Angels' Blood gh-1

by Nalini Singh

  “Food for your vampires,” she said, disgusted at herself for having seen anything human in him. “What—you keep a prison full of ‘snacks’ for your pets?”

  His arms squeezed, cutting off her breath. “There’s no need. The snacks offer themselves up on silver platters. But you’d know that—your sister is married to a vampire, after all.”

  The implication couldn’t have been clearer. He’d as much as called her sister, Beth, a vamp-whore. The derogatory term was used to describe those men and women who followed groups of vampires from place to place, offering their bodies as food in return for whatever fleeting pleasure the vampire deigned to give. Every vamp fed differently, hurt or pleasured differently. Some vamp-whores seemed determined to taste, and be tasted by, each and every one of them.

  “Leave my sister out of this.”

  “Why?”

  “She was with Harrison before he became a vampire. She’s no whore.”

  He chuckled, but it was the coldest, most dangerous sound she’d ever heard. “I expected better from you, Elena. Doesn’t your family call you an abomination? I thought you’d have sympathy for those who love vampires.”

  If she’d dared let go of his neck, she might just have clawed her nails down his face. “I won’t discuss my family with you.” Not with him, not with anyone.

  You disgust me. Almost the last words her father had said to her.

  Jeffrey Deveraux had never been able to understand how he could’ve birthed a “creature” like her, an “abomination” who refused to follow the dictates of her blue-blooded family and sell herself in marriage in order to expand the sprawling Deveraux empire. He’d told her to give up the vampire hunting, never listening, never understanding that to ask her to stifle her abilities was to ask her to kill something inside of her.

  Go, then, go and roll around in the muck. Don’t bother coming back.

  “It must’ve been . . . interesting when your brother-in-law chose vampirism,” Raphael said, ignoring her words. “Your father didn’t disown either Beth or Harrison.”

  She swallowed, refusing to remember the pitiful hope she’d felt when Harrison was accepted back into the family fold. She’d wanted so desperately to believe that her father had changed, that he’d finally look at her with the same love he lavished on Beth and the two younger children he had with his second wife, Gwendolyn. His first wife, Marguerite, Beth and Elena’s mother, was never spoken of. It was as if she hadn’t existed.

  “My father is none of your business,” she said, voice harsh with withheld emotion. Jeffrey Deveraux hadn’t changed. He hadn’t even bothered to return her call—and she’d understood that Harrison had been allowed back because he was the scion of a major corporation that had deep ties with Deveraux Enterprises. Jeffrey had no use for a daughter who chose to indulge in her “disgraceful, inhuman” ability to scent vampires.

  “What about your mother?” A dark whisper.

  Something snapped. Letting go of his neck, she kicked out with her legs at the same time that she lifted her arms to do some damage to his oh-so-pretty face. It was a suicidal act, but if there was one topic on which Elena wasn’t rational, it was her mother. That this archangel, this immortal who cared nothing for the firefly span of human life, dared use Marguerite Deveraux’s ephemeral existence against Elena was unbearable. She wanted to hurt him in spite of the futility of the goal. “Don’t you ever—”

  He dropped her.

  7

  She screamed . . . and came to a hard landing on her butt, hands braced against the rough caress of expensive tile. “Ummph.” Swearing inwardly at the bitten-off sound of surprise, she sat on the ground, trying to catch her breath. Raphael stood above her, a vision out of a painting of heaven and hell. Either. Both. She could see why her ancestors had seen in his kind the guardians of the gods, but she wasn’t sure he wasn’t a demon. “This isn’t the Guild,” she managed to say after much too long.

  “I decided we would talk here.” He held out a hand.

  Ignoring it, she pushed herself to her feet, barely stifling the urge to rub at her bruised tailbone. “You always drop your passengers?” she muttered. “Not so graceful after all.”

  “You’re the first human I’ve carried in centuries,” he said, those blue eyes almost black in the darkness. “I’d forgotten how fragile you were. Your face is bleeding.”

