Guild Hunter 01 - Angels' Blood

before she could give in to the urge to say too much. Then, taking a deep breath, she restarted the engine and continued on toward Archangel Tower. Unsurprisingly, Michaela had spent most of her time either at her estate or around the Tower, with the occasional stop at a high-end department store. Elena was waiting to turn off the main avenue, intending to circle around, when it whispered past.
    The bite of acid laced with blood.
    Screeching to a halt, she got out, ignoring the swearing cabbie behind her, and did a very careful three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn. There. Jumping back into the car, she double-parked and stepped out. Now that she had the scent, she’d be far more effective on foot.
    Rich, dark, chocolate. Sinful. Seductive.
    She halted, sniffed. “Dmitri.” The vampire had either passed this way or was in the vicinity. With most vampires, it wouldn’t have mattered—she could separate out the scents. But Dmitri’s presence was too strong, and when added to the fact that Uram’s trail was older . . . “Shit.” Pulling out her phone, she called Raphael.
    “Elena.”
    Her blood fired from the inside out at the sound of that voice—sex and ice, pain and pleasure. “Dmitri’s scent is messing up my trace.”
    “You’ve found signs of Uram?”
    “Yes. Can you get Dmitri out of here?”
    A pause. “He’s already leaving.”
    “Thanks.” She ended the call. Much longer and that voice of his would creep into her soul and take up residence. Instead, she cleared her head, centered herself, and began scanning again.
    Dmitri’s scent was fading at a phenomenal rate. Unless he could run very fast, he’d had access to a vehicle. She didn’t particularly care. All that mattered was that she’d lost—No, there it was. She turned left, moving at a light jog.
    She was five blocks over when something made her glance up. The previously bright sky was turning a dull gray, heavy with clouds. But she caught a flash of blue, one that disappeared in the next instant. Illium. Bodyguard duty? Shrugging it off, she came to a standstill in the midst of an area that seemed mostly residential, though she could see a grocer’s tucked discreetly between two apartment buildings.
    Foot traffic was lighter than in the crush of shops she’d left behind, but steady. She attracted a few nervous stares and it was then that she realized she had one of her long, thin throwing knives in hand.
    “Ma’am.” A shaky voice.
    She didn’t turn. “Officer, I’m on a hunt. My Guild card is in the left back pocket.” Hunters had carry permits for all sorts of weapons. And she never went anywhere without them.
    “Ah—”
    She showed him her empty left hand. “I’m going to reach for it. Okay?” Acid on the wind. Thick, dark blood. Damn, damn! She needed to be chasing that, not pandering to some baby cop who didn’t know enough about hunters to be out on the streets. What the hell were they teaching them in the Police Academy these days?
    A cry from the woman in front of her and then a flash of blue swept down the street. Elena glanced at the cop, saw him staring up dumbfounded, and ran. She knew he wouldn’t come after her. He’d had that look on his face. Angelstruck. Approximately five percent of the population was born susceptible to the phenomenon. She’d heard they’d discovered medication to combat the effect, but that most people didn’t want to be “cured.”
    “When I see an angel, I see perfection,” one man had said in a recent documentary. “For the fragment of time I spend caught up in their magic, real life ceases to exist and heaven is in my grasp. Why would I give that up?”
    For a small, painful instant, Elena had envied the angelstruck. She’d lost her innocence, her belief in a heavenly caretaker, eighteen long years ago. Then the camera had cut to an image of the speaker as he was angelstruck and she’d come close to throwing up. Pure adoration, worshipful and blind. A devotion that turned angels into gods.
    No, thanks.
    Ten minutes later, the scent was an ache in her throat, a layer of fur on her tongue. She looked around and found herself in one of the moneyed areas of the city, somewhere east of Central Park. Very, very moneyed, she realized, looking at the elegant size of the buildings. No huge apartment complexes here. A moment’s pause and she had it—the locus. Leaving it to Raphael to smooth things over if anyone spotted her, she climbed over the locked wrought-iron gate to