyes flat with lethal intent. “Stay at my back, Honor. Kallistos is most likely gone, but we can’t assume that.”
“I’ll cover you,” she said, not arguing with the order because she knew about confronting your own monsters, and Kallistos was Dmitri’s.
“No, stay literally at my back. A gunshot won’t do me any significant damage, but could kill you.”
The idea of Dmitri bleeding for her made Honor’s hand clench brutally on the butt of her gun, but again, she kept her silence, knowing time was of the essence. “Let’s go.”
He was a sleek shadow in front of her, one who ensured she was never exposed to anyone who might be watching them from the building. Honor didn’t breathe until they’d traversed the open section to reach the door. He went in first, while she kept her eyes forward as she backed in behind him, gun pointed outward.
The only thing that met them inside was silence . . . and a broken angel. The boy—and yes, he was a boy still, his deathly pale face holding the fading softness of childhood—had been dumped on his front in the dusty lobby, his pale brown wings streaked with blood and dirt as they lay limp and crumpled on either side of him.
Wrong, there was something wrong with those wings.
Broken.
It was, she realized, feeling sick to her stomach, the only way to transport an unconscious angel if you didn’t want to use a huge truck and draw unwelcome attention.
“Honor.”
“I’ve got you covered.”
Crouching down, Dmitri touched his fingers to the angel’s cheek.
“He’s warm.” Putting down the scimitar, he used utmost care to turn the body, making sure not to further damage the boy’s wings. “No heartbeat.” But that didn’t mean all hope was lost. Raphael, how close are you? he asked, having felt the archangel’s mind touch his as he turned in through the gates.
Minutes away. Show me.
Dmitri opened his mind enough that Raphael was able to see through his eyes, assess the damage. Give him your breath, Dmitri. He will not survive otherwise.
Trusting Honor to maintain the guard, Dmitri began to breathe for the young angel, feeling that chest, heavy with the muscle necessary for flight, rise and fall under his touch. It wasn’t more than five minutes later that Raphael walked into the building. The archangel didn’t hesitate in kneeling on the dirty floor, his wings trailing in the accumulated dust and debris, to take the boy into his arms—replacing Dmitri’s lips with his own.
An archangel’s breath held incredible power.
As Dmitri watched, a faint blue glow suffused the place where Raphael’s lips met the young angel’s.
Rising, he picked up the scimitar and turned to glance at Honor, a hard-eyed hunter with a gun in her hands she wouldn’t hesitate to use to protect the vulnerable—yet one who had the heart to feel pity for what her abuser had suffered as a child. Dmitri had no such softness inside him, but he accepted that it was an integral part of Honor, this complex woman with ancient knowledge in those eyes of midnight green.
Nodding at her to hold her position, he began to check the area to see if he could glean anything that might speak to Kallistos’s whereabouts. Nothing but scuff marks in the dust from where the other vampire had dragged the young angel’s body inside. Kallistos had left the same way he’d entered, making no effort to hide his prints. Will he live? he asked, seeing Raphael break the life-giving kiss.
Eyes of unearthly blue locked with his. Yes. And he’ll be who
le once more. But he will need care of a kind the mortal world cannot provide.
Dmitri nodded. I’ll organize transport to the Refuge.
No, Dmitri. I must take him myself. The archangel rose, the angel’s limp body in his arms. We’ll leave three days hence, after he has had a chance to regain a little strength.
Elena?
She is my heart. She comes with me.
Dmitri had expected nothing else. I will watch over your city, Sire.
It was as Raphael was leaving that Honor stepped forward. “Wait.”
Walking around to the archangel’s other side as if she hadn’t just halted the most powerful being in the country, she lifted up the young angel’s hand. It was fisted. “He’s hiding something in his palm.”
Raphael glanced at Dmitri. “Force it open.”
Dmitri managed not to break any bones, but he did have to bruise the boy to peel apart his fingers. To reveal the crushed but still recognizable remains of two sugar maple leaves. “Nothing to differentiate them from any other similar leaves,” he said, picking up the remains of the greenery.
