Guild Hunter 04 - Archangel's Blade

circles.”
    A blown-out breath. “I’ve almost got it. It’s there on the tip of my tongue.”
    “A break will help.” While she dressed, he’d make a few calls, including one to Jason. If someone was attempting to revive or revere Isis in any way, shape, or form, Dmitri wanted to know. So he could crush the repugnance.
    Movement, Honor walking to the vanity to pick up a brush. “Where are we heading?”
    “You’ll find out when we get there.”
    Narrowed eyes. “Leave so I can get dressed.”
    “Don’t take too long.” Striding out to her glare, he began to make his phone calls. Jason hadn’t heard even a whisper of anything related to an angel named Isis, but promised to alert his network. Dmitri also contacted Illium, instructing him to brief the rest of the Seven. His final call was to Raphael.
    The archangel’s response was simple. “You’re certain?”
    “Yes,” he said, understanding the question. “I’ll handle it.” Isis was his nightmare.
    Hanging up, he was staring out at a Manhattan still swathed in the graying kiss of night, the Tower dominating the skyline, when the scent of wildflowers in bloom grew stronger. It tugged at long-buried emotions in him, that scent, made him remember the mortal he’d been so many years ago that entire cvilizations had risen and fallen during his lifetime.
    “Let’s go.”
    He turned to see Honor dressed in ill-fitting jeans and a loose white shirt. “I said properly dressed.” He knew full well what she was doing with her shapeless clothing, and it turned him merciless. “Just because the predators can’t get a good look at you doesn’t mean they don’t consider you fresh meat.”
    Fury spotted red high across her cheekbones. “Fuck you, Dmitri.”
    “Right now?” He gave her a deliberately taunting smile. “Come over here, then, darling.”
    He saw her hand twitch, knew she was fighting the urge to go for her gun, drill him in the heart. “You know what?” she said. “I think I’d prefer my own company. Get out.”
    “Pathetic, Honor,” he said, well aware the painful buttons he was pressing. “Valeria—if she still has her tongue, which is doubtful—would be laughing at what she’s made you.”
    Honor went motionless. “I think I’m starting to hate you.”
    “Doesn’t bother me.” There was strength in hate. It was why he’d survived that dungeon. “It’ll make it even sweeter when I have you naked and wet for me.”
    Not answering, she slammed her way into her bedroom. Ten long minutes later she stepped back out. This time, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, she was dressed in skintight jeans tucked into knee-high black boots, topped with a close-fitting black tee over which she’d thrown a hip-length leather jacket in the same shade. He’d been right—her breasts were luscious, her body a knockout.
    Walking over to stop bare inches from a female form that was all but vibrating with rage, he reached out to touch her, the compulsion undeniable. A blur of movement, an elbow to his chest, his legs being kicked out from under him, and suddenly he was crashing onto the floor, looking up at an Honor who was no victim.
    Dmitri laughed.
    Honor didn’t know what she’d expected, but that laugh, deep and masculine and hotly real , wasn’t it. When he lifted a hand toward her, she ignored it . . . though it was troubling, how much she wanted to straddle that beautiful body and lean down to kiss those sensual, laughing lips—as if he hadn’t just cut into her with the pitiless blade of his voice.
    His laughter faded into a smile that was very, very male. “Come here.”
    She walked to the door instead . . . but she was no longer so sure that when it came to this madness inside her, a madness that bore Dmitri’s name, that she’d emerge the winner.
     
     
    Honor froze when Dmitri brought the car to a halt around the back of a discreet black building in Soho. “You bastard,” she said, her voice so soft it was almost not sound. Erotique was the club of choice for the more high-ranked vampires. Its hosts and hostesses—mostly human, but with the occasional “new” vampire thrown in—were trained to know how to deal with the older almost-immortals. Some called the dancers within its exclusive walls the geishas of the West.
    Bracing his hand against the back of her seat, Dmitri shot her a glance that appeared darkly amused . . . if you didn’t look into those eyes, cold and brutal. “There is a high