Angels of Darkness (43 page)

Radha's brows lifted as she watched the girls cross the parking lot. “Walking and texting. That takes skill.”

“Easier than talking and walking? Half the time, I'm convinced all these kids are just texting the person next to them.”

She gave a short laugh, shared her amusement with a glance. Of course she laughed now. He remembered very well that Radha couldn't resist an absurdity. It was probably what had drawn her to him in those early years. Marc could think of few things more absurd than he'd been.

“I thought you'd made yourself invisible,” he said. “But Miklia saw you.”

“She saw this.”

She changed in a smooth, quick transition. No blue skin, just Radha as she might have looked as a young human woman in Bengal—though she'd certainly never worn a conservative black trouser suit, a badge, or a long wool coat that matched his.

“Everyone who sees me will assume I'm your partner,” she said.

“Why didn't I sense your Gift?” A Guardian's power typically felt like a small burst of psychic energy against his mind, and the use of a Gift usually exposed a Guardian's presence to nearby demons. Hers wouldn't—though that hadn't always been so.

When he'd known her, she'd only recently begun using the indigo dye. Her illusions had been strongest when a crack opened in her opponent's psychic shields—and even a demon experienced a moment of surprise when under sudden attack from a blue woman. She'd used that surprise to force her illusions through.

Now, she apparently didn't require a weak spot—Marc knew his shields had remained strong, even though she'd been invisible to him—and she could hide her psychic presence, too.

“It's another illusion, but a psychic one. I just create an illusion of
not
feeling my Gift.”

Impressive. “When did you learn to do that?”

“About forty years ago. If I'm fighting, I can't hide it as well, but for work like this, it's easy.” She let the illusion fade—but only for him, he realized. Everyone else would still see the federal agent. “I've heard that you finally discovered your Gift when you came back to Earth.”

“There was no dirt in Caelum to move around.”

No dirt, period. Just a lot of marble, and nothing for his Gift to work with. After he'd left Caelum, though, the pure strength beneath his feet had staggered him. Fifty years on, and his Gift had barely tapped it.

“It fits you. Who has a deeper connection to the earth than a farmer?”

“The dead who are buried in it.”

She smiled a little. “Aside from them.”

Maybe no one. Even now, though he could plow a field with just a thought, there was almost nothing he liked better than working his hands through the soil—and on any other day, she might have run into him with dirt beneath his fingernails and mud on his boots.

He'd seen Radha come from Earth to Caelum with dust on her bare feet, but it had never seemed to touch her, and it was never what a man noticed. Not when he could remember her dancing, slow and deliberate, her fingers rigid yet as graceful as bird's wings, every movement as precise as a word in a story, every step another tale. Though he couldn't see her feet now in the snow, he knew that instead of mud squishing between her toes, more gold rings circled them.

He'd kissed them once, and all the way up to her smooth, blue thighs. And he'd wondered whether he was blessed or cursed? Looking at her legs now, the answer was obvious. He'd been blessed.

Blissfully, undeservedly blessed.

“So why these girls?”

It was a long story, but he'd try to make it short. “There's a community of about two dozen vampires spread through the towns in this area—a few of them have lived here for almost a hundred years now. They're quiet, take care of themselves, deal with their own problems.”

And Marc kept his nose out of their business. As long as vampires weren't feeding from humans or exposing themselves, Guardians left them alone.

“But a couple of months ago, Abram Bronner—the community leader—contacted me for help. There'd been a couple of vampires killed, and except for one, they'd all been exposed to the sun and turned to ash before anyone found them.”

Radha nodded, catching on. “A demon?”

“That's what I thought—and in this area, there was one demon, Basriel, who kept giving me the slip. He'd move around, killing other demons, establishing most of the Midwest as his territory.”

“And that means taking control of the vampire communities, too. Or crushing them.”

“Yes. But a little over a month ago, I caught up to Basriel in Duluth.”

“And killed him.” It wasn't a question. Of course he had.

“Yes. And I thought that might have been the end of it . . . until I came through the town again a few days ago, and felt this.” The anger and rot, spreading from person to person. “I checked in with Bronner, but they haven't had any more trouble, so they hadn't called me in.”

“They didn't sense this?”

“They did.” Marc shrugged. “From inside, though, it's not as easy to see. There's a plant in the next town that just shut down, people lost their jobs. A big blaze brought down an apartment building—killed half the county fire department—about a month ago. Open up the paper, and all you see is talk of budgets being cut, schools shutting down, unemployment rising, prices going up.”

“So with all of those things adding up, there's no reason to assume there's a demon involved. People are understandably stressed and angry.”

“Yes. And there might
not
be a demon,” Marc said. “I haven't seen evidence of one yet.”

“But . . .?”

“My instincts are telling me otherwise.”

“So are mine.” Radha glanced toward the parking lot again, where the four girls had packed themselves into Jessica's old Cherokee. “So how are they connected?”

“The little blonde, the one who looked at you—her brother, Jason, was the first vampire killed. Unlike the others, he wasn't ashed. According to Bronner, his parents—who still don't know he was a vampire—found him with a stake through his heart in their home, even though he wasn't living there at the time.”

“God,” Radha said. “That sounds like something a demon would do. Did you have to come in and cover that up?”

“No. Bronner's got the county coroner in his pocket. I didn't hear about it until later.”

“Did the family truly not know he was a vampire?”

“I've spoken to the parents.” Using the same line he always did in unsolved cases like these—that the murder resembled a similar one somewhere else, and could he have a moment of their time? “The parents didn't shield their minds and were speaking the truth. But Miklia, she won't talk to me.”

