Archangel's Legion (16 page)

“I return as per your command, dear Bluebell,” the vampire now said, the cadence of his voice invoking images of bayous dark and mysterious.

Illium’s order was to the point. “Make sure no one gets to Keir. Aodhan is arranging aerial backup—someone should be here within ten minutes.” When Janvier flicked a salute, his motorcycle jacket shifting to reveal the gleaming black butt of a serious gun, Illium turned to Elena. “A lift?”

“Yes.”

His hands around her waist, her own on his shoulders, Illium took off. Though he was whiplash-fast and could maneuver like nobody else she knew, he didn’t have as much brute strength as Raphael, the lift taking longer than it did when it was her consort who held her. Eyes of gold looked into her own as they rose into the starlit sky, the lashes thick black tipped with blue in a natural echo of his hair. “You look angry, Ellie.”

Oh, she was. It didn’t matter that she understood she was being irrational—humans couldn’t be permitted certain knowledge for the good of mortals and immortals alike. And if anyone leaked the news of this disease, it would not only incite panic, it might give Raphael’s enemies the sign of weakness for which they no doubt waited.

Regardless of all that, she was angry at Raphael for being so much an archangel. That, too, was in no way logical or rational, simply a sign that she’d lost sight of the truth of him because he’d become someone else to her. It was a bone-jarring shock to be so bluntly reminded that the man who was her lover was that man
only for her
. To the rest of the world he was—must be—the lethal, dangerous, and sometimes cruel Archangel of New York.

None of that was something she could share with Illium, this battle a very private one, so all she said was, “It’s been a hard night.”

His expression told her he knew that wasn’t all of it, but he released her without further words as soon as they’d gained the correct altitude, and they flew in silence to the cute little warehouse that functioned as Blood-for-Less’s current base of operations . . . and the heart of the infection.

14

U
nsurprisingly, the blood café was open, the doorway
glowing with a muted light that would be too dark for most humans, but perfect for its clientele. While the warehouse was technically in the Vampire Quarter, it was on the very fringe, no other vampiric businesses around it. As a result, the area was currently deserted, devoid of foot traffic.

Inside, the warehouse had been partitioned into two sides using heavy black drapes in lush velvet, one side acting as the store and office, while the other was set up with three sets of unexpectedly lovely seating arrangements featuring wine-red sofas accented with black rugs. There was even art on the walls, the black-and-white photographs carefully chosen to add to the darkly sensual ambience.

It was the kind of place that might tempt a group of friends to linger, drink a glass of blood together . . . maybe buy another more expensive one—because when Elena picked up a menu from a nearby side table lacquered in glossy black, she saw that Blood-for-Less also offered a premium service tailored to its market: rich blood flavored or spiced in a number of different ways, but at a price that wouldn’t break the budget, as each serving was relatively small. Attractive enough pricewise that a couple on a date, for example, might buy several flavors to share, and fancy enough that it’d feel like a special occasion.

Smart business.

“Welcome—” The pretty Hispanic woman who’d walked out of the office cut off her spiel the instant she saw them. “Consort.” Ruffles of white lace at her throat and cuffs, teamed with a tightly fitted vest and pants in black, she lowered her upper half in a deep bow. “How may I be of service?” Her gaze flicked to the door that Illium was closing as she rose back up, fear crawling into her eyes with a quickness that told Elena this vamp’s angel hadn’t been kind to her. “I assure you I’ve completed my hundred years. I have my discharge papers—”

Elena held up a hand to relieve the woman’s panic. “I’m not here to take you in, but I need you to answer some questions. How much blood do you have in storage?”

Blinking, the vampire pulled herself together with commendable speed. “I just began this business three months ago, so it runs on a shoestring. My present stock is two hundred bottles.”

A knock somewhere beyond the velvet curtains had the owner glancing over her shoulder, before she jerked her gaze back to Elena, perspiration glimmering on her skin. “That’s the donor entrance. I get enough walk-ins to keep the stock relatively steady, but I haven’t yet built up a strong network of regular donors. It can get hairy sometimes—last week I was down to twenty bottles before a group of college students dropped by.” The explanation came out staccato-fast, as if she was attempting to hold back suspected bad news by drowning the air in words.

