“I saw the bodies.” Jason’s voice strained to the breaking point, his tribal tattoo standing out vivid black against skin that was normally a healthy brown. “Tiny, shriveled things. She keeps them as souvenirs.”
“How are they still preserved?”
“After her vampires took their blood, killing them, she had them dried.” Jason’s dark eyes met his. “There are babies in that room, sire.”
Even now, Raphael couldn’t think of it without a feeling of profound abhorrence. There were some things you simply did not do. “Had Uram lived,” he said, speaking of the archangel he’d killed the night he tasted ambrosia, the night he made a mortal his own, “he may have been well on the road to Lijuan’s evolution. He butchered an entire town, even the young in their cribs, for giving offense to one of his vampires.”
“The angel who tried to break Noel”—Elijah’s rage a thousand steel blades—“he’s already on that road. We don’t need another on the Cadre.”
“No.” Because once an angel held that position, the Cadre wouldn’t step in—not so long as the angel in question limited his atrocities to his own territory, causing no problems on a global scale. No archangel would countenance interference within his or her sphere of power.
“Have you seen some of the girls Charisemnon’s taken to his bed?”
“Too young.” It was Venom who’d brought him that information, the vampire—with his skin that spoke of the Indian subcontinent—sliding smoothly into the desert heat of Charisemnon’s territory. “But he straddles the line just enough that it remains an internal matter.”
Charisemnon was careful not to take any girl under fifteen, his excuse being that he’d grown up in times where fifteen was considered more than old enough for marriage. Except the girls he chose were always the ones who looked far, far younger than their chronological ages. There were enough immortals—and mortals—who agreed with Charisemnon that the archangel could indulge his perversions unchecked.
Elijah looked to Raphael. “Titus is saying Charisemnon took and abused a girl from his side of the border.”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on the situation—it looks to develop into a border war.”
“Titus might have his flaws, but on this I agree with him. If Charisemnon broke the territorial boundaries, he must pay—he’ll not account for his crimes in any other court.”
Raphael agreed. But even Charisemnon, for all his repellent ways, wasn’t the threat coming inexorably closer. “I’m not certain Lijuan can be stopped.”
“No.” Elijah’s mouth was a grim line. “Even if we combined our strength, I don’t think we could end her life.” He took a deep breath. “But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Perhaps she’ll remain content to play with her reborn inside her court.”
“Perhaps.” And perhaps Lijuan would decide to unleash her armies, become the literal embodiment of the demigoddess she already was in her homeland. But this goddess would bring only death, her reborn feasting on the flesh of the living as she watched with smiling indulgence.
It was, Elena later thought, inevitable that she’d dream that night. She could feel the past pulling at her with hands dipped in blood. She fought, kicked out, but still they dragged her down that black corridor, down the curving path her father had laid stone by stone one hazy summer, and into the bright white kitchen her mother had kept spotless.
Marguerite was at the counter. “Bébé, why are you standing there? Come, I will make you chocolat.”
Elena felt her lower lip tremble, her feet hesitate. “Mama?”
“Of course, who else would it be?” A laugh, so familiar, so generous. “Shut the door before the cold gets in.”
It was impossible not to reach behind herself, not to close the door. Her hand, she was startled to see, was that of a child, small, marked with the nicks and cuts of a girl who’d rather climb trees than play with dolls. She turned back, terrified the miracle would fade, so scared that it’d be the monster looking back at her.
But it was Marguerite’s face she met, her mother’s eyes quizzical as she knelt before Elena. “Why so sad, azeeztee? Hmm?” Long, gifted fingers tucking Elena’s hair behind her ears.
Marguerite knew only a few words in Moroccan Arabic, faint remembrances of the mother she’d lost in childhood. The sound of one of those precious memories made Elena believe. “Mama, I missed you so much.”
Hands stroking down her back, holding her close until the tears passed and Elena could force herself to shift back a tiny step, to look down into that beloved face. It was Marguerite who looked sad now, her silver eyes wet with sorrow. “I’m sorry, bébé. So sorry.”
The dream fractured, bleeding at the edges. “Mama, no.”
“You were always the strong one.” A kiss pressed to her forehead. “I wish I could save you from what’s coming.”
Elena stared frantically as the room began to collapse, trails of dark red liquid creeping down the walls. “We have to go outside!” She grabbed her mother’s hand, tried to pull her through the doorway.
But Marguerite wouldn’t come, her face fierce with warning even as the blood dripped to touch her bare feet. “Be ready, Ellie. It’s not over.”
“Mama, outside! Come outside!”
“Ah, chérie, you know I never left this room.”
Raphael rocked his hunter as she cried into his chest, her vulnerability a knife in his heart. He had no words with which to assuage her grief, but he murmured her name until she seemed to see him, until she seemed to know him.
“Kiss me, Archangel.” It was a ragged whisper.
“As you wish, Guild Hunter.” He thrust his hand into her hair, pressed his lips to hers, and took her over. She still wasn’t strong enough to bear the savage depths of his hunger, but he could give her the oblivion she sought—even if the control required meant a violent amplification of the sexual agony already threatening to drive him to madness. He would not hurt her, would not take what she wasn’t ready to give.
Shifting on the bed, he pressed his body along hers, letting her feel the heavy weight of his possession. The nightmares have no claim on you, Elena. You belong to me.
Eyes of liquid mercury glittered back at him, filled with a roiling storm of emotion. “Then take me.”
“Or I could simply tease you.” And he did, driving her to a fever pitch with his kiss, with his fingers, with the unrelenting demand of his need to vanquish her nightmares.
Her body was slick on his fingers, her skin damp with perspiration, her eyes blind with arousal when he finally pushed her over. “Raphael!” Her spine went taut as pleasure rushed through her in an overwhelming wave, a pleasure all the more vicious for being denied so long.
He felt his own skin begin to burn with power, his cock pulsing with the need to drive into her until he was all she knew, all she saw. Gritting his teeth, he buried his face in her neck, fighting for control . . . and realized the brutal satisfaction of her body had shoved her into unconsciousness.
11
Five days after Raphael had loved her into merciful oblivion, Elena found herself sitting in a quiet, sunlit garden. The dreams hadn’t returned since that night, but she could feel them heavy on the horizon, a storm she wasn’t ready to face. If she hadn’t had the pitiless discipline of Dmitri’s brand of training to keep her occupied, her mind might have beaten itself into insanity in an effort to escape the constant pressure. Because oddly, the Refuge had gone quiet, too, the assault on Noel a seeming aberration.