The other archangel came into sight seconds later, her wings copper in a sky slowly turning from gray to light. He waited as she brought herself to a standing hover in front of him. “The boy?”
she asked, her expression haunted by an agony he knew would"ve made Elena"s heart fill with pity, with sympathy.
He was older, harder. He"d seen Michaela end lives on a whim, play with men and angels as one would with chess pieces. But in this . . . she"d earned the right to know. “He will heal.”
A shudder rippled through her body, a body so beautiful that it had made fools of kings and led to the death of at least one archangel. Neha might be the Queen of Snakes, but Raphael was certain it was Michaela who"d helped push Uram to the point of no return, goading him with the most poisonous of whispers.
“Your hunter,” Michaela said, making no effort to hide her dislike, “was she able to pick up the trail?”
“Not beneath the snow. Indications are that the vampire was helped by an angel.” And if that knowledge leaked to the general populace, it would devastate what remained of the Refuge"s equilibrium. “You need to check your people.”
Her face turned to a stone mask, her bones blades against her skin. “Oh, I will.” A pause, her eyes piercing even in the dark. “You don"t think my people are loyal to me.”
“It matters little what I think.” What he believed was that fear alone, shaped by capricious whim, would never foster loyalty. “I must go. Elena will try to trace the scent again when she wakes.”
“She remains as weak as a mortal.”
“Good-bye, Michaela.” If she believed Elena weak, that was her mistake.
He landed beside the Medica with a silence born of a million such landings, the snow hardly lifting around him. The building was serene, empty, but he knew angels and vampires both would return with the rising of the sun, to reassure themselves that Sam lived, that his heart still beat.
Until then, Raphael would watch over him.
Elena woke to the knowledge that she was in an archangel"s arms, the sun streaking its way into the room on gilded fingers. “What time is it?”
“You"ve only slept a few hours,” Raphael told her, his breath an intimate caress against her neck. “Do you feel strong enough to continue the track?”
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“Oh, the track"s happening,” she said, stealing a single moment to savor the wild heat of him.
“It"s just a matter of how fast I"ll be able to go.” A deep breath and she dragged herself out of bed, her wings held close to her back until she was standing beside it. She turned to find Raphael watching her with those eyes of unearthly blue, his chest naked enticement bathed in sunlight.
“Elena.” A subtle reprimand.
Blushing, she went through a quick but comprehensive warm-up. “Nothing"s too stiff.” Her eyes returned to that magnificent body he wouldn"t let her touch. “I might need a massage at the end of the day, though.”
“That might be a temptation too far.”
Memories stroked into her mind, of his fingers teasing her to ecstasy as that deep voice told her every wicked thing he planned to do. Feeling her body flush, she turned away from a face that could make even a hunter fall into sin, and made her way to the bathroom. A quick shower later, she was feeling a bit more human.
Human.
No, she wasn"t that anymore. But she wasn"t a vampire either. She wondered if her father would find her more acceptable now, or would this make her even more of an abomination in his eyes?
“Go then, go and roll around in the muck. Don’t bother coming back.”
It still hurt, that rejection, the way he"d looked at her from behind the thin metal frames of his spectacles. After her mother"s death she"d tried so hard to be what Jeffrey Deveraux wanted in a daughter, in his oldest surviving heir. Her existence had been a tightrope, one that wobbled constantly beneath her terrified feet. Never had she been comfortable in the Big House, the house her father had bought after the blood, the death, the screams. But she"d tried. Until one day, the tightrope snapped.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
“Your hunger makes mine sing, hunter.”
She stiffened in rejection. “No.”
Turning off the water, she got out and stood with the towel pressed to her face. Was it real, that whisper? It had to be. She"d never forget that low, sinuous voice, that handsome face that hid the 114
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soul of a murderer. But she"d forgotten those words, had buried them. The words . . . and what came after.
Elena.
Clean, fresh, the sea and the wind. She clung to it . Hey, I’ll be out soon.
I can sense your fear.