Archangel's Blade (16 page)

A gleam of laughter in those eyes so dark and old, but he said nothing as they walked through the doorway into what appeared to be a very genteel bar, complete with a chanteuse in a glittery green dress on a low stage to the side. The lighting was soft, the groupings of tables intimate, the clientele dressed in immaculate formal clothing. “A bit early for cocktails.”

“Or very late,” Dmitri answered. “Time means little here.”

All the men and women in her line of sight were old enough that vampirism had worked its magic, honing their looks to a level of beauty only possessed by the rare mortal. “I expected . . .” In truth, she'd never thought that much about Erotique, but what she had heard focused on an aspect that was missing here. “The dancers?”

“In another section,” Dmitri told her. “There's an entire floor below us, as well as a number of other more intimate areas similar to this one.”

“Dmitri.” A stunning woman in a clinging black dress that reached her ankles and showcased her assets with sensual elegance crossed the room to them, her steps quick. “I didn't know you were coming or we'd have set up a private room for you and your guest.”

“Get us that corner table, Dulce.” His voice was that of a man who expected instant obedience. “Champagne. And find Illium.”

The barest flicker of . . . something on the perfect bones of Dulce's face, gone as fast as it had appeared. “Yes, of course.”

Honor saw the couple already at the corner table move with alacrity when they saw the hostess heading toward them. There was more than a little fear in their movements. Aware that vampires of a certain age had preternatural hearing, she leaned up to speak against Dmitri's ear. With any other man, any other vampire, she'd have been close to throwing up by now . . . but whatever inexplicable alchemy existed between her and Dmitri, it allowed her to breathe in his scent, say, “Do you keep them afraid on purpose?”

His hand only just brushed her lower back. “Means I have to execute fewer of them.”

She didn't say anything else until they were seated and Dulce had melted away after serving the champagne. “Dulce isn't human.” It had been the eyes that had given her away. An intense deep purple, jewel bright against raven black hair. No human had eyes that color—and the contact lenses hadn't been invented that could mimic that kind of otherworldly beauty.

“No. She manages Erotique, has done so for the past ten years.” A raised eyebrow. “You didn't think I'd be greeted by anyone less than the manager, did you, Honor?”

She didn't take the bait. “Why are we here?”

“Look in the corner diagonally opposite.”

Following his gaze, she saw a tall, sandy-haired vampire with a curvy brunette in his lap. Neither had noted Dmitri's arrival—and the reason why was clear. The vampire's pale hand lay on the shimmering silver of the woman's ankle-length gown, dangerously close to the full curves of her breasts, his lips nuzzling the long line of her throat. They both went motionless an instant later, and then the vampire was feeding, his throat muscles moving, as the brunette threw back her head in silent orgasm.

Honor's hand clenched around the champagne flute in front of her. Scanning the room, she realized more than one vampire was feeding—and they weren't all male. An ethereally lovely woman with Hispanic features was stroking her hands into the hair of a slender blond male, the crystal blue sharpness of her nails dramatic points against his skin as she wrenched him down to feed just above the pulse point in his neck.

“I thought,” she said, throat dry, “this was a club, not a feeding orgy.”

Dmitri's laugh was a rope of fur twining around her senses. “So innocent, Honor.” He took a sip of his champagne. “Some vampires come here because they know they'll find a willing partner should they need one, partners who know what to expect. But most of the others are lovers indulging in a little harmless exhibitionism.”

Obviously noting her gaze on the female vampire, he said, “That's Amalia. She likes them young—but he's legal, adult enough to make a choice.” There was something in that statement, something old and buried and
so
angry.

“You're watching the vampire with the attractive brunette,” she said, knowing that even if Dmitri did get her into bed, that's all it would ever be—sex. Erotic, sinful, dangerous sex, but nothing beyond a physical coupling. No secrets would be shared, no bonds forged. “Why?”

“That is Evert Markson. Tommy's best friend.”

Her head jerked up. “You knew he was going to be here.”

