Angels' Blood (38 page)

Raphael could feel his wings straining as the wounds—both new and old—started to hurt. It wasn’t disabling, not yet. But it would be soon. Uram had gotten enough angelfire onto him that pieces of it had stuck. Those pieces would continue to eat through his flesh until they were dug out. He had less than ten minutes before his wings weakened to the point that he couldn’t fly. Then he felt a tendon snap and remembered.

He was a little bit human now.

So be it. He’d rather die a little human, he thought with strange clarity, than become a monster.
Elena! Live!
He continued to send that order even as his own strength waned and more and more of Uram’s bolts seared his skin, his wings.
You must live.
She had to survive. Her spirit burned too bright to be so easily snuffed out.

And he realized . . . that fragile, mortal life wasn’t just important to him. It was
more
important than his own.
Wake, Guild Hunter!

He finally got close enough to Uram to chance another blow, but his power reserves were running low. Below him, the city was a spreading darkness as they both sucked power from the electricity grid, from anything they could. Cars stalled and died, batteries went flat, pylons overloaded. Still Raphael kept pulling. But he knew his body was going to give out long before the available power did.

He hit Uram’s wing and it wasn’t enough. The Angel of Blood had glutted himself on his kills and, even weakened, his wing healed faster than an ordinary angel’s, faster than even an archangel’s. Uram laughed and created another ball of angelfire. But this one he shot toward the half-destroyed apartment.

Raphael intercepted the blast, taking the hit on his shoulder. Pain seared through his body as the fire touched bone and began eating its way through. Blinking away the sweat falling into his eyes, he kept fighting, hovering above the apartment so Uram couldn’t destroy it.

“You fool,” Uram taunted. “You’d give up immortality for a mere woman?”

Raphael answered by staying where he was, deflecting the angelfire Uram shot his way with unrelenting force. He could sense his men coming closer. He warned them to stay out of range. Only an archangel could withstand angelfire for longer than a few seconds. Then one of Uram’s bolts hit his uninjured shoulder.

The fire had already eaten through one side to expose the whiteness of bone. His load-bearing muscles were failing one by one. But he kept fighting, hitting Uram several times, vaguely aware that Manhattan was now completely without power, pitch-black under his feet. Farther out, in Queens, in the Bronx, lights continued to go out in a slow, dark, wave.

More power lay beyond those areas, but his body was close to giving out. Filling it with as much energy as he could contain, until the glow of it blazed from his skin, he readied himself for a final, suicidal clash. If he could make contact with Uram’s body, he might be able to burn them both up. A high price to pay, but an archangel turned Angel of Blood could tear the world apart, end civilization itself.

Throwing back just enough angelfire to keep Uram from coming closer, but not enough to drain himself, he watched for a gap in his opponent’s defenses, for a single mistake. But when his chance came, it wasn’t because Uram made a mistake. No, it came because of a hunter too stubborn to surrender to evil.

Gunshots fired from the open side of the torn apartment building, ripping through the bloodborn angel’s wings.

Uram screamed and began to spiral down, shooting angelfire as he fell. Raphael flew toward the tumbling archangel, leading with his hands. As one hand impacted on Uram’s chest, he held on to to the bloodborn angel with his other and thrust. His hand went through Uram’s rib cage to hit his heart.

“Good-bye, old friend,” he said, knowing that nothing of the angel he’d once known remained in this monster. Then he released a final, shocking blast of angelfire. It spread through Uram’s body like a fever—the dying archangel’s grabbing hands threatened to take Raphael down with him. But Raphael had to live. Because if he didn’t, Elena would die.

He wrenched back an instant before Uram exploded in a burst of pure white light, lighting up the whole of Manhattan in a single second-long blast. Then it was over and Uram was not only dead, but erased from the cosmos. Not even dust remained.

Bleeding from wounds that continued to worsen as the angelfire dug in ever deeper, Raphael should have landed. Instead, he beat his barely functional wings upward.

