Guild Hunter 04 - Archangel's Blade

said, even as he considered the tactical advantages of obscuring the truth of why Raphael’s wings had altered in color. “Jason is tracking down their whereabouts.” None had been seen entering the country, but that meant nothing.
    “I’ll speak to him. I’ve kept a discreet watch on certain people through the centuries.” A glance out of those eyes of inhuman blue. “As have you, Dmitri.”
    “None of them could have done this.” He’d already made certain of it. “However, games,” he said, “no matter how vicious, are something I can handle with ease.” Even if those games attempted to awaken the ghost of an angel who hadn’t deserved the quick death they’d dealt her. “It’s the second situation that’s become more critical.”
    Raphael listened in silence as Dmitri laid out the facts of the mortal “hunt.” “This Honor,” the archangel said when Dmitri finished, his tone icy with anger, “she is competent?”
    “Yes.” Brilliant mind, human heart, ancient eyes.
    “Elena is a better tracker.”
    Impossible to dispute, since Elena was hunter-born, a bloodhound as far as vampires were concerned. “That skill isn’t necessary at present.” And this was Honor’s hunt, as Isis had been Dmitri’s. “We’re digging out the snakes, not chasing them.”
    “An apt analogy.” Wings rustling as he folded them tight to his back, Raphael turned to look Dmitri straight in the eye. “Many believe such depravity is exactly what you would savor.”
    Dmitri knew that, understood full well how close he was to crossing lines that could not be uncrossed. “It seems even I am not yet that degenerate.”
    You would never harm a woman in such a way, Dmitri. The archangel’s voice in his mind, the purity of it almost painful. We both know this. It’s why I allow you to push Elena in ways for which I would kill another.
    Some would say you trust me too much, Sire.
    And some would say you are wasted as a second when you could rule your own territory.
    It seems neither of us cares much for the opinions of others.
    Together they walked back into the library and down the corridor that led to the front entrance. “Venom will need to leave the city soon,” Raphael said. “Galen is strong, but I want him to have another of the Seven in the Refuge. Naasir must remain in Amanat.”
    Dmitri blew out a breath. “Aodhan is serious about coming to New York?”
    “Yes.”
    “He’ll cause chaos.” With eyes of fractured glass and wings of diamond brilliance, Aodhan stood apart even amongst immortals.
    “He is apt to fly so high that mortals will glimpse only a shadow that splinters light.”
    Dmitri nodded. Aodhan had an aversion to touh, one Dmitri understood. He’d been in the Medica when the angel had been brought in two hundred years ago. Raphael had carried Aodhan’s emaciated and dirt-encrusted body in his arms, laid him down with the utmost care so as not to crush his wings, which were nothing much more than a few slivers of tendon hanging on to bone.
    It had been, Dmitri thought, the last time anyone had held Aodhan in any way, shape, or form. “I’ll work out the transfer.” He rubbed his jaw. “I need someone on Sorrow, and Aodhan won’t be suitable.”
    “Janvier.”
    “Yes.” The smooth-talking Cajun was no longer under Contract, but he’d given his loyalty to Raphael and it was a loyalty that went to the core. “I’ll contact him closer to the transfer date.”
    “Dmitri.”
    “Sire.”
    “Are you well?”
    Dmitri knew what the archangel was asking. “Isis is dead and buried, this sycophant nothing but an irritation.” The ghosts who haunted him were far gentler . . . and cut so deep that he bled inside without surcease.
     
     
    The dream wasn’t a nightmare. That fact startled Honor enough that she almost woke, but the pleasure, oh, the pleasure was too much to resist.
    A strong male body over her own, a rough-skinned hand on her throat as he kissed her with a lazy patience that she knew could turn demanding without warning. But today, today he wanted to play. And she was his willing plaything. “Open,” he murmured and she parted her lips, let him slide his tongue inside.
    It was a wicked, decadent act, one she’d allowed him early on in their courtship, her resistance to him so flimsy as to be smoke. Her reward for such sin had been a pleasure that had stolen her breath, the taste of him an addiction. Now that beautiful mouth explored hers with open possession as