“Evert has the rather distasteful habit of feeding at Erotique on a regular basis.”

It was hard not to stare at Markson, but she kept her attention on Dmitri. “You just told me vampires come here to feed.”

“Only now and then, when they don't have a regular lover or donor. Perhaps if they are visiting from out of town.” He placed his champagne flute on the table. “The reason Evert needs to feed at Erotique is that he hurts his lovers so badly that not even the worst of the groupies will go near him now. The hostesses here only acquiesce on the condition that he feeds in public, where he can be monitored.”

Heart in her throat, Honor looked back at the brunette in Markson's arms, seeing what she'd missed earlier—the shallow breaths, the white lines bracketing full lips pursed tight. “She's not orgasming, is she?” The urge to get up and tear the vampire off the other woman had every muscle in her body tense to breaking point.

“He's making it hurt.”

“Dmitri”—releasing the fragile stem of her own flute before she broke it—“if he's Tommy's best friend, then . . .”

“Yes. Exactly.” His gaze shifted to the doorway. “Bluebell's here.”

The silver filaments in Illium's wings caught the light as he walked over. The women in the room—and more than a few men—went motionless, watching his progress with eyes full of wonder and
want
.

Anger, a bright, sharp thing, continued to sing a piercing song in her blood, but she said, “Hello, Illium,” when he grabbed a chair from another table and swiveled it to sit with his arms braced on the back, his amazing wings sloping down to brush the floor.

“Hello, Honor St. Nicholas.” His eyes, those beautiful golden eyes tipped with the most impossible lashes, locked on her. “You look like you want to use a knife on someone's flesh, watch the blood bead on their skin.”

“Yes,” she admitted, “but I have to wait.”

Illium stole her champagne, took a sip, shuddered. “Never did like that stuff.” Putting the flute back on the table, he turned to Dmitri. “Word is, Tommy's gone underground because he's scared of someone. It was before Honor was assigned to the Tower, so it's not you.”

Dmitri's eyes never shifted off Evert Markson. “Do me a favor. Fly to Evert's home and see if you find anything interesting.”

The blue-winged angel left without further conversation.

Beside her, Dmitri smiled and it was a cold, cold smile. She knew who he had in his sights before she turned her head and saw Evert. Swallowing compulsively as he shoved the brunette off his lap without care, his eyes skittered between Dmitri and Honor. The recognition in those eyes was a stabbing confirmation that Tommy had taken his best friend into the game.

When Dmitri did nothing to stop the vampire from leaving, she began to rise. He clamped a hand over her wrist. “Let him stew in his fear, Honor.” Dmitri's murmur was a brush of silk over her senses. “Evert isn't as smart as Tommy. I know where he's going.”

It was hard to sit back and watch one of the men who had tortured her walk out of her sight. “You could be wrong.”

A thumb moving over her skin. “I'm not.”

She looked down, startled to realize that he was touching her . . . and she had no urge to pull away. “Is it only the scent thing you do, Dmitri?” she asked, feeling a languorous warmth invade her blood. “Or do you have other compulsions at your command?”

“I'll leave that for you to figure out.” Stroking her once more, he stood. “Let's go play with our prey.”

Honor held her words inside until they were driving through the misty gray skies painted by the last edge of night, the wind cool, with a bite that hinted at rain. “I don't want to become that cold.” To lose her humanity. “I don't want to take pleasure in the pain of others.”

Shifting gears with ruthless ease, Dmitri began to head toward the Manhattan Bridge. “Sometimes there is no choice.”

The ancient darkness of his words wrapped around her. She'd already told herself he was a man who would never share his secrets, but she couldn't
not
ask, couldn't not attempt to see beneath the deadly, sophisticated surface when it came to Dmitri. “What did Isis do to you?” Instinct—primal, visceral—told her that that was the genesis of what he'd become—a predator who had very few moral lines he would not cross.

His hair whipped off his face as he took them onto the bridge, the car purring sleek and dangerous over the wide span. “I'm not beautiful like Illium, but I'm a man women want in their beds.”

