“Yes.” From the pattern of blood, the churned up dirt and grass, this was where the victim had been murdered, which meant the kil er’s scent should be a violent stain across the entire area.
Filtering out Venom’s vampiric signature, she picked up the scent of violets and crushed ice again ... but with this much carnage, there was no way to be certain it was the victim’s at a distance. Girding her stomach, she went to her knees—careful to avoid the splatter—and bent. But she couldn’t reach the body without placing her hands in blood-soaked evidence. “Venom, hold me at the waist.”
Strong, cool hands around her waist an instant later. She fought the instinctive urge to throw off the intimate hold and, trusting him to keep her from fal ing on the body—and yeah, that trust came hard—leaned in close enough to sniff at a patch of unravaged skin.
Violets. Ice. And a hereto hidden undertone of something light, fruity. Watermelon?
“Enough.”
The vampire’s hands tightened for an instant, and she almost hoped he’d attempt to drop her. But he behaved, and she was on her feet moments later.
“I have his scent,” she said, gesturing to the body, “and I’ve weeded out yours. Anyone else been on the scene?”
He pointed up. “Just Il ium and he hasn’t landed.”
Good, she thought, that meant the caress of poison had to belong to the kil er. Focusing on that element, she began to pul apart the notes to create a more detailed profile.
Oleanders, rich and sweet, with a thread of darkest resin humming a discordant note, and below that a touch of juicy red berries bursting open. But the scent of oleanders in full bloom overwhelmed, it was so very, very intoxicating.
She was fol owing the trail even as the thought passed through her head, barely aware of Venom remaining beside the body while Il ium flew overhead.
The scent meandered through Central Park, as if the kil er had taken a strol . Given his confidence, she more than half expected to lose him as soon as she hit the pond, but surprisingly, he hadn’t gone into the water.
Instead, she found herself fol owing him to the edge of Fifth Avenue. Where the sensual whisper of oleanders snapped off with such suddenness that she knew he’d gotten into a cab. Blowing out a breath, she waved Il ium down. “Trail’s cold,” she said when he landed. “Might as wel lead me to the other site just in case he did scope that out.”
It was only as they were flying over the Hudson that she realized they were heading toward Raphael’s estate. Figuring the burial site had to be somewhere beyond, she found herself deeply shaken when Il ium dove down to land on the edge of the wood that separated the mansion from Michaela’s U.S. home. He stayed in position as she walked in. Archangel?
Slightly to your right, about fifty meters ahead.
Raphael held out a hand when she reached him, but she didn’t take it, staring at the rectangular coffin-sized hole in the earth. “When exactly,” she said,
“were you going to tel me he was going to be buried on the grounds of our home?” She understood that he had to control his vampires in ways that might seem cruel to her, but this ...
A chrome blue gaze met hers, vivid even in the night shadows. “I needed him close enough that I could maintain a mental watch.”
“How many others?” she whispered, feeling sick to her stomach. She’d walked these woods before, might wel have stepped over them.
“None, Guild Hunter.”
The ice in his voice should’ve scared her, but she was too furious. “You know this is wrong, Raphael, keeping this from me. Yet you did it intentional y.”
His expression didn’t change, but she knew without a doubt that she was right. “Why?”
“Because you have a mortal heart.” A pitiless statement.
She shook under the verbal blow. “Is that so wrong?”
“It is not a matter of right or wrong”—metal ic blue, so very, very inhuman—“but of fact. This would have disturbed you to an extent that would’ve made it impossible for you to live here.”
It was the absolute truth, made no less so by the fact that he’d seen it with such cold clarity. Anger battled with other, deeper emotions, and it took her almost half a minute to find the control to say, “I want to ask you for something, Archangel.” He’d given her his heart, given her power over him, but until now, she’d never gambled anything on that power.
“What would you have, Guild Hunter?” So formal, so distant.
The part of her that was stil the child abandoned by mother and father both was terrified of pushing him too far, until he left her, too. It was a nauseating sensation—but this was a stand she had to take. “Strike this punishment from the books. Surely there are other ways?”
Raphael was as unmoving as stone in front of her for a long, long moment. “Is it a boon you ask, Hunter?”
“No,” she said with slow deliberation. “I ask this as your consort. This . . . it’s not worth tainting the relationship between us.”