“I need to see the blood,” Elena said, hating the fact that she now inspired so much fear in a legal, hardworking vampire.

A jerky nod. “Of course.” The shorter, curvier woman led her inside the office and to three large fridges. “Is—is there a problem with my blood?” Her fingers trembled as she tugged at the lace of her cuffs.

“I can’t tell you yet. If you could step out, stay with Illium.”

Opening the nearest fridge once the vampire left, Elena picked up the first bottle, unscrewed it and took a sniff.

Cold iron, a hint of disease . . . 
but it was a disease she’d scented before.

“Cancer,” she muttered and screwed the lid back on.

It took her a number of hours to go through the entire stock, and by the time she was halfway through, she’d found three that pulsed with the putrid stench she associated with the vampire pox. An angel dispatched earlier for courier duty took the infected blood to Keir as it was discovered, the healer having returned to the labs underneath the Tower.

No others set off her senses.

Regardless, none of the blood in this warehouse could be permitted into circulation. When she informed the owner, the vampire—who, Elena had learned, was named Marcia Blue—almost broke down in tears. “I put my entire payout into this business,” she said, hugging her arms around her body. “I can’t afford to rebuild my stock from scratch.”

“Do you have insurance?”

A shake of the woman’s head. “Premiums were too high, given my location and clientele.” Trembling, she bit down on her lower lip and swallowed in a clear effort to hold back tears. “I made a profit for the first time last week.”

Elena thought of the heartrending unfairness of so much of what had happened over the past three days, culminating in the broken dreams of this vampire who’d put in her time, done her hundred, and she made a decision. “I’ll stake you for a percentage of future profits,” she said, knowing she couldn’t simply give Marcia the money.

Harsh as it might seem, that would make the Tower appear far too generous, the association between it and Elena automatic. And the Tower couldn’t afford to be anything but ruthless . . . as Raphael couldn’t afford to let her humanity alter the balance of power that kept the city stable.

Marcia’s eyes went wide. “You?”

“Yes, I need to start investing my money, and I like your idea. But,” she added when Marcia would’ve spoken, “you understand I’ll have to go over your long-term business plan to make sure it’s a sound investment?” That seemed like the kind of thing an investor would say.

“Of course.” A shaky smile, Marcia’s heart in her eyes. “I’ll send it to the Tower at once.” Bowing again, the other woman looked up, tears rolling down her cheeks. “You won’t be sorry. I swear it.”

Uncomfortable, Elena turned the conversation back to the hunt. “In the meantime, we’ll advance you some clean blood—and you’ll start operations again tomorrow at your normal time. Accept donors as usual but don’t sell any of their blood. Sell only the blood you receive from us. Understood?”

A quick nod.

About to continue, Elena had a thought. “Did you put up a sign explaining tonight’s closure?” If the carrier had returned during that time and become suspicious, he or she might not come back.

It was Illium who answered. “Front and donor door. Just said,
Family emergency, back tomorrow.
”

Since vampires often considered other vampires with whom they’d served, family, that was an excuse no one would question. “Do you have surveillance?” she asked Marcia.

“No. There was no money for that.”

A quick glance at Illium, a nod in return, and she knew the cameras would be in place before the doors opened the next day. “I need you to keep strict data on who donates what blood,” she said to Marcia. “Tag and label everything.”

The vampire nodded, eyes shrewd. “Someone is selling tainted blood, and the taint’s dangerous.” Carrying on before Elena could interrupt, she said, “I won’t speak a word of this, and I’ll ensure none of the donated blood leaves the café.”

“I hope so,” Elena said softly. “Anything else would cost you.”

Sweat broke out over the vampire’s face once more, a slick sheen. “I do not lie, Consort.”

Stomach tight at the renewed fear pulsing in the woman’s eyes, Elena told the vampire to leave them the keys and return the following day an hour before she typically opened up.

