Archangel's Shadows (Guild Hunter series Book 7)

The male’s pale white skin filled with a flush of color when Janvier glanced at him. “Are you as compliant and eager?”


An immediate nod. “Anything you want.”

Putting down his glass, Janvier forced himself to place his hand on the thigh displayed to him, though he felt more like telling the group to get the fuck out of this life they were in. It wasn’t the random fang-and-fuck lifestyle that worried him—it was the fact that a strong vampire could incapacitate all four within seconds. Janvier could do it before a scream escaped even one throat. He didn’t think they understood that, believing themselves safe in a group.

It was an ignorance he’d rectify before he left, especially given how many vampires he’d noted in the room whose tendencies echoed Khalil’s. Louis’s meat market was becoming more deadly with each passing minute, the hum of bloodlust below the surface troubling.

“Yes.” Throaty seductiveness from the girl beside him. “We’re ready to be your toys. Shall I ask the bartender for a booth key?”

“I think no one has taught you the value of patience,” he said in a deep purr of a tone that had the blondes squirming and the male erect beneath his tight-fitting pants. “Has no one ever spent hours with you? Taking a sip at a time, drawing out the pleasure until it is part insanity, part pain?”

“No,” the blondes breathed.

“We . . . we could go to a hotel if you want.” Flushing, the green-jumpsuited girl put her hand over his and rubbed her thumb gently across the back of his knuckles.

Janvier battled the violent urge to wrench it back—he didn’t want to be known as available. He wasn’t available, hadn’t been since the day he’d met Ash, and he wanted the entire world to know that. But he was also loyal to the Tower and to Raphael, and this crime threatened the stability of the city. More, he knew his hunter would not rest easy until they gave their victim the dignity of a name.

So he played the game, eased the conversation toward the victim without alerting the four donors of his intent. He made them believe she’d fed him the last time he’d been in this club, that he couldn’t quite remember her name, intimated they’d been too involved in other things to bother with exchanging such mundane information.

It was the male who said, “I think you mean Felicity.” He went to his knees beside Janvier’s armchair, put his hand on Janvier’s own knee. “I was with her when she got her tat a couple of years ago. I got one, too. See?” He pumped up a muscle to show it off.

“It is excellent work.” Janvier examined the blue-green dragon, to the boy’s pleasure. The male didn’t go back to his seat afterward, leaning instead against Janvier’s leg like an affectionate pet.

Some old vamps treated donors as exactly that. Giorgio, Janvier thought, likely enjoyed having his women paying homage at his feet. Unfortunately for this group, Janvier had never been comfortable with such subservience, found no pleasure in the weak—though he felt nothing against them.

People were who they were, some strong, some not.

So he ran his fingers over the boy’s shoulder, careful to avoid the skin displayed by his muscle shirt. He could’ve rejected the boy—and his friends—harshly, but Janvier didn’t see the point in that; he didn’t kick kittens or puppies, so why would he do the same to these harmless creatures? Though it did concern him how many of the mortals he’d seen in the clubs fell into this personality type.

That might be a fact he’d have to discuss with Dmitri—if the vampires who hooked up with such submissive men and women were caring for them, that was one thing, but if they were abusing them . . . Then again, the Tower didn’t interfere in the affairs of adults unless the rules were broken. And, harmless or not, this group and others like them chose the thrill of the clubs.

As the cattle chose to give freely of their blood.

No one, however, chose to be murdered and thrown away like a piece of trash.

“Felicity?” he said as the male curled his hand around Janvier’s calf, eyes closing. “A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

“I guess.” One of the blondes twisted her lips. “But she didn’t really know how to party.”

“Her last name was Johnson!” the other blonde added with a proud smile. “I just remembered.”

“Felicity Johnson. Merci.”

“Oh, but she doesn’t donate anymore,” Green Jumpsuit said at once, jealousy a stabbing dagger in her eyes.

This one and the first blonde, he thought, might eventually develop claws. If they survived.

“Yeah,” the male added, “ever since she hooked up with her rich boyfriend.”

“We haven’t seen her in months.” The thigh under Janvier’s hand flexed, the girl turning toward him. “I kind of didn’t believe her about the rich boyfriend, but then why would she stop clubbing, if it wasn’t the truth?”