Guild Hunter 01 - Angels' Blood

sign. Her back was shattered, her legs twisted in a way that was nothing natural. But she smiled when she saw him. And her hand still held the gun that had saved more lives than anyone would ever know.
    He dared not touch her, afraid he’d cause her to slip over the ledge. “You are not to die.”
    A slow blink. “Bossy.” It was a sound bubbled through with blood. The voice isn’t working so good.
    I hear you.
    Tell me the secret now, won’t you? How do you Make vampires?
    He could hear the teasing even in that fading whisper. Our bodies produce a toxin that needs to be purged at regular intervals. The older we are, the longer the intervals.
    Uram waited too long.
    Yes. We build up an immunity, but only to a point. After that, the toxin begins to bond with our very cells, mutating in the process. However, that base immunity meant an archangel always had a certain level in his blood. Enough. It would be just enough.
    The only way to purge the buildup before it goes critical is by transfer to a living human. Angelic history told of a time when they’d given in to despair at the loss of so many mortal lives, and tried to purge it into animals. The resulting carnage had been such that even Lijuan would not talk of it. We know we get something back from the transfer, something that keeps the toxin stable, but even after all these millennia, we know not what.
    But . . . A pause, as if she was gathering her strength, determined to have her curiosity satisfied. The tests? Compatibility?
    He’d answer every question, betray every secret, if it would hold her here. Only some are born with the ability to survive the toxin, to use it as fuel for the transition from mortal to vampire. The others die. And despite their cruelty, despite the lack of compassion engendered by age, no immortal wanted to bear the stain of that much slaughter. To promise life and give only death was a step too far into the abyss. Before the tests, perhaps one in ten made it through.
    Ah . . . Not even a whisper now.
    His canines elongated, and a strange, beautiful, golden taste filled his mouth as he felt a tear slide down his face. He was an archangel. He had not cried in over a thousand years. So now you know—that’s why so many morons get Made.
    Weak laughter in his head. I guess a dying woman can be stupid if she wants. I’m crazy about you, Archangel. You scare the shit out of me at times, but I want to dance with you anyway.
    His heart stopped beating when her voice faded, and he leaned forward, his mouth overwhelmed by the taste of beauty, of life. “I won’t let you die. I had your blood tested. You’re compatible.”
    Her lashes struggled to open, failed. But her mental voice, though weak, was adamant. I don’t want to be a vampire. Bloodsucking’s not my thing.
    “You must live.” And then he kissed her, feeding that golden taste, that intoxicating blend, into her mouth. You must live.
    That was when the sign gave away, tearing loose from the building and plunging to the ground in a shattering crash. Elena didn’t fall alone, gathered as she was in Raphael’s arms, his mouth fused with hers. They fell together, his wings close to destroyed, his soul melded to that of a mortal.
    If this is death, Guild Hunter, he thought to his mortal as angelfire scored through his bones and touched his heart, then I will see you on the other side.
     
     
    Sara stared upward, tears rolling down her cheeks. The Archangel of New York was falling, and in his arms, he carried a body that streamed bright near white hair. “Ellie, no, you can’t fucking do this,” she whispered, so angry she could hardly form words. She’d run down here with a crossbow the second things had started turning to shit, knowing Ellie would need her. Ransom had turned up minutes later, gun in hand. But the fight had taken place too far above for either of them to help.
    And now Raphael fell and there was nothing they could do.
    It was like she was seeing things in slow motion, watching as her best friend lay broken in an archangel’s arms, those magnificent wings shredded beyond redemption. There was no time to prepare a soft landing, the wreckage below them full of jagged shards that would tear and destroy—shattered brick, torn-off pipe, even a broken chopper, its blades bent by the avalanche of debris. Sharp edges. Everywhere she looked, the edges were too sharp. Too deadly.
    Sara sobbed in Ransom’s rigid hold, crying for both of them because she knew