  “What?” She lifted a hand to a tingling spot on her cheek. The cut was so thin she could hardly feel it. “How?”

  “The wind, your hair.” Turning, he began to walk toward the glass enclosure. “Wipe it off unless you want to offer the Tower vampires a nightcap.”

  She rubbed it off using the sleeve of her shirt, then fisted her hands, looking daggers at his retreating back. “If you think I’m going to follow you around like a puppy . . .”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “I could make you crawl, Elena.” No trace of any humanity in his face, nothing but the glow of such power that she wanted to shade herself from it. It was an effort not to take a stumbling step backward. “Do you really want me to force you onto your hands and knees?”

  At that second, she knew he’d do exactly that. Something she’d either said or done had finally pushed Raphael beyond his limits. If she wanted to survive this with her soul intact, she’d have to swallow her pride . . . or he’d break her. The realization burned going down and sat like a rock in her stomach. “No,” she answered, knowing that if she ever had the chance, she’d stab a knife in his throat for the insult to her pride.

  Raphael watched her for several long minutes, a cold standoff that turned her blood to ice. Around her burned a million city lights, but up on this roof, there was only darkness—except for the glow coming off him. She’d heard people whisper of this phenomenon but had never thought to witness it. Because when an angel glowed, he became a being of absolute power, power that was usually directed to kill or destroy. An angel glowed just before he tore you into a thousand pieces.

  Elena stared back, unwilling—unable—to give in. She’d gone as far as she could. Anything else and she might as well crawl.

  Get on your knees and beg, and maybe I’ll reconsider.

  She hadn’t done it then. She wouldn’t do it now. No matter the cost.

  Right when she thought it was all over, Raphael turned and continued on to the elevator cage. The glow faded between one breath and the next. She followed, disgustingly aware of the sweat that had broken out along her spine, the sharp taste of fear on her tongue. But overlaying that was a deep, deep anger.

  Raphael the Archangel was now the most hated person in her universe.

  He held the door open for her. She walked through without saying a word. And when he came to stand beside her, his wings brushing her back, she stiffened and kept her eyes locked on the elevator doors. The car arrived a second later and she walked in. So did Raphael, his scent like sandpaper against her hunter-born senses.

  Her knife hand was itching for a blade, almost painfully needy. She knew the feel of cold steel would center her but that sense of safety would be an illusion, one that might put her in even more danger.

  I could make you crawl, Elena.

  She clenched her teeth so hard her jaw protested. And when the elevator doors opened, she strode out without waiting for Raphael—only to come to an abrupt halt. Corporate decor sure had changed if this was considered business-appropriate. The carpet was a lush black, as were the gleaming walls. The sole pieces of furniture in her line of sight—a couple of small decorative tables—were also in the same exotically rich shade.

  It shimmered with hidden color, with possibility.

  Bloodred roses—arranged in crystal vases perched atop the small tables—provided a lush contrast. So did the long rectangular painting along one wall. She walked to it, mesmerized. A thousand shades of red in a fury that was somehow coolly logical, sensual in a way that spoke of blood and death.

  Raphael’s fingers on her shoulder. “Dmitri is talented.”

&
nbsp; “Don’t touch me.” The words dripped off her tongue like blades of ice. “Where are we?” She swiveled to face him, making a concerted effort not to go for a weapon.

  Blue flames in his eyes but no violence. “On the vampire floor—they use this for . . . well, you’ll see.”

  “Why do I need to? I know all there is to know about vampires.”

  A faint smile on his lips. “Then you won’t be surprised.” He offered her his arm. She refused to take it. His smile didn’t falter. “Such rebelliousness. Where did you inherit it? Certainly not from your parents.”

  “One more word about my parents and I don’t care if you break me into a million fucking pieces.” Said through gritted teeth. “I’ll cut out your heart and serve it to the street dogs for dinner.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure I have a heart?” With that, he began to move down the corridor.

  Not wanting to follow a step behind, she caught up so they walked side by side. “A physical one, probably,” she said. “An emotional one? Not a chance.”

