At her feet lay a pile of ashes.
Her mark hadn’t been a rogue, but a vampire whose entrepreneurial activities had encroached too far into the Enclave’s business portfolio. Her assassination was a warning to others not to cross the Enclave, but for the first time Rowan didn’t dismiss the nagging thread of doubt that tightened her chest.
Had the vampire deserved to die?
Until now she’d always accepted her assignments at face value. Read the Intel and agreed that for the Enclave to survive they couldn’t afford to let other clans forget the ancient hierarchy. Only the Strigoi Echelon matched them in power and prestige and that was a war that was only rarely fought on the street.
Yet she couldn’t drag her gaze from the ashes, a physical condemnation of all the choices she’d made in her life.
Except she’d never been given an option. She’d only followed orders.
Isn’t that a choice in itself?
When she finally returned to HQ she made her way to the back stairs, which had originally been constructed for the use of servants, and flexed her throbbing fingers. Either her feelings for Azrael were adversely affecting her reflexes or she was getting too old for the game. Twice the vampire had caught her unawares, fracturing a couple of ribs in the process. If she didn’t want to die before her time—three more years if I’m lucky—then she either had to sharpen her concentration or get the hell out of the Enclave.
It was a terrifyingly seductive notion. Something she had never seriously considered before because where could she go that the Elector High Council would not be able to hunt her down?
Dhampirs didn’t hand in their notice when the going got tough. There were no workplace negotiations or early retirement plans. They could put in for a transfer to another Enclave branch in the UK or abroad, but their basic job description remained the same.
To her knowledge no dhampir had ever left to follow their own destiny away from the Enclave. But then again, what did she really know? Only what she was told.
But she didn’t have to be told one thing. Even if any dhampir had walked, they wouldn’t have lasted long. If the lack of amber acid didn’t kill them then she was damn sure the Electors would see to it that they didn’t survive.
Because, at their core, the Electors didn’t believe dhampirs should survive at all.
“Rowan Moreton.” The voice purred through her mind, deep, sensual and saturated with latent power. She spun on her heel, adrenaline pumping through her body in futile preparation to fight or flee.
She could do neither. Because lounging against the wall was Sakarbaal.
The seductive compulsion to sink onto her knees and grovel before him whispered through her, paralyzing her instinctive, human, need to flee. She’d been in his presence only twice before, and the same conflicting urges had consumed her on both occasions.
But she’d never been alone with him. And he’d never focused his formidable attention her way or looked at her with his piercing emerald eyes.
Somehow through the pounding of her heart and rushing of her blood she realized he was waiting for her response. She swallowed, her mouth parched, and grasped at her fleeing courage.
“Yes, my lord.”
He smiled, and raw terror scraped through her chest at the sight. What does he want with me?
His finger, long and elegant, beckoned her closer. Ice trickled along her spine, but she could no sooner disobey his unspoken command as she could dissipate into smoke.
“Rowan.” There was a contemplative tone in his voice as he hooked his finger beneath her chin and forced her to meet his eyes. From a distance he was imposing. Up close, he was breathtaking. Even in a twenty-first century suit with his silk tie tugged loose and black hair curling over his collar he emanated a dark, otherworldly magnetism. And although he could easily pass as a human in his mid-thirties, the aura of the ancients clung to him like an ethereal breath.
And no wonder. He was the founder of the Enclave and almost three thousand years old.
Sakarbaal scrutinized her face as though he wanted to peel back the layers of her skin, prise open her skull and claw through the secret corners of her mind. She remained rigid, her heart thundering in her ears as she pushed all memory of Azrael into the deepest recesses of her brain.
“Beautiful, of course. Intelligent, naturally.” He sounded like he was checking off a mental shopping list. His finger abandoned her chin and trailed along the line of her jaw and she shuddered with a combination of revulsion and fascination. “You’ve never fully utilized your abilities before. How disappointing.”
