Nalini Singh: Angels' Blood

Hanging up, Elena punched in the number to Sara’s home line.

The other woman picked up after barely half a ring. “Now, how did I know I was going to hear from you today?”

Elena’s hand clenched on the phone. “Sara, please tell me I’m having a delusion and you did not sign me up to work for an archangel.”

“Er . . . um . . .” Sara Haziz, Guild Director for the entire U.S. of A., and all-around tough-ass, suddenly sounded more like a nervous teenage girl. “Hell, Ellie, it’s not like I could say no.”

“What would he have done—killed you?”

“Probably,” Sara muttered. “His vampire lackey made it very clear that he wanted you. And that he is not used to being denied.”

“You tried to say no?”

“I am your best friend. Gimme a little credit, here.”

Slumping into the sofa cushions, Elena stared out at the Tower. “What’s the job?

“I don’t know.” Sara began to make soft cooing sounds. “Don’t worry—I’m not wasting my breath in a futile attempt to calm you down. The baby’s awake. Aren’t you, sweetie pie?” Kissing noises filled the air.

Elena still couldn’t believe Sara had gone and tied the knot. And had a baby to boot. “How’s Mini Me?” Sara had named her daughter Zoe Elena. Damn if Elena hadn’t sniffled like a baby herself when she found out. “Hope she’s giving you hell.”

“She loves her mommy.” More kissing noises. “And she said to tell you she’s gonna Mini Me you after she grows a few more feet. She and Slayer are a crack team.”

Elena laughed at the mention of the monster dog that lived to slobber on unsuspecting people. “Where’s your beloved? I thought Deacon liked doing the baby stuff.”

“He does.” Sara’s smile was apparent even through the telephone line and it made something inside Elena clench in the most vicious of ways. It wasn’t that she begrudged Sara her happiness, or that she wanted Deacon. No, it was something far deeper, a sense of time slipping through her fingers.

Over the past year, it had become increasingly obvious that her friends were moving on to the next stages of their lives, while she remained in limbo, a twenty-eight-year-old vampire hunter with no strings, no attachments. Sara had put down her bow and arrow—except for the odd urgent hunt—and taken on the most critical desk job in the Guild. Her lethally skilled tracker of a husband had gone into the business of manufacturing hunter tools (and changing diapers), with a slow grin that all but shouted contentment. Hell, even Ransom had had the same bed partner for the past two months.

“Hey, Ellie, you gone to sleep?” Sara asked over the baby’s happy squeals. “Having dreams about your archangel?”

“More like nightmares,” she muttered, squinting as she caught sight of an angel coming to land on the Tower roof. Her heart skipped a beat as his wings flared out to slow his descent. “You never finished telling me about Deacon. Why isn’t he on baby duty?”

“He’s gone to the store with Slayer to pick up some double-chocolate very-berry ice cream. I told him the cravings stick around for a while after birth.”

Sara’s delight in fooling her husband should have made Elena laugh, but she was too aware of the fear crawling up her spine. “Sara, did the vampire give you any hint of why he asked for me?”

“Sure. He said Raphael wanted the best.”

“I’m the best,” Elena muttered the next morning as she gotout of the taxi in front of the magnificent creation that was Archangel Tower. “I’m the best.”

“Hey, lady, you gonna pay me or just talk to yourself?”

“What? Oh.” Pulling out a twenty-dollar note, she bent down and crushed it into the cabbie’s hand. “Keep the change.”

His scowl turned into a grin. “Thanks! What, you got a big hunt coming on?”

Elena didn’t ask how he’d pegged her for a hunter. “No. But I do have a high chance of meeting a horrible death within the next few hours. Might as well do something good and up my shot at getting into heaven.”

The cabbie thought she was a riot. He was still laughing as he drove off, leaving her standing on the very edge of the wide path that led up to the Tower entrance. The unusually bright morning sunlight glared off the white stone of the path, sharp enough to cut. Pulling off her shades from where she’d hung them—in the vee of her shirt—she placed them gratefully over her tired, sleep-deprived eyes. Now that she was no longer in danger of being blinded, she saw the shadows she’d missed earlier. Of course she’d known they were there—sight wasn’t her primary sense when it came to vampires.

Several of them stood along the sides of the Tower but there were at least ten others hidden or walking around in the well-cared-for shrubbery outside. All were dressed in dark suits teamed with white shirts, their hair cut in the sleek, perfect lines patented by FBI agents. Black shades and discreet earpieces finished off the secret-agent effect.

But internal commentary aside, Elena knew these vampires were nothing like the one she’d tagged last night. These guys had been around a long time. Their intense scent—dark but not unpleasant—when added to the fact that they were guarding Archangel Tower, told her they were both smart and extremely dangerous. As she watched, two of them moved out of the shrubbery and into the path of direct sunlight.

Neither burst into flames.

Such a violent reaction to sunlight—another myth embraced by the moviemakers—would have made her job a heck of a lot easier. All she’d have had to do was wait until they went down for the count. But no, most vampires were perfectly capable of walking around twenty-four hours a day. The few that suffered from light sensitivity still didn’t “die” when the sun came up. They simply found shade. “And you’re procrastinating—soon you’ll be composing an ode to the gardens,” she muttered under her breath. “You’re a professional. You’re the best. You can do this.”

Taking a deep breath and trying not to think about the angels she knew were flying overhead, she began walking toward the entrance. Nobody paid her any overt attention, but when she finally reached the door, the vampire on duty bowed his head in a small nod and opened it for her. “Straight through to the reception desk.”

Elena blinked and removed her sunglasses. “Don’t you want to check my ID?”

“You’re expected.”

The doorvamp’s insidiously seductive scent—an unusual trait thought to be an evolutionary adaptation against the hunters’ tracking abilities—swirled around her in a sinister caress as she thanked him and walked through.

The air-conditioned lobby was a seemingly endless space dominated by deep gray marble shot through with discreet veins of gold. As an example of wealth, good taste, and subtle intimidation, it took first prize. She was suddenly very glad she’d traded in her usual jeans and T-shirt combo for a pair of tailored black pants and a crisp white shirt. She’d even tamed her slithery hair into a French twist and stuffed her feet into high heels.

Those heels hit the marble with sharp businesslike sounds as she crossed the lobby. As she walked, she noted everything around her, from the number of vampire guards, to the exquisite—though slightly odd—flower arrangements, to the fact that the receptionist was a very, very, very old vampire . . . with the face and body of a well-maintained thirty-year-old.

“Ms. Deveraux, I’m Suhani.” The receptionist rose with a smile and walked out from behind her curving desk. It, too, was stone, but of a jet so well polished, it reflected everything with mirror perfection. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

Elena shook the woman’s hand, sensing the flow of fresh blood, the beat of a racing heart. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Suhani who it was that she’d breakfasted on—the blood was unusually potent—but she caught the impulse before it could get her into trouble. “Thank you.”