  “What does it take for you to truly fear?” He seemed genuinely curious.

  Once again, it appeared she’d skated the thin edge of danger and come out alive. But it had been a close call—she wondered how forgiving Raphael would be after she completed the job and was no longer of use. She wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

  “I was born a hunter,” she said, making a mental note to organize an escape hatch. Siberia sounded good. “Not many people know what that means, the inevitable consequences.”

  “Tell me.” He pushed through a glass door and waited until she’d passed before closing it. “When did you realize you had the ability to scent vampires?”

  “There was no realization.” She shrugged. “I could always do it. It took me until I was about five to understand it was something different, abnormal.” The word slipped out, her father’s word. She felt her mouth thin. “I thought everyone could do it.”

  “As a young angel might think everyone can fly.”

  Curiosity spiked out of the anger. “Yes.” So there were child angels. But where? “I knew our neighbor was a vampire before anyone else did. I accidentally ratted him out one day.” She still felt bad about that, though she’d only been a child at the time. “He was trying to pass as human.”

  Raphael’s face settled into lines of displeasure. “It would’ve been better had he given the chance to someone else. Why accept the gift of immortality if you wish to be human?”

  “I gotta agree with that one.” She shrugged. “Mr. Benson was forced to move out after a neighborhood uproar.”

  “Not a tolerant place, your childhood home.”

  “No.” And her father had been at the head of that intolerance. How it had humiliated him that his daughter was one of the monsters. “A few years later, I felt Slater Patalis brush by as he murdered his way across the country.” Her heart froze in her chest, chilled by the secret horror connected to that name.

  “One of our few mistakes.”

  Not really a mistake, she thought, not if he’d been normal going in. But she couldn’t say that without betraying Sara. “So you see, I’m used to fear. I grew up knowing the bogey-man lurked outside.”

  “You lie to me, Elena.” He stopped in front of a solid black door. “But I will let it pass. You’ll soon tell me the truth of why you dance with death so eagerly.”

  She wondered if he had Ariel and Mirabelle’s names in his files, if he knew the truth of the tragedy that had destroyed her mother and turned her father into a stranger. “You know what they say about being overconfident.”

  “Exactly.” A small nod. “So tonight, I’ll show you why those you call whores seek their vampire lovers.”

  “Nothing you do or say will convince me to change my mind.” She scowled. “They’re little more than drug addicts.”

  “Such obstinance,” he murmured, and pushed open the door.

  Whispered sounds, laughter, the tinkle of glass. It flowed out like an invitation. Raphael’s eyes dared her to step inside. Fool that she was, she accepted the challenge and—slipping a knife from an arm sheath into her palm—walked in, piercingly aware of the archangel at her back, the naked vulnerability of her spine . . . until her mouth dropped open in shock.

  The vampires were having a cocktail party.

  She blinked, taking in the muted, romantic lighting, the plush couches, the hors d’oeuvres accompanied by slender flutes of champagne. The food was clearly for the human guests, male and female, who stood talking, laughing, and flirting with their vampire hosts. Dinner suits lay snugly over lithely muscled shoulders, while cocktail dresses ran the gamut from long and slinky to short and sexy, the overriding themes black and red, with the occasional daring splash of white.

  Conversation stopped the second they saw her. Then their eyes flicked behind her and she almost heard the collective sigh of relief—the hunter was on the archangel’s leash. Stifling the childish urge to show them different, she slid the knife discreetly back up into the sheath.

  None too soon, too, because a vampire was walking toward her, glass of wine in hand. At least she hoped it was wine—the dark red liquid could as easily have been blood. “Hello, Elena.” The words were said in a beautiful, deep voice but it was his scent that was truly intoxicating—rich and dark and luscious.

  “Doorvamp,” she whispered, throat husky. It was only when she found herself pressed against the living heat of Raphael that she realized she’d backed away from the clawing beauty of the invisible caress.

  “My name is Dmitri.” He smiled, displaying a row of sparkling white teeth, not a fang in sight. An old vamp, an experienced vamp. “Come, dance with me.”

