“You’re going to tell him the full effects of the Falling?” Open surprise in his consort’s tone.
“No.” He trusted none of the Cadre enough to share the compromised status of his defenses. “Elijah may have offered the olive branch of friendship, but he has also held his territory for longer than I’ve been an archangel. He is as ruthless as any of us.”
“How bad is it?” Elena asked quietly. “Now that you’ve had a chance to assess all the injuries.”
“We’ve begun the process of transferring in men and women from outlying areas to bolster our defensive force, but Tower personnel are chosen for a reason. They’re the best of the best, each personally tested and selected by Galen.” Furthermore, his weapons-master made it nonnegotiable that each fighter return to the Refuge once every two years for intensive training.
“The outlying areas—they won’t be left vulnerable?” Checking the gun she carried in an inner thigh holster, having swapped out one of her blades for the sleek piece, Elena slid it back, the fine lines of her face troubled in the stormy light. “Since we’re taking their people.”
It was exactly the kind of question a consort was meant to ask, one that challenged without judgment. He knew Elena often thought she didn’t know the “rules” of immortal behavior, but knowledge of pomp and ceremony was useless without the heart to love their people and the courage to speak her mind. “It’s considered cowardly to nibble away at a territory and no archangel wishes such a stain on his or her honor.”
“Well,” she said, as a spit of rain hit her cheek, the sky holding the deluge for now, “I guess that’s good news.”
“In a sense. But there’s no shame in being clever about your invasion.” Immortals valued intelligence as much as strength. “To soften up a city for an attack by engineering an event such as the Falling? It would be considered a good strategy in the aftermath.”
“The diseased vamp.” Eyes of winter gray met his, the rim of silver faint in this light. “It can’t be a coincidence.”
“We’ll know nothing for certain until Keir completes his tests, but I’ve told all senior angels and vampires to report any aberrant or troubling behavior. No such disease can be permitted to gain a foothold anywhere in the territory.” He looked to the clouds once more. “Complete your task for the Guild, Elena. Be visible in the doing. Our objective remains the same—not to give our enemies any indication that the city has been so grievously wounded.”
“Far as I’m concerned,” Elena bit out, “if the Falling was a planned attack, it wasn’t clever but cowardly. Murder from a distance.”
Words he’d expect from a warrior.
A fleeting kiss, her weapon-roughened fingertips on his cheek. “I won’t be late.”
He watched her leave in a sweep of midnight and dawn, her wings unlike any other, and he knew he’d damn his own honor and take vengeance on the world should anyone dare lay a finger on her.
8
Ransom was sitting on his bike staring at a taped-up fold out map when she landed beside him only four minutes behind schedule. His black leather jacket undone to reveal a dark green tee, paired with leather pants and the heavy black boots he’d been wearing earlier, mirrored sunglasses hiding his vivid green eyes, he looked like an ad for the bike company, far too pretty to actually be dangerous.
Except, of course, for the guns strapped to his thighs, the blades and extra firepower he wore hidden underneath his jacket. “Anything from your sources?” she asked.
“Zip,” he said, without taking his eyes off the ancient map he refused to give up, even though, like every hunter, he had a Guild-issued smartphone with full GPS capability. “But at least we now know Darrell isn’t crawling around in the underground.”
Not in the mood to tease him today about his infamous map, she glanced around and forced herself to return the polite smile of the vampire who passed on the sidewalk, his cane and hat as dapper as the suit that encased his short, bowlegged form.
Copper dust and cinnamon spice, with an underlying hint of burnt oak.
Complex and interesting and unique.
“I always wanted to ask something,” she said in a deliberate attempt to get her mind off the repulsive nature of the attack against the city—and after Raphael’s comments about “softening up” a city, she had few doubts that that was exactly what it had been. “Do you scent the same things I do?”
Ransom made a face when she described what she’d picked up from the passing vamp. “Yeah, except I don’t say shit like ‘cinnamon spice with a hint of burnt oak.’ I say ‘dude smells like an electrified tree with a side of doughnut topping.’”
Choking on unexpected laughter, she leaned her arm on his shoulder and looked down at the map, aware of two stroller-pushing nannies stopping to sneak photos of them from the other side of the quiet street. “So who are we going to see?” A whiff of citrus, strong and clean. “Nice shampoo.”
“Lemons, smart-ass. My gran says it’s the best way to get rid of bad smells. Darrell’s grandmother, on the other hand, owns that building there”—a nod to the right—“and if Darrell is close to anyone, it’s likely to be his gran.”
“I didn’t realize you knew him.”
“I don’t, not really. We were on one hunt together three years ago.” Folding away the map, he gave it to her to slide into the daypack he wore. “He didn’t say much, but I picked up that his gran pretty much raised him—a quick online search gave me this address for her.”