Angels' Flight (9 page)

Raphael found her choice of words interesting. It betrayed something about the vampires under her tender care that they’d seize any chance of escape.

“I grow tired of this.” Titus stirred his muscular bulk, his skin gleaming blue-black. “Bring in the human and let us hear him.”

Agreeing, Raphael touched Illium’s mind.
Send Simon in.

The doors opened on the heels of his command and a tall man with the sinewy muscles of a street fighter or foot soldier walked in. His hair was white, his skin wrinkled, but his eyes, they sparkled bright blue. Illium pulled the doors shut the instant Simon cleared them, cloaking the room in lush privacy once more.

The retiring Guild Director met Raphael’s eyes and nodded once. “I am honored to be in the presence of the Cadre. It’s not a thing I ever thought to experience.”

Unsaid was the fact that most humans who came into contact with the Cadre ended up dead.

“Be seated.” Favashi waved to a chair placed at the open end of the semicircle.

The old warrior settled himself without any fuss, but Raphael had seen Simon in his prime. He knew the Guild Director was feeling the kiss of age. And yet, he was no old man, never would be. He was a man to be respected. Once, Raphael might’ve called such a man a friend, but that time had passed a thousand years ago. He’d learned too well that mortal lives blinked out with firefly quickness.

“You wish to retire your position?” Neha asked with regal elegance. She was one of the few who continued to keep a court—the Queen of Poisons might kill you, but you’d admire her refined grace even as you took your last agonizing breath.

Simon remained coolly composed under her regard. Being Guild Director for forty years had given him a confidence he hadn’t had as the young man Raphael had first seen take the reins. “I must,” he now said. “My hunters are happy for me to stay on, but a good director need always consider the health of the Guild as a whole. That health flows from the top—the leader must be eminently capable of undertaking an active hunt if necessary.” A rueful smile. “I’m strong and I’m skilled, but I’m no longer as fast, or as willing to dance with death.”

“Honest words.” Titus nodded approvingly. He was most at ease among warriors and their kin—for though he might rule with brutal strength, he was as blunt as the hard line of his jaw. “It’s a strong general who can give up the reins of power.”

Simon acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod. “I’ll always be a hunter, and as is custom, I’ll remain available to the new director till my death. However, I have every faith in her ability to lead the Guild.”

“Her?” Charisemnon snorted. “A female?”

Michaela raised an eyebrow. “My respect for the Guild has suddenly increased a hundredfold.”

Simon didn’t allow himself to get drawn into the dialogue. “Sara Haziz is the best possible person to take my place for a number of reasons.”

Astaad settled his wings. “Tell us.”

“With respect,” Simon said quietly, “that is no concern of the Cadre’s.”

It was Titus who reacted first. “You think to defy us?”

“The Guild has always been neutral for a reason.” Simon’s spine remained unbending. “Our job is to retrieve vampires who break their Contracts. But through the ages, we’ve often found ourselves in the middle of wars between angels. We survive only because we
are
seen as neutral. If the Cadre takes too much of an interest, we lose that protection.”

“Pretty words,” Neha said.

Simon met her gaze. “That makes them no less true.”

“Is she capable?” Elijah asked. “This, we must know. If the American Guild falls, the ripple effect could be catastrophic.”

Vampires would go utterly free, Raphael thought. Some would slip softly into an ordinary life. But others, others would murder and kill. Because at heart, they were predators. Not so different from angels when all was said and done.

“Sara is more than capable,” Simon said. “She also has the loyalty of her fellow hunters—I’ve had a significant number of them come up to me this past year and suggest her name as a possible successor.”

“This Sara is your best hunter?” Astaad asked.

Simon shook his head. “But the best will never make a good director. She is hunter-born.”

Raphael made a note to find out her name. Unlike normal members of the Guild, the hunter-born came out of the womb with the ability to scent vampires. They were the best trackers in the world, the most relentless—bloodhounds tuned to one particular scent. “And Sara?” he asked. “Will she accept?”

Simon took a moment to think. “I have not a single doubt that Sara will make the right decision.”

