Psy & Changelings 05 - Hostage to Pleasure

she’d never met a more deadly being in her life. If she displeased him, Raphael would kill her as easily as she might swat a fly. She’d be smart to remember that, no matter how the knowledge infuriated her. “You said I had to do a test?”
    His wings moved slightly at that instant, drawing her attention. They truly were beautiful and she couldn’t help but covet them. To be able to fly . . . what an amazing gift.
    Raphael’s eyes shifted to look at something over her left shoulder. “Less a test than an experiment.”
    She didn’t twist around, had no need to. “There’s a vampire behind me.”
    “Are you sure?” His expression remained unchanged.
    She fought the urge to turn. “Yes.”
    He nodded. “Look.”
    Wondering which was worse—having her back to an enigmatic and highly unpredictable archangel or to an unknown vampire—she hesitated. In the end, her curiosity won out. There was a distinctly satisfied expression on Raphael’s face and she wanted to know what had put it there.
    Shifting, she turned sideways with her whole body, the position allowing her to keep Raphael in her peripheral vision. Then she looked at the two . . . creatures who stood behind her. “Jesus.”
    “You may go.” Raphael’s voice was a command that awakened absolute terror in the eyes of the one who looked vaguely human. The other scuttled away like the animal it was.
    She watched them leave through the glass door and swallowed. “How old was . . .” She couldn’t call that thing a vampire. Neither had it been human.
    “Erik was Made yesterday.”
    “I didn’t know they could walk at that age.” It was an attempt to sound professional though she was creeped out to her toes.
    “He had a little help.” Raphael’s tone made it clear that that was all the answer she was going to get. “Bernal is . . . a fraction older.”
    She reached for the juice she’d rejected earlier and took a drink, trying to wash away the stink that had seeped into her pores. The older vamps didn’t have that ick factor. They—except for the unusual ones like the doorvamp—simply smelled of vampire, like she smelled human. But the very young ones, they had a certain rotten-cabbage/putrid-flesh smell that she always had to scrub three times over to get rid of. It was why she’d begun collecting body washes and perfumes. After her initial contact with one of the newly Made, she’d thought she’d never get the smell out of her head.
    “I didn’t think a hunter would be so disturbed at the sight of the just Made.” Raphael’s face appeared oddly shadowed, until she realized he’d raised his wings slightly.
    Wondering if that implied focus or anger, she put down the glass. “I’m not, not really.” True enough now that that first, instinctive flash of disgust had passed. “It’s the smell . . . like a coating of fur on your tongue. No matter how hard you scrape, you can’t get it off.”
    Open interest showed on his face. “The feeling is that intense?”
    She shivered and looked around the table for something else to take the edge off. When he pushed a cut grapefruit in her direction, she dug into it with relish. “Uh-huh.” The citrus fruit’s acidic juices dampened the reek a little. At least enough that she could think.
    “If I asked you to track Erik, could you?”
    She shivered at the memory of those almost-dead/not-quite-alive eyes. No wonder people believed those stories about vampires being the walking dead. “No. I think he’s too young.”
    “What about Bernal?”
    “He’s on the bottom floor of the building right now. In the lobby.”
    Golden tipped wings spread to shadow the table as Raphael put his hands together in a slow clap. “Well done, Elena. Well done.”
    She looked up from the grapefruit, belatedly aware she’d just proven how good she was when she should’ve flubbed it and gotten out of this, whatever “this” was. Shit. But at least he’d given her some idea of the job. “Do you want me to track a rogue?”
    He rose from his chair in a sudden, liquid movement. “Wait a moment.”
    She watched, transfixed, as he walked to the edge of the roof. He was a being of such incredible splendor that simply seeing him move made her heart squeeze. It didn’t matter that she knew it was a mirage, that he was as deadly as the filleting knife she carried strapped to her thigh. No one, not even she, could deny that Raphael the Archangel was a man made to be admired. To be worshipped.
    That