  Heat uncurled between her legs, an involuntary reaction to Dmitri’s scent, a scent that held a very special—and highly erotic—allure for the hunter-born. “Stop it or I swear I’ll make you a eunuch.”

  He looked down at the blade now pressing against his zipper. When he raised his head, his expression was more than a fraction annoyed. “If you’re not here to play, why come at all?” The scent dissipated, as if he’d drawn it into himself. “This is a place of safety and enjoyment. Take your weapons elsewhere.”

  Flushing, she got rid of the knife. It was obvious she’d just committed a major faux pas. “Raphael.”

  The archangel curled his hand around her upper arm. “Elena is here to learn. She doesn’t understand the fascination you hold for humans.”

  Dmitri raised an eyebrow. “I’d be happy to show you.”

  “Not tonight, Dmitri.”

  “As you wish, sire.” Giving a small nod, Dmitri walked away . . . but only after wrapping a tendril of scent around her as a parting shot.

  His slow smile said he could scent her response, knew she was weak-kneed with it. But the effect faded with every step he took, until she no longer craved the sensual pain of his touch—Dmitri’s scent was as much a tool of mind control as Raphael’s abilities. But for the first time, she began to understand why some hunters became sexually—even romantically—intertwined with the very creatures they hunted.

  Of course, they didn’t hunt the ones like Dmitri. “He’s old enough to have repaid the hundred-year debt several times over.” Not to mention his considerable personal power—she’d never met any vampire with that much sheer magnetism. “Why does he stay with you?”

  Raphael’s hand was a brand on her upper arm, burning through the material of her shirt to stain her skin. “He requires constant challenge. Working for me gives him the opportunity to fulfill his needs.”

  “In more ways than one,” she murmured, watching as Dmitri went to a small, curvy blonde and put his hand on her waist. She looked up, enraptured. Not surprising, given that Dmitri was wet-dream beautiful—silky black hair, dark, dark eyes, skin that spoke of the Mediterranean rather than cold Slavic climes.

  “I’m no procurer.” Raphael was openly amused. “The vampires in this room have no need of such services. Look
around, who do you see?”

  She frowned, about to snap back a sharp rejoinder, when her eyes widened. There, in that corner, that leggy brunette . . . “No way.” She squinted. “That’s Sarita Monaghan, the super-model.”

  “Keep going.”

  Her eyes drifted back to Dmitri’s curvy blonde. “I’ve seen her somewhere, too. A TV show?”

  “Yes.”

  Thrown off balance, she continued to scan the room. There was a famous rugged-jawed news anchor, happily ensconced on a couch with a striking flame-haired vampire. A little to their left sat a powerhouse New York couple, majority share-holders in a Fortune 500 company. Beautiful people. Smart people.

  “They’re here by choice?” But she knew the answer. There was no hint of desperation in any of the eyes that met hers, none of the glassiness of will stolen. Instead, it was flirtation, enjoyment, and sex that filled the air. Definitely sex. The languid heat of it dripped off the walls.

  “Do you feel it, Elena?” Closing his free hand over her other arm, he held her to his chest, his lips brushing her ear as he bent down to speak. “This is the drug they crave; this is their addiction. Pleasure.”

  “Not the same,” she said, standing her ground. “The vamp-whores are nothing more than camp followers.”

  “The only thing that separates them from this crowd is wealth and beauty.”

  It stung her to realize he was right. “Fine, I take it back. Vampires and their groupies are all nice, healthy folks.” She couldn’t believe what she was seeing—the TV anchor was sliding his hand up the split in his date’s skirt, oblivious to anyone else.

  He chuckled. “No, they aren’t nice. But they aren’t evil, either.”

  “I never said that,” she retorted, eyes fixated on the excruciating pleasure on the anchor’s face as he stroked the redhead’s pale, pale skin. “I know they’re just people. My point was that—” She swallowed as another woman moaned, her vampire lover’s mouth hovering a teasing inch above the pulse in her neck, a hot whisper that promised ecstasy.