Cupping the angel’s hand, Honor leaned closer. “He’s written something on his palm.”
“Eris,” Raphael said, his vision acute. “The word is ‘Eris.’ ”
Dmitri frowned. “Neha’s consort? No one has seen him for centuries.” Even as he spoke, his eyes fell once more on the leaves from the sugar maple tree. “Neha,” he said, an old piece of knowledge jarred loose in his mind, “has no properties in this territory, but Eris had a liking for it before he went into seclusion.” Whether that seclusion had been by choice was debatable, for Dmitri had heard rumors that Neha’s consort had betrayed her with another woman, been punished for it for the past three hundred years.
It wasn’t impossible that Kallistos’s position in Neha’s court had allowed him access to Eris, and, whatever else he had become, Isis’s lover had proven intelligent. More so perhaps than Eris—who had always been Neha’s gleaming ornament of a consort, a beloved plumed bird the archangel had showered with jewels and silks. “Kallistos must be using Eris’s estate as his base.”
“Go,” Raphael said, gathering the hurt angel’s body closer to his own. “Take all the men you need.”
“Sire.” I won’t leave the city vulnerable. There’s still a chance Neha’s hand is behind this. The archangel hated everyone who had helped execute her daughter, Anoushka—Raphael was amongst that number. This may be a trap to draw us away.
I’m more than capable of defending my city, Dmitri.
And she is more than capable of poisoning the air itself if it suits her purpose. I’ll go alone. I’m strong enough to handle Kallistos, even if he has more of his protovampires with him.
Raphael’s blue eyes were relentless. You will take Illium.
I am not blinded by the past. His decisions were rational, coldly so.
Nevertheless. Raphael’s expression changed the barest fraction. I would not lose my second.
Dmitri bowed his head in a slight nod. “Honor,” he said after the archangel walked out with his living cargo, “I’m going to take the chopper to Vermont—”
Stalking to stand face-to-face with him, she pushed at his chest. “If you’re even thinking about leaving me behind, think again.”
He should’ve stood firm, would have had it been any other woman. But Honor . . . she had her hooks so deep into him that it made the old, merciless part of him go motionless, examine the situation—and his sudden vulnerability—with icy focus. To destroy this strange, wonderful something between them, all it would take were a few well-chosen words of utmost cruelty.
Honor was smart, but she was also tender of heart. She didn’t know the depths to which he could go, the wounds he could inflict. He could make her bleed without ever raising a hand. “I am not a good man, Honor,” he said, touching his fingers to her jaw.
Instead of shying, she leaned into the touch. “You’re my man.”
You’re my man.
The echo of Ingrede’s words tangled with Honor’s, but then, his wife had been tender of heart, too. He’d protected that heart with all his strength . . . and he knew that despite the deep weakness she created in him, he would do so once more with Honor. It was a strange thing, to feel such tenderness again, to know he was capable of it. “Come. It’s time to beard the monster in his den.”
Venom was the one who most often piloted the chopper for use by the Seven, but Dmitri knew how to do it—he’d been curious when the machines had been invented. Though he found more pleasure in handling cars, he’d kept up the useful skill. Now, having delayed only long enough to change and gather weapons, he lifted the black machine off the helipad situated not on top of the Tower, but several floors below, on a balcony cut into part of the building.
“Illium?” Honor’s voice came through crystal clear, both of them miked, ears protected against the noise of the blades.
“He’s already on his way.” The blue-winged angel was one of the fastest fliers amongst his kind and would beat them to Vermont. “I’ve been in contact with the Made who live in and around the general region of Eris’s property.”
“I rang a couple of hunter friends nearby, too.” Her scent twined around him in the confines of the cockpit, fine ropes he knew he’d never break. “None of them had heard anything.”
“Neither had my people—but Kallistos is no youth.” He wouldn’t have done anything to draw attention to himself near his lair. “I’m certain we’ll find him there.”
“One way or another,” Honor said, reaching out to brush her fingers over his jaw in an unexpected caress, “tonight will finish this.”