“I just scared her on purpose,” she told Illium. The act had been instinctive, the realization of what she’d done horrifying.

Illium shrugged. “The fear will keep her alive.”

“Maybe, but I don’t want to become that, become someone who controls others through fear.” It sickened her to think she was being corrupted by the power now at her disposal. “What if a hundred years from now, I look into the mirror and see Michaela?” Cruel and capricious and nasty.

“Do you think we’d permit that?” Lips curving, he tapped a finger to her nose. “Raphael would be the first to warn you were you in danger of losing yourself.”

Elena wasn’t so certain. The man who owned her heart saw nothing wrong with acts that deeply troubled her.
She
was the human one in their relationship. Raphael had said more than once that she’d brought him back from the abyss of age and power—what would happen to the balance between them if she survived war only to break under the relentless pressure of an immortality textured by the power of being consort to an archangel?

Rubbing a fisted hand over her heart, she said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Ellie.”
His fingers brushing lightly over the back of her wing, careful to avoid the sensitive zones, but an intimacy nonetheless. “When have we ever been so formal? Ask.”

“Why have you never resented me?” It was a question for which she’d needed an answer since the day she’d learned about his past. “Resented Raphael?”

Illium had been punished with the loss of his own mortal lover centuries ago, after he broke the greatest taboo of his race and spoke angelic secrets in her ear. Erasing the woman’s memories of the blue-winged angel and all he’d told her, Raphael had also stripped Illium of his feathers, grounding him until the wounds healed. Even when he could fly again, there was no surcease; he’d had to keep his distance, eventually watch his former lover fall for someone else, live her life without him.

Golden eyes shadowed with old sorrow, Illium withdrew a small metal pendant from the pocket of his jeans, the surface worn smooth by centuries of handling. “When did Raphael tell you our secrets?” he said, not having to explain to her that his lover had given him the pendant.

Her heart ached at the sadness he ordinarily hid beneath a stunning joie de vivre. “As we fell,” she whispered. “Raphael told me as we fell.” Everything within her rebelled against the agony linked to that fragment of time—not of the flesh, for her broken body had been beyond that, but of the soul, because Raphael was dying with her.

“On the eve of what he believed would be your death and his.” Putting away the pendant, Illium shook his head, the blue-tipped black strands of his hair kissing the sides of his face. “I had no such excuse. My lover was young and headstrong, and angry that I kept secrets from her. I couldn’t bear her remoteness . . . so I told.”

A sad, rueful smile that spoke of the besotted youth he’d been. “I’m certain other angels have told their mortal lovers over the centuries, the secrets going to the grave with those men and women, but I told a girl who could not keep her silence, who began to whisper hints to others in her village.”

This time it was Elena who touched his wing, the silken silver-blue a living piece of art beneath her fingertips. “I’m so sorry.”

“No angel can afford to break with such ease,” Illium continued, “and though I loved her with all of my being, I also knew her down to the soul, knew she didn’t have the will to hold secrets within. Raphael was right to punish me.”

When he spread his wing and lifted his arm, she went, hugging him with the embrace of a friend, was hugged in turn, his grip so fierce she knew he fought not to splinter under the deluge of memory.

“The Sire,” Illium said, his chest rising against her in a long, jagged breath, “was wounded at what he had to do. I could see it, feel it, and it is the greatest shame of my life that I drove him to the point where he had no other option.”

Of everything he’d said, that was the least expected, but Illium wasn’t done. “If only,” he said, “I’d come to him as soon as I realized my mistake in telling, he would’ve quietly erased her memory of angelic secrets, warned me not to make the same mistake again, and I would’ve been free to love her. But I didn’t and he could not help me once others learned of my transgression.”

Elena’s heart twisted as she understood at last. Ruthless he might be, but Raphael protected those who were his own. For him to not only be unable to do that, but to actually be forced to cause harm instead, would’ve exacted a terrible price. Especially when it had been Illium, son of an angel who had both Raphael’s respect and his love: the Hummingbird, someone he treated with heartbreaking gentleness.

“Whatever price I paid,” Illium said into the quiet, “he paid it twice over.”