Angels' Blood (9 page)

Raphael’s face settled into lines of displeasure. “It would’ve been better had he given the chance to someone else. Why accept the gift of immortality if you wish to be human?”

“I gotta agree with that one.” She shrugged. “Mr. Benson was forced to move out after a neighborhood uproar.”

“Not a tolerant place, your childhood home.”

“No.” And her father had been at the head of that intolerance. How it had humiliated him that his daughter was one of the monsters. “A few years later, I felt Slater Patalis brush by as he murdered his way across the country.” Her heart froze in her chest, chilled by the secret horror connected to that name.

“One of our few mistakes.”

Not really a mistake, she thought, not if he’d been normal going in. But she couldn’t say that without betraying Sara. “So you see, I’m used to fear. I grew up knowing the bogey-man lurked outside.”

“You lie to me, Elena.” He stopped in front of a solid black door. “But I will let it pass. You’ll soon tell me the truth of why you dance with death so eagerly.”

She wondered if he had Ariel and Mirabelle’s names in his files, if he knew the truth of the tragedy that had destroyed her mother and turned her father into a stranger. “You know what they say about being overconfident.”

“Exactly.” A small nod. “So tonight, I’ll show you why those you call whores seek their vampire lovers.”

“Nothing you do or say will convince me to change my mind.” She scowled. “They’re little more than drug addicts.”

“Such obstinance,” he murmured, and pushed open the door.

Whispered sounds, laughter, the tinkle of glass. It flowed out like an invitation. Raphael’s eyes dared her to step inside. Fool that she was, she accepted the challenge and—slipping a knife from an arm sheath into her palm—walked in, piercingly aware of the archangel at her back, the naked vulnerability of her spine . . . until her mouth dropped open in shock.

The vampires were having a cocktail party.

She blinked, taking in the muted, romantic lighting, the plush couches, the hors d’oeuvres accompanied by slender flutes of champagne. The food was clearly for the human guests, male and female, who stood talking, laughing, and flirting with their vampire hosts. Dinner suits lay snugly over lithely muscled shoulders, while cocktail dresses ran the gamut from long and slinky to short and sexy, the overriding themes black and red, with the occasional daring splash of white.

Conversation stopped the second they saw her. Then their eyes flicked behind her and she almost
heard
the collective sigh of relief—the hunter was on the archangel’s leash. Stifling the childish urge to show them different, she slid the knife discreetly back up into the sheath.

None too soon, too, because a vampire was walking toward her, glass of wine in hand. At least she hoped it was wine—the dark red liquid could as easily have been blood. “Hello, Elena.” The words were said in a beautiful, deep voice but it was his scent that was truly intoxicating—rich and dark and luscious.

“Doorvamp,” she whispered, throat husky. It was only when she found herself pressed against the living heat of Raphael that she realized she’d backed away from the clawing beauty of the invisible caress.

“My name is Dmitri.” He smiled, displaying a row of sparkling white teeth, not a fang in sight. An old vamp, an experienced vamp. “Come, dance with me.”

Heat uncurled between her legs, an involuntary reaction to Dmitri’s scent, a scent that held a very special—and highly erotic—allure for the hunter-born. “Stop it or I swear I’ll make you a eunuch.”

He looked down at the blade now pressing against his zipper. When he raised his head, his expression was more than a fraction annoyed. “If you’re not here to play, why come at all?” The scent dissipated, as if he’d drawn it into himself. “This is a place of safety and enjoyment. Take your weapons elsewhere.”

Flushing, she got rid of the knife. It was obvious she’d just committed a major faux pas. “Raphael.”

The archangel curled his hand around her upper arm. “Elena is here to learn. She doesn’t understand the fascination you hold for humans.”

Dmitri raised an eyebrow. “I’d be happy to show you.”

“Not tonight, Dmitri.”

“As you wish, sire.” Giving a small nod, Dmitri walked away . . . but only after wrapping a tendril of scent around her as a parting shot.

His slow smile said he could scent her response, knew she was weak-kneed with it. But the effect faded with every step he took, until she no longer craved the sensual pain of his touch—Dmitri’s scent was as much a tool of mind control as Raphael’s abilities. But for the first time, she began to understand why some hunters became sexually—even romantically—intertwined with the very creatures they hunted.

