“Do they live?” Janvier asked, knowing the angels liked to make sure the unique and the gifted survived into eternity.
Janvier had once been sent on a mission to locate a reclusive composer who resided in a castle deep in the Caucasus Mountains. The commission had come during his years as a free agent and it had carried the seal of Astaad, Favashi, and, unexpectedly, Titus. All three archangels had loved the composer’s works with such passion, they’d offered to Make him without need for a hundred-year Contract. All he’d have to do was continue to create his symphonies, fill the world with music.
A remarkable offer, yet the composer had refused it. “My music,” he’d said, his eyes holding a spark Janvier had seen only in the gifted and the mad, “is precious because it is touched with my mortality. Should I become a man with eternal life, I will no longer be able to create that which brings the archangels such joy. I would become a shade, dead inside even as I lived forever.”
So he wasn’t surprised when Raphael said, “Two are gone, having chosen a mortal existence despite all the temptations laid at their feet. One resides in Nimra’s territory, in a peaceful part of the bayou.”
Janvier realized he knew exactly who Raphael meant. “Silvan.” Five hundred years old, the vampire had a level of power that often eluded those twice his age. Despite that, he preferred a life of solitude over any position more lucrative and influential. “Those of my family who live in the area say he can walk in dreams.”
“You’ll have to ask Silvan if you wish the truth.”
“Perhaps I will the next time we share chicory coffee on the dock off his home.”
Raphael’s lips curved. “It is true then, Cajun. You know everyone?”
“That’s my job.” To be the one no one feared and everyone welcomed. The task had once been Illium’s, but Bluebell was now a power, a fact no amount of charm could conceal.
“You’re very good at what you do.” The words of an archangel to one of his men. “As to your hunter, I think you know the odds are not in your favor. Those born with deeper senses often turn down the chance at immortality for reasons we cannot understand.”
Unfortunately, Janvier understood Ashwini’s reasons all too well. She’d become stronger over the past twelve months, her reactions more intense. Already she lived on the edge of “normal.” She feared what she’d become should she embrace immortality. Janvier knew she would be extraordinary then as she was extraordinary now, but she didn’t see it that way.
“The pathologist called us earlier,” he said, changing the subject to keep his mind from going around in circles. “He’s completed his deep tissue analysis”—or as much as was possible given the state of the remains—“and says the victim shows conclusive signs of being a long-term donor.”
If a vampire was careful, even an ongoing donor would carry no scars. Should Janvier ever taste Ash’s blood, he’d lick over the wound to make sure it healed cleanly—unless he wanted her to bear his mark. His breath caught at the idea of it, his abdomen clenching. To have her not only offer him her vein but consent to wear the sign of his possession, it was a dream so big, he knew it might never come true.
Not every vampire, however, was careful with his donor. It led to the formation of scar tissue beneath the skin at the most utilized sites. Not only was that bad for the donor but, over time, it made it more difficult for the vampire to feed. The Little Italy victim’s major fang sites had been so deeply scarred that the pathologist had noted it was possible she’d become useless as a donor. That could be the reason she’d been killed and thrown out with the garbage, but it still didn’t explain the desiccation.
“Ash and I,” he told Raphael, “are heading to the Quarter clubs after dinner to see if we can pin down the victim’s identity.” While there was no guarantee she’d patronized the clubs, it was a good starting point, given how many vamps first met their long-term donors in the Quarter. “It’ll also give me a chance to connect with those Made who prefer the night hours.”
“Stay in regular contact with Dmitri.” An order. “If Lijuan did leave a taint in our city, I don’t want either of you falling victim to it.”
Ash looked up then, the mysterious dark of her eyes going straight to Janvier. Her laughter faded, but the connection between them . . . it continued to pulse unabated.
“No,” Janvier said. “I won’t take any unnecessary risks.”
18
It took Elena a half hour into the dinner to realize that some of the wine at the table was blood red—as in real blood red, and that the shish kebabs Naasir was snacking on beside her were made up of cubes of seasoned but raw meat.
She could live with that. Feral as he was, there was something both innocent and wildly charming about Naasir. He truly was like a wild tiger; he might bite her hand, but only if she threatened him. At least now that he’d decided not to make a meal of her.
At that instant, he nudged his plate toward Ash, who was seated on his other side. Elena watched, wondering what the other hunter would do. Not blinking, Ash reached out and took a piece of cooked meat Naasir had ignored in favor of the raw cubes. Naasir smiled and continued to eat.
Ash clearly knew the vampire’s ways better than Elena did. Unsurprising, given that the team of three “shadows” had spent days behind enemy lines with only one another for company.
“Give me a clue,” she said when Naasir glanced at her.
“To what?” He bit off a chunk of meat, chewed with relish.
“To what you are,” she said, her curiosity as acute now as it had been the first instant she recognized he wasn’t a normal vampire in any sense. She had trouble thinking of him as a vampire at all; he might drink blood but, as his diet showed, it was hardly enough to sustain him.
Naasir grinned and took a sip of the rich red liquid in his wineglass. “You can ask me seven questions.”
Catching Ash’s grin on his other side, Elena considered how strongly he made her think of a big cat—an amused one right now—and decided to tie him down. “Will you answer?”
“Yes.”
She wasn’t about to fall for that. “Will you answer truthfully?”
Naasir flashed his fangs at her. “I’ll give you at least two truthful answers.”
Elena decided that was better than nothing. “Are you the only one of your kind?” she asked, conscious of not only Ash but others around them listening in.
“Yes.”
She examined his extraordinary eyes, his sly half smile, his body posture—and had absolutely no idea if he was lying or not. Damn it. “Were you born or Made?”
“Both.”
Angling her shoulders to face him as Illium’s shook with laughter across the table, she said, “Are you part of the tiger family?” His scent, it was so wild she could almost taste the jungle, almost see the long grasses where a striped predator might hide.
Naasir leaned in so close his nose brushed hers. “No,” he said with a playful snap of his teeth.
Elena wanted to strangle him. It was impossible to gauge his expression, separate truth from lie, but she wasn’t about to give up. “Are you a vampire?”
He drank deeply of the blood in his glass, the dark ruby of it swirling with secrets. “No.”
“I think I could be driven to bite you,” she muttered. “Hard.”
Naasir growled, but his eyes were laughing. “Enough?”
“No. I have three questions left.” Shooting a death glare at Dmitri when he asked her if she needed assistance, all false solicitousness, she turned her attention back to Naasir. “Do you truly eat people?”
“Only if I dislike them, or if I’m very hungry.” A solemn statement.
Remembering what he’d once told her about the angel who’d Made him—though she was certain he hadn’t been Made in any ordinary way—as well as what he’d said about Lijuan smelling like bad meat, she figured that was a truth.