Did he expect her to answer him? It wasn’t as if she didn’t know what he meant. Before she’d met Steven her friend, Belinda, had accompanied her to an initiation ceremony to gauge her potential as a spy. Meg had been livid at the possibility of Rowan prostituting herself but as it turned out she never even passed the basic induction.
When it came to lying, she sucked. And since her life would depend on lying, if she went undercover and climbed into bed with the enemy, her use to the Enclave in that respect was zero.
She kept silent. It was safer than inadvertently angering the most powerful vampire in existence.
“You’re damaged.” Sakarbaal withdrew his finger and ran an assessing glance over her. She had the sudden certainty he could penetrate her hunting gear and see the bruising beneath. “You completed your assignment?”
“Yes.” Did he want the evidence? The stake she’d used to plunge through the vampire’s heart was in her pocket. But she made no move to retrieve it as a horrifying conviction gripped her. Was he questioning her abilities? Reconsidering her usefulness to the Enclave? If he chose to kill her now, she wouldn’t stand a chance against him.
“Naturally, you did.” There was a thread of amusement in his voice, as though he had not doubted her success for a moment. A gleaming athame appeared in his hand. Ice speared her heart and instinctively she backed up against the timber banister.
Sakarbaal pointed the blade at her face. “For your next mission you must be fully functional.”
She couldn’t tear her mesmerized gaze from the tip of the ceremonial athame. One thought pounded through her mind. He didn’t want her dead. He had a mission for her.
And she had to be fully functional.
“My injuries are superficial, my lord. They’ll soon heal.”
“Not fast enough.” The way he swept his glance over her, left her in no doubt of what he really thought. She was only a dhampir and while she healed a lot faster than a human, it was nothing compared to the regeneration rate of a vampire. “You must be in optimum condition by the end of this day.”
It was four in the morning. She was meeting Azrael tonight. Somehow, she didn’t think Sakarbaal’s mission would be easily accomplished, certainly not something she could finish in time to see Azrael afterwards.
It was only one night. She could reschedule. But disappointment scorched through her, a burning reminder that she was far from a free agent when it came to forging her own destiny.
Without taking his gaze from her, Sakarbaal pushed his jacket and shirt sleeve up his forearm. Paralyzed, she watched him slice open his wrist.
Saw the crimson blood gush.
Terror raced along her spine and flooded her reason.
Her back was flat against the banisters. Sakarbaal stood directly in front of her. There was nowhere to run. And the scent of his rich, evocative blood invaded her mind, blurred her vision and distorted reality.
He couldn’t mean what she thought he did. Untreated blood will kill me.
“Drink.” His command whispered through her senses, and a part of her wanted to fall on him and wrap her lips around what he so freely offered. But another part of her, the human half that she so desperately wanted to embrace, recoiled with repugnance.
It wasn’t because of the blood. Her vampiric instincts could override such queasy sensibilities. It was because of whose blood it was. And the knowledge that once she had the
vampire lord’s blood in her veins, she would be irrevocably his.
His fingers slid through her hair, his athame grazing her skull, and he forced her head to his wrist. Her temples pounded, her heart hammered, and her gums ached in response to a primitive imperative she was incapable of fulfilling.
But she had no need of fangs when fresh blood flowed inches from her parched lips. Need overrode caution. Desire vanquished fear. She sank onto his wrist and sucked with a desperation she couldn’t control. Fire scorched her mouth, incinerated her throat, and blasted through her arteries. An agonizing burning that both fed her hunger and starved her fractured soul.
Shattered images flashed behind her closed eyes. Somewhere in a sane corner of her mind she understood them as memories from Sakarbaal. Memories he was sharing through his blood. Feverishly she gripped his arm, swallowing convulsively, trying in vain to block the terrifying visions. But instead they became stronger, more visceral, impossible to ignore.
A dark demon, hunting her kind through the ages. Slaying them without mercy as they fell to their knees beneath his bloodied katana.