1

S
ara wasn’t used to feeling sorry for vampires. Her job,
after all, was to bag, tag, and transport them back to their masters, the angels. She was no fan of indentured servitude but it wasn’t as if the angels hid the price of immortality. Anyone who wanted to get Made had to serve the angels for a hundred years. Nonnegotiable.

You didn’t want to bow and scrape for a century, you didn’t sign the Contract. Simple. Running out on the Contract after the angels delivered their part of the bargain? That just made you a welsher. And nobody liked a welsher.

However, this guy had worse problems than being returned home to a pissed-off angel. “Can you talk?”

The vampire clamped a hand over his almost-decapitated neck and looked at her as if she were insane.

“Yeah, sorry.” She wondered how the hell he was still alive. Vampires weren’t true immortals—they could be killed by both humans and others of their kind. Cutting off the head was the most foolproof method, but the majority of people didn’t go that way—it wasn’t as if the vamps were going to stand still for it. Shooting out the heart worked, so long as you then cut off the head while they were down. Or fire. That did the job.

But Sara was a tracker. Her job was to retrieve, not kill. “You need blood?”

The vampire looked hopeful.

“Suck it in,” she said. “You’re not dead. Means you’re a strong one. You’ll last till I can get you home.”

“Dhooooo.”

Ignoring the gurgled rejection, she crouched down to slide an arm around his back so she could drag him to his feet. She was only five feet three, and he was considerably taller. But she wasn’t bleeding out from her neck, and she worked out seven days a week. Grunting as she got him up, she began to walk him to the car. He resisted.

“Need a hand?” A deep, quiet voice, aged whiskey and smoldering embers.

She didn’t know that voice. Neither did she know the body that moved out of the shadows. Six feet plus of solid, muscled male. Heavy across the shoulders, thick in the thighs, but with the liquid grace of a trained fighter. One she wouldn’t want to be up against in a fight. And she’d taken down vampires twice her size. “Yeah,” she said. “Just help me get him to the car. It’s parked at the curb.”

The stranger all but picked up the vampire—who was starting to make vaguely understandable sounds—and dumped him in the backseat. “Control chip?”

She pulled her crossbow off her back and aimed it at the vamp. The poor guy scrambled back, pulling his feet completely into the vehicle. Rolling her eyes, she returned the crossbow to its previous position and withdrew a necklet from its spot hooked into the waistband of her black jeans, under her T-shirt. Reaching in, she paused. “Don’t try anything funny or I’ll shoot you for real.”

Slumping, the vampire let her clamp the circle of metal around his rapidly healing neck. The science behind the device’s effect on vampiric biology was complex, but the results clear—the vampire was now constrained from acting without a direct order from Sara. Helpful didn’t begin to describe the control chip because even this injured, the vamp could probably rip off her head in two seconds flat.

Sara liked her head, thank you very much.

Crawling back out, she shut the door and looked up at the other hunter—and there was no doubt in her mind as to his vocation. “Sara.” She thrust out a hand.

He took it, but didn’t speak for a long time. She couldn’t bring herself to protest—something in those dark, dark green eyes held her in place. Power, she thought, there was an incredible sense of power in him. Then he spoke, and the decadent whiskey of his voice almost blinded her to his actual words.

“I’m Deacon. You’re much smaller than your reputation suggests.”

She wrenched back her hand. “Thanks. And don’t offer to help next time.”

Most men would’ve walked off, egos dented. Deacon simply stood there, watching her with those intense eyes. “It wasn’t a criticism.”

Why the hell was she still here? “I have to deliver Rodney to his master.”

“You have a rep.” He stepped closer, his eyes drifting to the strap that bisected her body. “You and your crossbow.”

Was that amusement she saw on that oh-so-serious face? “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. My bolts are made to carry the same properties as the necklets—it keeps me out of harm’s way until the target’s safely chipped, and given their ability to heal, it hardly hurts.”

“Yet you had a necklet.”

She took off the crossbow. “Move.” This close, all she could see was Deacon, his chest a mile wide. Maybe she was a little affected, but hey, she had a pulse. He was sexy as hell. That changed nothing. She was a hunter. And he might be Guild, but he was also an unknown. “My best friend loves them.” She didn’t get why, but then, Ellie didn’t get the crossbow, so they were even. However, Sara had promised to try the things, since Ellie had tried the crossbow on her last hunt. “I asked you to move.”

