“We are speaking of immortals,” Raphael pointed out. “His practice could have spanned centuries.”
“Especially,” Dmitri added, “if he was a disciple of Isis.” A disciple Dmitri would not allow to live. The bitch would never come back to life, not even as a remembered goddess.
“Yes, but,” Honor argued, displaying a quiet strength that had begun to fascinate Dmitri, “the fact that he hasn’t mastered the Making process says he’s new at this aspect of things even if he isn’t new at the violence.”
“Yes.” Dmitri frowned, recalling something another member of the Seven had said to him. Sire, are you able to reach Jason?
No, he’s out of range.
Taking out his cell phone, Dmitri glanced at Honor, using his gaze to caress lips he wanted to debauch and corrupt. “Try not to get killed while I’m making this call.”
Her eyes flashed fire, stirring parts of him he’d believed entombed in that field of wildflowers that was a memorial to his Ingrede and their children.
Honor saw the shadow that swept across Dmitri’s face before he stepped away to make his call, wanted to reach out and wipe it away, the need an ache inside of her. However, not only did she not have that right, she was being examined by a male whose face was so flawless, it almost hurt to look at him. “I saw Elena this morning,” she said, wondering how she’d ended up making conversation with an archangel.
“My consort has a way of finding trouble.” Raphael’s hair, black as the night, gleamed in the forest light. “Dmitri helps you seek vengeance.”
“I think it’s more the fact that these vampires are breaking the rules.” Fooling herself about Dmitri’s motivations would only make the eventual fall harder.
“Perhaps.” He joined her at the water’s edge, his wings bare inches away, the gold filaments glittering under the sunlight. “The Guild is important to the balance of the world. Its hunters must not become prey.”
“If it had been another mortal,” she found herself asking, though it might have been safer to keep her thoughts to herself, “one not associated with the Guild?”
“Mortals have a part to play in the world, too.”
She didn’t know how to read his words, this lethal being who was capable of breaking a man’s every bone and displaying him like a macabre doll. Then she glimpsed Dmitri walking back. Dark and dangerously intelligent, with a body that had been sleeked to gleaming purity in battle, and a moral compass that was undeniably skewed, he was no less inhuman than the man he called Sire.
Perhaps he was even worse.
Where Raphael was remote, removed from humanity, the violence that was so much a part of Dmitri hummed just below the surface of his sophisticated skin. Blood and pain, she thought, that was what drove Dmitri. Why that should cause her heart to clench in unrelenting sorrow was a question to which she had no answer.
The body lay on the concrete floor of the warehouse, the young male’s arms and legs splayed in a way that was nothing natural. Jeans covered his legs but his upper half was unclothed, better to display the brand seared into a chest that bore lines of muscle development as yet incomplete.
Dmitri had repudiated the same mark with blood-soaked violence, using a knife he’d taken from Isis’s home. It was only fitting, he’d thought as he stripped off his rough shirt and pressed his back against one of the beams that had survived the fire that had taken everything from him.
The point of the blade was so sharp, it caused a bloody droplet to appear the instant he put it to his skin.
Gritting his teeth, he began to cut, thrusting deep enough to excise the scar tissue. He was a vampire now. The skin would heal whole and unmarked.
But vampires still felt pain.
Blackness engulfed him when he was less than a quarter of the way around the brand. Picking up the fallen blade with blood-slick hands the instant he awakened, he began again. And again. And again. Until there was no more trace of Isis on his body and his heart had grown so weak, he could feel death whispering in sweet, dark welcome.
A shadow of wings, a glimpse of searing blue. “Dmitri. What have you done?”
“Leave me.” It was the only thing he had the strength to say.
“No.” A wrist being thrust in front of him, his head pushed forward by an unyielding hand. “Drink.”
Dmitri resisted.
Cursing, Raphael used that same blade to slice open his vein, pushing the bleeding flesh to Dmitri’s lips without warning. A single taste and the newly awake predator within him took over.
He fed.
He hadn’t healed that day, or in the days that followed. He’d been too young Made, the same reason why Raphael had been able to overwhelm him. But he did heal. At least on the outside.
“So young,” Honor said, squatting beside the dead male, her sadness a poignant thread in her voice.