Of course, they didn’t hunt the ones like Dmitri. “He’s old enough to have repaid the hundred-year debt several times over.” Not to mention his considerable personal power—she’d never met any vampire with that much sheer magnetism. “Why does he stay with you?”

Raphael’s hand was a brand on her upper arm, burning through the material of her shirt to stain her skin. “He requires constant challenge. Working for me gives him the opportunity to fulfill his needs.”

“In more ways than one,” she murmured, watching as Dmitri went to a small, curvy blonde and put his hand on her waist. She looked up, enraptured. Not surprising, given that Dmitri was wet-dream beautiful—silky black hair, dark, dark eyes, skin that spoke of the Mediterranean rather than cold Slavic climes.

“I’m no procurer.” Raphael was openly amused. “The vampires in this room have no need of such services. Look around, who do you see?”

She frowned, about to snap back a sharp rejoinder, when her eyes widened. There, in that corner, that leggy brunette . . . “No way.” She squinted. “That’s Sarita Monaghan, the super-model.”

“Keep going.”

Her eyes drifted back to Dmitri’s curvy blonde. “I’ve seen her somewhere, too. A TV show?”

“Yes.”

Thrown off balance, she continued to scan the room. There was a famous rugged-jawed news anchor, happily ensconced on a couch with a striking flame-haired vampire. A little to their left sat a powerhouse New York couple, majority share-holders in a Fortune 500 company. Beautiful people. Smart people.

“They’re here by choice?” But she knew the answer. There was no hint of desperation in any of the eyes that met hers, none of the glassiness of will stolen. Instead, it was flirtation, enjoyment, and sex that filled the air. Definitely sex. The languid heat of it dripped off the walls.

“Do you feel it, Elena?” Closing his free hand over her other arm, he held her to his chest, his lips brushing her ear as he bent down to speak. “This is the drug they crave; this is their addiction. Pleasure.”

“Not the same,” she said, standing her ground. “The vamp-whores are nothing more than camp followers.”

“The only thing that separates them from this crowd is wealth and beauty.”

It stung her to realize he was right. “Fine, I take it back. Vampires and their groupies are all nice, healthy folks.” She couldn’t believe what she was seeing—the TV anchor was sliding his hand up the split in his date’s skirt, oblivious to anyone else.

He chuckled. “No, they aren’t nice. But they aren’t evil, either.”

“I never said that,” she retorted, eyes fixated on the excruciating pleasure on the anchor’s face as he stroked the redhead’s pale, pale skin. “I know they’re just people. My point was that—” She swallowed as another woman moaned, her vampire lover’s mouth hovering a teasing inch above the pulse in her neck, a hot whisper that promised ecstasy.

“Your point?” He grazed his mouth over her own pulse.

She jerked, wondering how the hell she’d ended up in an archangel’s arms—a man she’d been planning to knife in the heart. “I don’t like how the vampires use their abilities to enslave humans.”

“But what if the humans want to be enslaved? Do you see anyone complaining?”

No. All she could see were the lush brushstrokes of sensual play, an erotic mix of male and female, vampire and human. “Did you bring me to a damn orgy?”

He chuckled again, and this time, the sound was warm, liquid, like melted caramel over her skin. “Sometimes they cross a few lines but this is what it seems. A party where partners may be found.”

His hands slid up and down her arms, his breath ruffling the curling hairs at her temple. For a fleeting second, she wavered. What would it feel like to lean back, to let Rapha—
Oh, Jesus.
What was happening to her? “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.” She struggled in his hold.

He tightened it, his wings coming around to cut off her view of the room, his chest hot and hard at her back. “Are you sure?” His lips whispered over skin so sensitized, she had to fight the urge to shiver. “I have not taken a human lover for eons. But you taste . . . intriguing.”

The words unlocked her from the prison of sensory delight the Archangel of New York had spun with cool control. She was a toy to him, nothing more. After he was done, she’d be discarded like all unwanted toys. Used up. Forgotten. “Find someone else to amuse yourself with. I’m not in the market.” She pulled away, and this time, he let her go.