One of Uram’s last, desperate bolts had hit the building. Raphael knew Elena had to have been on the very edge of the eight-story structure when she’d shot up at Uram. That edge was now gone, but he could feel Elena’s life, feel her dying flame.
Elena, answer me.

Quiet, peaceful, a hush of sound. Then,
Stay a little human, won’t you, Raphael?

A request that was almost not a sound at all. But it was enough. He followed the mental thread to discover her broken body on the narrow ledge provided by a precariously hanging neon sign. Her back was shattered, her legs twisted in a way that was nothing natural. But she smiled when she saw him. And her hand still held the gun that had saved more lives than anyone would ever know.

He dared not touch her, afraid he’d cause her to slip over the ledge. “You are not to die.”

A slow blink. “Bossy.” It was a sound bubbled through with blood.
The voice isn’t working so good.

He could hear the teasing even in that fading whisper.
Our bodies produce a toxin that needs to be purged at regular intervals. The older we are, the longer the intervals.

Yes. We build up an immunity, but only to a point. After that, the toxin begins to bond with our very cells, mutating in the process.
However, that base immunity meant an archangel always had a certain level in his blood. Enough. It would be just enough.

The only way to purge the buildup before it goes critical is by transfer to a living human.
Angelic history told of a time when they’d given in to despair at the loss of so many mortal lives, and tried to purge it into animals. The resulting carnage had been such that even Lijuan would not talk of it.
We know we get something back from the transfer, something that keeps the toxin stable, but even after all these millennia, we know not what.

But . . .
A pause, as if she was gathering her strength, determined to have her curiosity satisfied.
The tests? Compatibility?

He’d answer every question, betray every secret, if it would hold her here.
Only some are born with the ability to survive the toxin, to use it as fuel for the transition from mortal to vampire. The others die.
And despite their cruelty, despite the lack of compassion engendered by age, no immortal wanted to bear the stain of that much slaughter. To promise life and give only death was a step too far into the abyss.
Before the tests, perhaps one in ten made it through.

Ah . . .
Not even a whisper now.

His canines elongated, and a strange, beautiful, golden taste filled his mouth as he felt a tear slide down his face. He was an archangel. He had not cried in over a thousand years.
So now you know—that’s why so many morons get Made.

Weak laughter in his head.
I guess a dying woman can be stupid if she wants. I’m crazy about you, Archangel. You scare the shit out of me at times, but I want to dance with you anyway.

His heart stopped beating when her voice faded, and he leaned forward, his mouth overwhelmed by the taste of beauty, of life. “I won’t let you die. I had your blood tested. You’re compatible.”

Her lashes struggled to open, failed. But her mental voice, though weak, was adamant.
I don’t want to be a vampire. Bloodsucking’s not my thing.

“You must live.” And then he kissed her, feeding that golden taste, that intoxicating blend, into her mouth.
You must live.

That was when the sign gave away, tearing loose from the building and plunging to the ground in a shattering crash. Elena didn’t fall alone, gathered as she was in Raphael’s arms, his mouth fused with hers. They fell together, his wings close to destroyed, his soul melded to that of a mortal.

If this is death, Guild Hunter,
he thought to his mortal as angelfire scored through his bones and touched his heart,
then I will see you on the other side.

 

 

Sara stared upward, tears rolling down her cheeks. The
Archangel of New York was falling, and in his arms, he carried a body that streamed bright near white hair. “Ellie, no, you can’t fucking do this,” she whispered, so angry she could hardly form words. She’d run down here with a crossbow the second things had started turning to shit, knowing Ellie would need her. Ransom had turned up minutes later, gun in hand. But the fight had taken place too far above for either of them to help.

And now Raphael fell and there was nothing they could do.

It was like she was seeing things in slow motion, watching as her best friend lay broken in an archangel’s arms, those magnificent wings shredded beyond redemption. There was no time to prepare a soft landing, the wreckage below them full of jagged shards that would tear and destroy—shattered brick, torn-off pipe, even a broken chopper, its blades bent by the avalanche of debris. Sharp edges. Everywhere she looked, the edges were too sharp. Too deadly.