“Yes.” Sakarbaal’s irresistibly seductive whisper encompassed her mind. “Witness the slayer of dhampirs. Your deadliest enemy.” His fingers tightened on her hair and he pulled her sharply upwards. Like a salivating dog she whimpered and struggled uselessly in his merciless grasp. But even as she frantically licked the blood smeared on her lips, his wound healed as though it had never existed.
The fire burned through her blood, healing and corrupting in equal measure. A hoarse scream flayed her throat as fractured bones knitted, battered organs regenerated and damaged skin resealed.
Gasping, she fell onto her knees as he released her. His blood hadn’t killed her. She was healed. But she could feel his blood pumping through her veins, an eternal part of her whether she wanted it or not.
I don’t want it. But it was too late now. Yet even as she recoiled from what she had done, her body embraced it. Demanded more.
“I know of your lover with whom you’ve been meeting this week.”
The frenzied craving to once again taste his blood, to lose herself in his dark, entrancing thrall receded as ice speared her heart. He knew of Azrael.
Meg betrayed me.
Sakarbaal eyed her as though she was a vaguely interesting bug he had just stepped on. She staggered to her feet and clung onto the banister as he idly licked the blood off the blade of his athame.
She couldn’t let him know how much Azrael meant to her. If Sakarbaal imagined he was merely a passing body in the night, he might overlook her indiscretion.
“My lord—”
“A demon of extraordinary power.”
“What?” The word slipped out involuntarily. “No.” There were no such creatures as demons. And even if there were, why would he say such a thing about her lover?
Sakarbaal’s lips thinned and leashed rage hummed in the air between them. She’d just disagreed with the High Lord of the Council. Inferred he was lying. Her knees turned to jelly, and she gripped the banister tighter to stop herself from sliding onto the floor. Frantically she tried to undo her potentially fatal mistake.
“My lord, he’s nobody. Just a human I picked up one night. He’s—”
“Using you to get to me.”
Her heart thudded erratically, and it was becoming harder to breathe by the second. It wasn’t true. Sakarbaal was lying.
Azrael had never pressed her for any personal details. But he’d made several references to her job and people she worked for. Yesterday she’d told him more than she’d ever told anyone before.
He’d likened her family to the Mafia. In fact, he’d seemed amused by the analogy.
But that didn’t prove he had any idea who her family was.
And I don’t have any idea who his family are.
“No.” She unhooked her fingers from the comfort of the banister and pushed herself upright. “He knows nothing about you, my lord. He’s—I don’t know anything about him. He was just a one-night stand.”
“Ah.” A chilling smile curved Sakarbaal’s lips. “Now I understand why you failed to achieve your potential. If you want to survive this night, Rowan Moreton, you’ll have to mask your true feelings far better than this.”
She had thought the most terrible thing that could happen was for her secret to be discovered. But this was worse. Unimaginably worse.
There could be only one reason why he was questioning her about her illicit lover.
Because Sakarbaal expected her to kill Azrael.
“I have no feelings for—him.” He wasn’t a demon. But if she wanted to survive long enough to warn Azrael then she needed to convince the vampire lord that she swallowed every word he uttered.
“Excellent.” Sakarbaal’s voice gave no indication as to whether he believed her or not. “Should you require more incentive, access the memories I’ve shared with you. This demon—angel, whatever you wish to call it, exists only in order to wipe dhampirs from the face of the Earth.” Once again, he tilted her chin with his finger, so she had no choice but to meet his merciless gaze. “Make no mistake. Once you’ve served your purpose, he’ll slaughter you with as little regard as he slaughtered the Ancient Ones’ children nine hundred years ago.”
Denial screamed through her brain, lodged in her throat. She’d been taught of the Great Massacre but until now had believed it was more myth than true history. An allegory, on how the outside world viewed dhampirs. And a warning that they were only safe because of the protection of the Enclave.
The memories Sakarbaal had forcibly shared with her rampaged in gruesome, vivid detail through her mind. The black forest, the looming castle and the pitiful shrieks of untrained dhampirs as they fell before the hunter’s blade.