Yes, she thought. To look at Dmitri was to think of sex. Rich, dark eyes, black hair, skin of a tempting, warm shade between honey and brown, lips that spoke of pleasure and pain, a body that moved with a lethal grace that incited sexual fantasies of how he might move with—inside—a woman. “But you're not a man who can be owned.” To try would be both foolish and dangerous. “You'll choose your own lovers.”

“Isis didn't think so.” No change in his expression. “I was mortal then, weak. She wanted me and when I said no, she took me.”

She curled her hands into fists. “She hurt you.”

No answer.

It was perhaps twenty minutes later that he brought the car to a silent stop down the street from a modern dual-level home set behind a small green hedge. Painted what appeared to be a stylish black, the window frames and the roof were picked out in a deep red striking even in the monochrome shadows before dawn.

“This can't be Evert's place.” He'd been wearing a platinum watch, an Italian suit. Not the kind of man who'd be satisfied with a small, albeit fashionable home.

“It's owned by his former mistress,” Dmitri answered after they'd exited the car and begun to head toward the front of the house. “Evert believes Shae continues to have a soft spot for him.” He produced a key. “He's wrong.” Unlocking the door, he entered on silent feet.

Honor followed, reaching back to snick the door closed. The hallway was devoid of light except for the subtle glow of the small wall lamp by the staircase, but the house wasn't as quiet as it should've been at this time of the morning. Retrieving her gun, she held it by her side as they climbed the stairs, Dmitri with the grace of a panther, her with a more mortal stride.

“. . . I'm sure.” A placating feminine voice. “Do sit down, Evert darling.”

“He was staring
right at me.
” Gasping, jagged words. “And the hunter was with him!”

That
voice
. Honor knew him now, remembered exactly what he'd done, how he had laughed that high-pitched laugh more suited to a teenage girl.

“What hunter?”

“Tommy promised she was finished, good as trash. Knew nothing, he said. Bastard lied to me.”

“That can't be true. He's your best friend.” Rustling sounds, as if Shae had risen to her feet. “Why don't you call him—”

“Don't you think I haven't tried?” A rasping shout, followed by the unmistakable crack of flesh meeting flesh.

Rage, hot as blood, hazed Honor's vision.

Shae, however, didn't sound cowed when she said, “I'm sure it's a misunderstanding. If Dmitri wanted to harm you, he wouldn't have let the public location stop him.”

“Yes, yes, you're right.” Relief, spurts of girlish laughter. “Maybe he's just fucking the bitch. She is a sweet piece of ass.”

Honor clicked off the safety on her gun. Across from her, Dmitri shook his head, and she remembered that, age notwithstanding, she'd sensed no hint of true power in Evert Markson. A heart shot might kill him—and they needed him to talk. Forcing herself to back off from the edge, no matter how satisfying it would be to turn the bastard's heart into fleshy shrapnel, she followed in silence as Dmitri opened the bedroom door and walked inside.

Dressed in nothing but pink lace panties and a white baby tee, a short woman with café au lait skin, her hair a storm of tight curls, stood facing the door. The instant she saw them, she ran into the bathroom at her back and shut the door, depriving Evert of a hostage. Swiveling around, the vampire screamed and launched himself at Dmitri, hands out like claws.

Honor shot him through the knees.

Dmitri glanced at her as the ghost-pale vampire crumpled in a spray of blood and bone. “I didn't need the help, sweetheart.” A mild statement.

“I know.” Markson had hurt her in ways that had caused internal damage it had taken the doctors months to fix—seeing him scream wasn't enough to erase the memories, but it was something. And . . . he'd been trying to hurt Dmitri. Honor wouldn't allow that.
Not Dmitri.
“Neighbors probably heard that.”

“No, they didn't. Evert had this house soundproofed, didn't you, Evert?”

“I don't know anything, I swear.” Sobbing words, snot running out of his nose.

Dmitri smiled, as gentle as a dagger sliding between the ribs.