Sara sobbed in Ransom’s rigid hold, crying for both of them because she knew Ransom would choose anger rather than the pain of loss. Her eyes blurred, and for a second, she thought she was imagining the wings filling her vision. They surrounded Raphael, soft, dark shadows in the pitch blackness of the night that had fallen over Manhattan.

“They’re rising!” She jerked at Ransom’s coat, stared. “They’re rising!” Raphael and Elena were lost in the mass of wings but Sara didn’t care. All that mattered was that they hadn’t fallen to earth, hadn’t fractured into a thousand pieces as she watched, helpless. “Ellie’s alive.”

Ransom didn’t dispute her claim, though they both knew Ellie’s broken body spoke of injuries that could never be repaired. He just held her and let her pretend everything was okay. At least for a moment longer.

 

 

One week later, Sara slammed down the phone in her of
fice and stared across at Ransom while Deacon stood by her side, a solid, immovable presence. Her husband. Her rock. “They’re refusing to release any information on either Raphael or Ellie.”

Ransom’s mouth tensed. “Why?”

“Angels don’t have to give reasons.” Sara’s mouth twisted, sorrow so deep and true inside of her that she didn’t know how she moved. “That night, we all got a vivid lesson in the fact that archangels can die. Might be Raphael’s gone and we’re dealing with new management.”

“They have no right to keep her from us!” Losing the cool he’d retained till then, Ransom brought a fisted hand down on the chair arm. “We’re her family.” He froze. “Did they give Ellie up to that bastard?”

Sara shook her head. “Jeffrey’s been completely stone-walled. At least my calls get answered.”

“Who does the answering?”

“Dmitri.”

Ransom got up and began to pace, as if unable to sit still. “He’s a vampire.”

“I don’t know what the hell is going on.” It certainly seemed as if the vampire, not another angel, was in charge. Deacon had used his sources—and he knew some very unusual people—to come up with the same answer. Dmitri was running the show, in effect, running Manhattan.

“This is probably useless information,” she continued, “but the latest word is that another one of the archangels, Michaela, left the city soon after Uram was killed.” Everyone knew which archangel had died—it was the biggest news story of the millennium, even with the angels refusing to offer even a crumb of information.

“Three archangels in one city?” Ransom shook his head. “That’s not coincidence. Deacon?”

“You’re right. But that just raises more questions, answers none.”

Trust Deacon to cut to the heart of it. So apparently calm. But she sensed his fury in the rigidity of his muscles. Her husband chose his friends with care—Ellie was definitely one of them. Touching him lightly on the thigh even as he put one big hand on her shoulder, she said, “There are rumors Archangel Tower’s closed itself off even from other angels.”

Ransom thrust a hand through his unbound hair, hair that Elena had taken such delight in teasing him over. Now it lay uncared for around his shoulders. “I think you’re right—it sounds like Raphael’s dead and they’re scrambling to find a replacement.”

Still at her desk, Sara stared out into the lights of a city that remained half black. So many of the power relays and wires had been destroyed in the archangel-to-archangel fight that the repair job was going to take months. “But why won’t they give us Ellie?” That, Sara couldn’t understand. “She’s mortal. She’s not theirs.”
Sara
would take care of her best friend, with all the honor and love in her heart.

Ransom turned to shoot her a probing look. “You in shape?”

She understood in a split second. “Good enough to sneak into the damn Tower.”

“You’ll go in wired,” Deacon said, proving once again that she’d seriously lucked out in the marriage stakes. “Both of you. Anything goes wrong, I’ll be waiting with an extraction team. Who’s here right now?”

Sara thought rapidly. “Kenji’s in the Cellars. So is Rose. Just downtime, so they can come out.”

“Call them up. I’ll get the wire kit.”

An hour later, she found herself crouching beside Ransom in the gardens around the heavily guarded Tower. Incoming and outgoing traffic in the area surrounding it was now so restricted that no one had managed to get this close since the night the city went dark. Sara saw a possible entry point, signaled the information to Ransom, and moved. They were inside the unlit expanse of the ground floor a few seconds later.