“Will the other girls?”

“Not at all.”

“And their minds are shielded. So they know something, and they know to hide away what they're feeling.”

“Yes. Whether they just know the truth about Jason or saw more than they let on, I'm not sure. But there's something they know, and if it helps me get a bead on the demon, I need to find it.”

Radha's crafty, conspiratorial smile appeared. “So, which one do you want to pretend to be? I'll distract the real one while you talk to Miklia.”

He had to laugh. “I'm not shape-shifting to look like a girl.” Not yet. He would eventually, though, if it became necessary. “Because if there's one thing true about small towns, it's that someone always knows something—even if they don't realize they do.”

“What? Riddles aren't any fun, Marc.”

“But seeing me as a girl would be?”

She blinked innocently.

Shaking his head, he looked to the school doors again. “One thing that everyone in this town knows is that Miklia didn't always hang out with those girls—and that there'd been a rivalry between them up until Jason was killed.”

“So something apparently happened to bring them together.”

“I think so, yes.”

“Then why aren't we following them? Who are we waiting for?”

We?
He didn't question it.

“The former best friend,” he said. “The one Miklia left behind.”

“Oh.” Radha suddenly grinned. “Teen drama. I can't wait.”

R
adha should have been gone already. Or better yet, she shouldn't have come in the first place. And she definitely shouldn't have cared how he was doing—not Marc Revoire, the bastard who'd once asked God to forgive him for fornicating with her. For a hundred and forty years, she'd determinedly pushed Marc from her heart and thoughts, except for when she wondered how she could have ever fallen for a man who thought of her as something that should be washed off. And she'd done a good job of pushing him from her mind.

Until the week before, when she'd been stupid enough to look his way during the gathering. When she'd been stupid enough to care that he'd seemed so
alone
.

Assholes didn't deserve friends. But still . . . She'd been shocked by the changes in him.

He looked older. Not
old
, but not a youth anymore, either. Physically, he resembled a hardworking human in his midthirties, sunstreaked brown hair, broader through the shoulders than he'd once been, and just as lean through the hips—like the man he might have become if he hadn't sacrificed his life first.

But that wasn't what had surprised her. Many Guardians changed their appearance over time, either to match the demands of their current mission or to blend in with a population. Even Radha had chosen a younger form than the fifty-year-old woman she'd been upon her human death, because after her transformation she'd
felt
younger. Guardians often took a form that reflected what they wanted to be, rather than what they'd once been.

So what the hell had Marc been through that he appeared to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders? Radha didn't know, and she hadn't heard of any terrible loss that he'd suffered, or any soulbreaking trial that a demon might have put him through. And she
would
have heard of it. The Guardians' gossip mill was as strong as any small town's.

Yet it hadn't just been the loneliness or his apparent age. As he'd taken in Caelum's destruction, he hadn't seemed devastated as so many others were. He hadn't seemed afraid. He'd seemed resigned.

As if everything that had happened in the past years had left him little to hope for. As if it had left him little to
live
for. As if he were tired of fighting.

As if he'd lost faith.

She hadn't believed it. Not Marc, not the man determined to be God's chosen warrior at the cost of everything else. But the memory of his weary resignation had nagged at her, and even after the gathering ended, she'd worried for him.

Like an idiot, she'd talked herself into coming here, to watch him in secret and determine whether there was truly anything to worry about.
Not
that she cared. But she was a Guardian, and Guardians took care of their own.

Too bad that she'd forgotten how capable he was of sussing out the holes in her illusions.

So she'd been found out, but Marc seemed all right, anyway. At least, he wasn't flogging himself or crying in a bathroom somewhere. She could have gone.

Except, maybe he
wasn't
all right. He'd always been good at concealing his true feelings from her. After all, she'd spent thousands of hours with him over the course of a single year and never realized that he considered her the biblical equivalent of a diseased whore. So she'd wait a little longer and make certain.

If she helped him track down a demon in the process, all the better. Slaying one was always fun—except for when it was difficult and horrifying. If that happened, it was best that she was here to back him up.

He didn't need the backup yet, though. The kid who came out of the school possessed a wide-open mind, and as soon as he spotted Marc, he trembled with uncertainty and excitement.

So cute. Tall, a bit thin and awkward, with a mop of curly dark hair and determinedly nerdy glasses—but as soon as he grew into his body, Radha suspected the girls in the area would be in trouble.

“Sam Briffee?”

Marc held up his identification, and Radha took a quick look at it. Special Investigations. A legitimate federal law enforcement division, and a legitimate identification, thanks to an arrangement the Guardians had made with the United States government. Radha rarely operated in this country, so she didn't have one.

But then, she didn't really need one. When Marc introduced himself as Special Agent Revoire, she held up a piece of paper. Surrounded by her illusions, the blank paper would feel and look like a real wallet and identification, even if the boy examined it up close. To her disappointment, he didn't—but she had to grin when Marc glanced back at her and paused before saying,

“. . . and this is Special Agent Bhattacharyya.”

Impressive. He pronounced it correctly. It wasn't really her surname—Radha didn't bother with that ridiculousness—but she liked the rhythm of it.

“I'm Sam.” Wary, the boy looked from Radha to Marc. “Why are you looking for me?”

Marc kept his tone even, friendly. “Just to ask a few questions. Another investigation has opened up new leads in Jason Ward's murder, and so we're looking at a few details. We understand that you're Miklia's friend?”

“Yeah,” the boy said. Then more strongly, “Yeah, I am. So his murder is connected to someone else's?”