"Uram's madness."
She was so shocked at getting a straight answer that it took her close to a minute to respond. "That's not possible. Madness isn't catching."
"Uram's brand may be."
Christ. "But she's human."
Raphael's eyes flamed cobalt. "She was. Now the doctors will tell us what she's become." He paused. "We know she ingested some of Uram's blood-it could've been by accident but more likely, he made her feed from him."
She didn't give in to pity. That woman-girl, really-had survived a monster intent on destroying everything she was. She deserved a fucking medal for courage, not pity. "If she is infected, will you kill her?"
"Yes."
Elena wanted to hate him for that, but she couldn't. "Four years ago," she found herself saying, "there was a rash of killings on the banks of the Mississippi. Young boys strangled; their eyes removed."
"A human."
"Yes. A hunter." Bill James had been her friend once upon a time, her trainer before that. "We-me, Ransom, and Sara-had to find and execute him." Hunters always took care of their own.
A cool whisper of a breeze as Raphael unfurled his wings and curled them back in. "So many nightmares in your head."
"They make me who I am."
"Did you kill this hunter?"
"Yes." It had come down to the two of them. "Sara was badly injured, Ransom too far away, and Bill was about to kill a terrified young boy. So I stabbed him through the heart." No time to get her gun, so much blood everywhere, the look of betrayal in Bill's eyes as his heart pulsed one last time, a chaos of memory. Now she looked up into another pair of eyes. "If that girl's become a monster, she needs to die."
"Am I a monster, Elena?"
She looked into that perfect face and saw the echoes of cruelty, of time. "Not yet," she whispered. "But you could be."
His jaw was a harsh line. "It's a symptom of age-cruelty."
It hurt her to know that the humanity in Raphael-buried deep, but there-might one day cease to exist. Yet at the same time, she couldn't help but be glad for his immortality. Someone this magnificent shouldn't die. "Tell me about the Quiet."
His wings extended to their full width. "We must go to Michaela's home and see if you can pick up a scent-there's a good chance he spent hours watching her before today."
She blew out a frustrated breath. "Fine. We flying?" Her heart hitched-she was becoming used to being carried in Raphael's arms, the sound of his wings steady and powerful.
"No," he said, lips curving as if he'd read her excitement. "Michaela's American home is next door."
"Convenient." For sneaking into Raphael's bed.
He finally moved enough that she could hop down. "Michaela has been many things through the centuries-scholar, courtesan, muse-but she's never been a warrior."
My lovers have always been warrior women.
She wondered how many of those women had been as foolish as her-foolish enough to walk into his arms knowing that if push came to shove, the archangel would end her life with a single, final thought. "It's time for this warrior to earn her keep."
Bloodlust
He was sluggish, sated, the blood heavy in his gut.
He'd overindulged, but what glorious overindulgence it had been.
Dipping his fingers into the bowl of blood he'd saved from the cattle he'd butchered, he brought them to his mouth and licked.
Flat. Lifeless.