“How do you understand?” That it savaged him to realize this small piece of Isis survived when his family’s ashes had been scattered by the wind so long ago, entire civilizations had risen and fallen in that time.
No longer touching him, she said, “I know you, Dmitri.” A fisted hand over her heart, her voice soft, potent with raw emotion. “Right here, so deep it feels as if you’ve been a part of me since the instant I took my first breath.”
Reaching out, he brought her fist to his lips, pressed a kiss to the knuckles. She robbed him of words, of sophistication, until he was once more the man he’d been with his wife—harder, deadlier, but with the capacity to feel emotions both beautiful and terrifying. He would spill blood for the mortal by his side, split open his veins if she asked, slay demons and enemies until the world shivered at the sound of his name.
But he would not mourn her. Because a man didn’t survive such a loss twice.
Having landed far enough from the house that their arrival should’ve gone unnoticed, Dmitri looked up as they began to navigate the heavy woods that led to Eris’s estate, attempting to spot Illium. Not even a hint against the starless night sky, but when Dmitri said, Illium, the response was immediate.
I see you. I’ve scouted the house—it’s silent, but there’s no way to know if Kallistos lies within.
Even if he isn’t there now, he’ll return to his lair sooner or later.
Breaking the mental contact, he relayed Illium’s words to Honor. She nodded, the gun she’d chosen as her main weapon held to her side. He preferred the blade. The scimitar he carried was an old favorite, and it often sat on display in Raphael’s home at the Refuge—but the last time he’d been at the angelic stronghold, Dmitri had felt driven to take it down, bring it to New York.
“The runes on your blade,” Honor asked as they continued to walk through the thick quiet of the woods, the rustling of the leaves the only sound. “What do they mean?”
“You should know,” he said with a provocative smile. “It was another witch who put them on the blade for me, after all.”
A green-eyed glance as sharp as the gleaming edge on his scimitar. “Careful, or I might decide to turn you into a toad.”
Hell with it.
Gripping the back of her neck, he brought her to him for the kiss he’d been wanting to cla
im for hours. A long dark tangling of tongues, he indulged in her until she shuddered, her lips ripe and swollen. “After this is over,” she said, touching her fingers to her kiss-wet mouth, “I think I want to spend a month locked in a bedroom with you.”
His lips curved. “That could be arranged.” The bedroom games he wanted to play with Honor were beyond decadent, beyond sinful. “The house should be coming up soon.”
“There,” Honor whispered a bare two minutes later.
Hidden in the midst of what felt like thousands of sugar maple trees shivering in the whispering night wind, the house sat private and cocooned from the outside world. Though they’d come out behind it, Honor had no doubt what she was seeing accurately reflected the overall architecture. Despite the serene setting, it was no fairy tale, no elegant retreat. It reminded Honor of nothing so much as a hulking beast, a monument to gothic excess.
Two snarling gargoyles guarded the back steps, their fangs bared and claws unsheathed. From what she could make out in the dark, that was simply the beginning—she was fairly certain more gargoyles peered out from the roof, including a giant batlike creature silhouetted against the pitch-black sky.
The ivy that covered most of the building added to the impression of decaying menace, as did the spread of leaves deep on the ground. As if decades’ worth of forest debris had collected on top of each other, until now, the ground was forever lost. Walking across the leaves—soft this time of year, concealing rather than betraying their passage—Honor kept her gun in hand as Dmitri’s blade cut a dark wound through the night, his stride as confident and quiet as a hunting cat’s.
She touched his arm when they reached the bottom of steps that led onto a narrow porch, pointed. “Look.”
No ivy or moss covered the central part of the stone steps. As if they had been used recently and often. When she bent down and cautiously flicked on her flashlight, shielding the beam with her palm, she was able to glean a faint path in amongst the organic matter that covered what may once have been a manicured lawn. A single nod to Dmitri, before she flicked off the flashlight and they headed slowly and silently up the steps and to the back door of the monstrosity of a house.
