Archangel's Prophecy (Guild Hunter #11)(102)

Vampires could have peculiar scents to her hunter-born nose, but this took the cake—or the doughnut, she thought with black humor. Returning to the body of the shopkeeper, she knelt, closed her eyes, then inhaled the scent directly from the gaping wound at the dead vampire’s throat. His head was only attached to his body by a flap of skin at his nape.

Yes, he was the sugar and the doughnuts and the icy stab of rain against the skin.

Opening her eyes, she took in the violence around them. The sprays and smears of blood on the walls and on the floor. The footprints in blood that led to the back door. Archer hadn’t run this time. No, his stride had been confident but unhurried.

Child of mortals. The broken blade is close. Your destiny nears.

Heart jerking at the distress in the old voice, Elena stared directly into the eyes of an owl as she said, “I can track him.” Ashwini was a gifted tracker, but she couldn’t pursue by scent; what she did took time and patience. They needed to move fast, follow the scent before it dissipated—and once and for all eliminate the threat to Beth and Maggie.

Archer was smart, had probably already thrown his bloody clothing in the trash. But given the recent nature of the kill, he was unlikely to have had enough time to shower. And it was hard to strip away every tiny speck of blood. Droplets got in hair, or in the inside shell of the ear, and his weapon would need careful cleaning to remove all traces.

No hunter would abandon a perfectly good weapon.

She began to move, the sword she’d grabbed from her and Raphael’s Tower suite heavy in the sheath she wore down the center of her spine. She also had her crossbow as well as spare crossbow bolts in a flat sheath strapped to her thigh—plus a smaller number of bolts in a combined bolt-and-knife sheath worn on her left forearm. Those weren’t her only weapons; going up against a Slayer would require everything she had.

Santiago and Janvier stayed with the body, while Ashwini ran with her, keeping watch and acting as her backup. The owls danced right in front of her face, their wings buffeting her, but she put her head down and kept running.

It was time to finish this.





43




“Scent’s strong!” she called back to Ash.

Archer had more blood on him than she’d thought. He couldn’t, however, be visibly bloody, or he’d have left a trail of horrified people behind him, at least one of whom would’ve called the cops.

No one had until she’d told Santiago of the find, so he was either wearing dark clothing that had absorbed the blood and he’d wiped his face clean, or he’d taken off his coat before the massacre, putting it back on afterward to hide the evidence of his crime. When her boot came down on something disgustingly squishy, she ignored it to carry on.

Her next step crunched a syringe.

The owls flew ahead of and around her . . . and her wings began to drag through the crap that littered the streets of the Quarter. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t pull them back up. Tears clogged her throat. Her muscles were too weak. She wouldn’t be soaring aloft on her own wings again.

“Ellie!”

“I know!” She didn’t halt, even as feathers tore off her beautiful, powerful wings that were useless appendages now.

Vampires scuttled into hollows, and humans watched from the same. Many were junkies and homeless people, but she caught sight of the odd better-dressed individual stumbling home after a big night out at the clubs. That it was the middle of the day didn’t matter—in the clubs, anytime was nighttime.

A homeless woman standing by the side of an alley grinned to reveal a toothless mouth, and pointed silently to the left.

Archer’s scent was pungent in her nose.

Another homeless person screamed indignantly when she slammed by his hiding place. “Thief! Thief!” A piece of newspaper flew up in a small wind to flutter against the edge of her boot before it tore off to fly down the alley.

The wind was crisp and rising.

She didn’t have to look up to know the clouds were moving in. It was obvious from the turgid gray light. Elena could track through snow, but depending on how much it snowed, it might become more difficult. And rain—rain was the worst. If Archer got a real drenching, she’d lose the trail. He wasn’t a vampire himself, wouldn’t regenerate the scent.

Exiting the narrow space, she found herself confronted by a street buzzing with traffic. She stepped out onto it and held out a hand. Cars screeched to a stop around her as she ran across the road. Then cameras flashed as quick-thinking people stuck their heads and arms out of car windows to take snapshots of her and Ash before they disappeared between the buildings on the other side.

If anyone had caught her dragging wings . . . Well, Dmitri would think of some explanation. A bad injury sustained during the hunt, maybe. As an angel-Made, humans, vampires, and angels expected her to be a little mortal. She was allowed to be flawed in a way Jessamy would never be. The Tower could use that to conceal what was happening to her until . . . until her wings were gone.

She blinked back her pain and thought of Raphael. And she knew one way to fuck with destiny would be to bring him in when events seemed to be conspiring to keep them apart. And if she died and she hadn’t reached out to him . . .

I will become a monster without you.

She grabbed her phone to make a call as she ran. It was dead. “I don’t fucking believe it!” She’d charged it this morning. “Goddamn Cascade!” Turning on her heels, she said. “I need your phone!”