He finally shifted back a few inches. Enough that she could pull open the passenger door and drop the crossbow inside it. Rodney was almost completely healed, but he’d gotten blood all over the interior of the rental car.
Damn.
The Guild would cover the expenses, but she didn’t particularly want to ride around in that mess. “I have to deliver the package.”

“Let’s talk to him first.”

She closed the passenger door. “And why would we do that?”

“Aren’t you curious about who cut him?” He had ridiculously long lashes, she thought. Dark and silky and completely unfair on a man.

“Probably some vampire hate group.” She frowned. “Morons. Never occurs to them that they’re attacking someone’s husband, father, or brother.”

He kept staring at her. “What?” She rubbed at her face, glad her dark skin tone hid her stupidly hot reaction to this stranger.

“They told me you had brown skin, brown eyes, black hair.”

That sounded about right. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“I’ll tell you after we talk to the vampire.”

“Carrot and stick?” She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not a rabbit.”

His lips curved up a little at the corners. “For the sake of camaraderie.” Reaching into his battered leather jacket, he pulled out his Guild ID.

Curious enough not to cut off her nose to spite her face, she jerked her head toward the car. “I’ll go into the front seat, take off the necklet.” Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on your point of view—vampires couldn’t speak while chipped. “You get into the back and make sure he doesn’t—”

“I won’t fit in the car.”

She took him in. It was all she could do not to ask him to strip naked so she could lick him from head to toe. “Okay,” she said, stuffing her suddenly energetic hormones back into storage. “New plan. I’ll get him to lower the window, and you put your arm around his neck while we talk.”

And that was what they did. Rodney was more than happy to chat once Sara introduced herself.

“You like to shoot people.” He made it sound as if she was a maniac. “With a bow and arrow!”

“You’re behind the times—I switched to a crossbow last year.” It was faster, but she kinda missed her specially designed bow. Maybe she’d go back to it. “And it doesn’t even hurt.”

“Says you.”

She blinked. “How old are you?”

“I just turned three.” Vampires counted their age from the time of their Making.

Sara shook her head. “And you tried to run? Why the fuck would you do something so stupid?” His sire, Mr. Lacarre, was way past mad.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Sounded like a good idea at the time.”

Clearly, they weren’t dealing with the sharpest knife in the drawer. “Oooookay.” Her eyes met Deacon’s. Not a ripple in their night-shadow green depths, but she could’ve sworn he was holding back laughter. Biting off her own smile, she returned her attention to Rodney. “Simple question.”

“Oh, good.” The vampire grinned, showing both fangs, something the old ones never did. “I don’t like hard things.”

“Who cut you, Rod?”

He swallowed and blinked rapidly. “Nobody.”

“So you tried to decapitate yourself?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, which meant Deacon was holding on very lightly. Not that it mattered. Sara had her crossbow as insurance.

“Rodney.”
She put all the menace she was capable of in that single word. “Don’t lie to me.”

He blinked again and—oh my God—he was going to cry. Now she felt like a bully. “Come on, Rod. Why are you scared?”

“Because.”

“Because . . .” She thought about what would scare a vampire that bad. “Was it an
angel
?” If it had been his sire, she couldn’t do anything about it except report the bastard to the Vampire Protection Authority. However, it was also possible the attack had been orchestrated by one of Lacarre’s enemies, in which case the angel would take care of it him-self.

“No.” Rodney sounded shocked enough to be telling the truth. “Of course not. The angels Make us. They don’t kill us.”

And the boy was living in la-la land. “So who else scares you that bad?” She caught Deacon’s eyes again at that moment and found her answer in their no-longer-amused depths. “A hunter.” Or someone Rodney had mistaken for a hunter. Because real hunters didn’t kill vampires.

Rodney started sniffling. “Please don’t hurt me. I didn’t do anything.”

“Hey.” Sara reached out and, ignoring his flinch, patted him on the shoulder. “I’m interested in collecting my retrieval fee. I only get half if you’re dead, so it doesn’t make sense for me to kill you.”