And this time she saw his face.
Azrael.
Panic thudded through her and she struggled to think straight. Sakarbaal could easily have corrupted the memories for his own purpose. Azrael wasn’t evil. He wasn’t using her to get close to the vampire lord.
Why would an angel want to wipe dhampirs from the face of the Earth?
There are no such things as angels.
Most humans thought the same about vampires.
Grief splintered through her at the callous genocide of those long-ago dhampirs. She might not like her tainted blood, but she was inextricably linked to them because of it. There was nothing she could do about the past, but she wouldn’t let Azrael become another victim.
She’d have to tell him his life was in danger. That he needed to disappear. Tonight’s the last night I’ll ever see him.
“Tonight, when the demon is sated and sleeping,” Sakarbaal said, as if he channeled her thoughts, “this is what you will do.”
Chapter 17
Azrael
The exclusive Soho club Nathanael had chosen for their meeting was called Archangels’ Paradise, which Azrael presumed Nate found amusing. The interior was a lavish confection of gold and scarlet, with strategically placed angelic statues and half-naked beautiful girls who attended to the patrons every indulgence.
He found Nate in one of the private booths. “Don’t tell me your contact’s changed his mind.”
“No.” Nate tipped the contents of a shot glass down his throat. “After all this time he wants to meet you, Az. Got nothing to do with your repeated requests at all.”
He sprawled on the semi-circular sofa and scrutinized the other patrons. Far as he could tell they were all fully human. It was a little intriguing why Nate’s contact now wanted to meet him, but the important thing was they were finally going to speak. “Where is he then?”
“Behind you.” Nate slung him a grin that bordered on a smirk. What the hell? Before he could stop himself, Azrael leaped to his feet and swung around. How had he missed a two-thousand-year-old vampire?
Except there he was, lounging against the end of the sofa. And he still couldn’t sense a damn thing. Irritation sizzled through his veins. The bl
oodsucker not only had impressive powers, but he’d felt the need to display them.
“Hey, Nico.” Nate sounded amused by the whole thing. “You’ve made your point. Park your ass and stop glowering.”
The vampire circled the front of the booth before finally hooking a gilded chair with his boot and dragging it towards the table.
They eyed each other across the table. It was equally obvious the vamp had no intention of sitting first, either.
Azrael gritted his teeth and sat, as though the upholstery were made of jagged glass. He’d give the vampire this small concession, seeing as he wanted information, but he didn’t have to like it.
“Just so you know,” Nico said as he lowered his lean frame onto the chair, “you’re not as aware as you like to think.”
He stifled the urge to unfurl his wings. It was always a pain in the ass having to maintain a glamour concealing them when he was pissed off. And Nico’s attitude was pissing him off big time.
“Is that so?” He’d waited nearly two hundred years for this meeting, ever since the night he’d discovered the seedy acquaintances Nate hung out with. Why Nate wanted to associate with filthy bloodsuckers Azrael couldn’t fathom but Nico, at least, was no ordinary vampire. He could hold the key to finding Sakarbaal.
Nico flashed a mirthless smile, his fangs gleaming in the subdued light. “Yes, that is so, archangel. You couldn’t sense me a moment ago and you had no idea that I’ve been tailing you for the last two weeks.”
He almost laughed at the vampire’s gall.
“Why would an Elder of the Strigoi Echelon want to stalk an archangel?” He injected a good measure of derision into his tone. “You know who I am. You know why I want to speak with you. Do you get off on subterfuge?”
“Azrael, archangel of tact,” Nate said, as he caught the attention of one of the girls and ordered drinks while Azrael and Nico continued to glare at each other. “Though I’ve got to admit, Nic. I’m intrigued. Do you suspect Az is a double agent working for Sakarbaal?”
Nemesis: Paranormal Angel Romance (Realm of Flame and Shadow Book 2) Page 12
