It was the history Raphael carried in his bones. At a thousand five hundred years old—give or take a decade or two—Raphael was young in relation to the other archangels. Lijuan was rumored to be ten thousand years old, while no one knew Caliane’s true age; Janvier had heard guesses that went from two hundred and fifty thousand years old to double that. He couldn’t imagine living that long—it made him better understand why older angels chose to Sleep for eons and why some vampires settled on a peaceful goodnight.
“You look at her as a man only looks at one woman in his lifetime, be he mortal or immortal.”
Janvier met the archangel’s gaze, the power in it staggering. “There has never been, nor ever will be, anyone like her.”
“Such gifts don’t often appear,” Raphael said, his attention on Ash. “In my lifetime, I’ve met three others like her: mortals who needed time beyond a human life span to allow their gifts to grow to their full potential.”
“Do they live?” Janvier asked, knowing the angels liked to make sure the unique and the gifted survived into eternity.
Janvier had once been sent on a mission to locate a reclusive composer who resided in a castle deep in the Caucasus Mountains. The commission had come during his years as a free agent and it had carried the seal of Astaad, Favashi, and, unexpectedly, Titus. All three archangels had loved the composer’s works with such passion, they’d offered to Make him without need for a hundred-year Contract. All he’d have to do was continue to create his symphonies, fill the world with music.
A remarkable offer, yet the composer had refused it. “My music,” he’d said, his eyes holding a spark Janvier had seen only in the gifted and the mad, “is precious because it is touched with my mortality. Should I become a man with eternal life, I will no longer be able to create that which brings the archangels such joy. I would become a shade, dead inside even as I lived forever.”
So he wasn’t surprised when Raphael said, “Two are gone, having chosen a mortal existence despite all the temptations laid at their feet. One resides in Nimra’s territory, in a peaceful part of the bayou.”
Janvier realized he knew exactly who Raphael meant. “Silvan.” Five hundred years old, the vampire had a level of power that often eluded those twice his age. Despite that, he preferred a life of solitude over any position more lucrative and influential. “Those of my family who live in the area say he can walk in dreams.”
“You’ll have to ask Silvan if you wish the truth.”
“Perhaps I will the next time we share chicory coffee on the dock off his home.”
Raphael’s lips curved. “It is true then, Cajun. You know everyone?”
“That’s my job.” To be the one no one feared and everyone welcomed. The task had once been Illium’s, but Bluebell was now a power, a fact no amount of charm could conceal.
“You’re very good at what you do.” The words of an archangel to one of his men. “As to your hunter, I think you know the odds are not in your favor. Those born with deeper senses often turn down the chance at immortality for reasons we cannot understand.”
Unfortunately, Janvier understood Ashwini’s reasons all too well. She’d become stronger over the past twelve months, her reactions more intense. Already she lived on the edge of “normal.” She feared what she’d become should she embrace immortality. Janvier knew she would be extraordinary then as she was extraordinary now, but she didn’t see it that way.
“The pathologist called us earlier,” he said, changing the subject to keep his mind from going around in circles. “He’s completed his deep tissue analysis”—or as much as was possible given the state of the remains—“and says the victim shows conclusive signs of being a long-term donor.”
If a vampire was careful, even an ongoing donor would carry no scars. Should Janvier ever taste Ash’s blood, he’d lick over the wound to make sure it healed cleanly—unless he wanted her to bear his mark. His breath caught at the idea of it, his abdomen clenching. To have her not only offer him her vein but consent to wear the sign of his possession, it was a dream so big, he knew it might never come true.
Not every vampire, however, was careful with his donor. It led to the formation of scar tissue beneath the skin at the most utilized sites. Not only was that bad for the donor but, over time, it made it more difficult for the vampire to feed. The Little Italy victim’s major fang sites had been so deeply scarred that the pathologist had noted it was possible she’d become useless as a donor. That could be the reason she’d been killed and thrown out with the garbage, but it still didn’t explain the desiccation.
“Ash and I,” he told Raphael, “are heading to the Quarter clubs after dinner to see if we can pin down the victim’s identity.” While there was no guarantee she’d patronized the clubs, it was a good starting point, given how many vamps first met their long-term donors in the Quarter. “It’ll also give me a chance to connect with those Made who prefer the night hours.”
“Stay in regular contact with Dmitri.” An order. “If Lijuan did leave a taint in our city, I don’t want either of you falling victim to it.”
Ash looked up then, the mysterious dark of her eyes going straight to Janvier. Her laughter faded, but the connection between them . . . it continued to pulse unabated.
“No,” Janvier said. “I won’t take any unnecessary risks.”
18