Wary, she spun around to face him. She expected anger, perhaps fury, at being denied, but Raphael’s face was a mask, watchful, unbreakable. She wondered if he’d been playing with her all along. Why the hell would an archangel take a human lover when he had a harem of stunning vampire beauties to pick from?

Say what you would about the dietary requirements, vampirism sure did do great things for the skin and body. Any vampire over five decades old was svelte, with flawless skin. Their allure, too, grew with each passing year—though the intrinsic force of it depended on the individual. Elena had met very old vampires who remained more prey than predator, but the truly powerful ones . . .

Some, like Dmitri, were good at hiding their strength, their incredible charisma, until they wanted to use it. Others had gone too far along the timeline and leaked power almost continuously. But even the weak ones, the ones who’d never be anything close to what Dmitri was now, were stunningly beautiful.

“I get the lesson,” she said when he remained silent. “I should be more tolerant of other people’s sexual practices.”

“An interesting way to put it.” He finally lowered his wings, folding them neatly behind his back. “But you’ve only glimpsed the tip of the iceberg.”

She wondered if the TV anchor had his fingers in the vamp’s panties by now. “I’ve seen enough.” Her face grew hot at the sense that all sorts of erotic things were going on behind her back.

“A prude, Elena? I thought hunters were free with their affections.”

“None of your damn business,” she muttered. “We either leave or I accept Dmitri’s offer.”

“You think that matters to me?”

“Sure.” She met his eyes, forced herself to hold her ground. “Once that vamp sinks his fangs into me, I won’t be able to walk
or
work.”

“I’ve never heard a man’s cock described as a fang before,” he murmured. “I’ll have to share your estimation of his skills with Dmitri.”

Elena knew her blush was burning up her cheeks but she refused to let him win this verbal skirmish. “Fang, cock, what’s the difference? It’s all sexual to a vampire.”

“But not to an angel. My cock serves a highly specific purpose.”

Lust—sharp, dangerous, unbidden—squeezed her chest so tight she could barely breathe. Her blush receded as all the heat in her body shifted. To low, damp places. “I’m sure it does,” she said sweetly, standing firm even as her body betrayed her. “Servicing all those vampire groupies must get tiring.”

His eyes narrowed. “Your mouth could get you into more trouble than you can handle.” Except he was looking at that same mouth with anything but censure. He was looking at it as if he wanted it wrapped around him.

“No way in hell,” she croaked out past the thickening in her blood.

He didn’t pretend not to understand her out-of-the-blue comment. “Then I shall make sure we are very much in heaven when it happens.” Eyes darkly indigo with challenge, he turned to open the door.

She stalked out—after sneaking a last, guilty look at the festivities. Dmitri was staring straight at her, his lips brushing the milk-and-cream skin of the blonde’s arched neck, his hand lying perilously close to the soft rise of her breasts. As the door closed, she saw his fangs flash bright. Her stomach twisted in a vicious shock of hunger.

“Would you go to his bed sweetly?” Raphael asked against her ear, his voice an unsheathed blade. “Would you whimper and beg?”

Elena swallowed. “Hell, no. He’s like double-frosted chocolate mud cake. It looks good, you want to eat the whole thing, but in reality it’s too sickly sweet.” Dmitri’s sensual nature was suffocating, heavy, a blanket that repelled even as it attracted.

“If he is cake, what am I?” Cruel, sensual lips against her cheek, her jaw.

“Poison,” she whispered. “Beautiful, seductive poison.”

Behind her, Raphael went so still she was reminded of the calm before a storm. But when the storm hit, it was delivered in a silky smooth voice that shoved deep inside her, laying her bare. “Yet I think you would rather drown in poison than gorge on cake.” His hands closed over her hips.

Lust in her throat, brutal and demanding. “But then, we both know about my self-destructive streak.” Stepping away, she put her back to the wall and faced him, willing her body to stop readying itself for a penetration she’d never allow. “I have no desire to be your chew-toy.”

The lines of his face might’ve been starkly masculine, but at that instant, his lips were pure temptation, soft, bitable, sensual in a way only a man’s mouth could be. “If I were to splay you out on my desk and thrust my fingers into you right now, I think I’d find different.”