Angels' Flight(34)

“What about the hunting?”

She stroked her hand along his forearm. “I’ll miss it. But . . . not as much as some. My best friend, Ellie, she’d go stir-crazy within a week.”

“Elena Deveraux? Hunter-born?”

“You’ve met her?” She turned to him. Face relaxed with pleasure, hair all mussed, and green eyes lazy, he looked like a big cat sprawled beside her. A big, dangerous cat.

“Heard about her,” he said. “They call her the best.”

“She is.” Sara was damn proud of Ellie, considered her more sister than friend. “I worry about her.”

“You worry about all hunters.”

And it was true. She did. “I guess I was meant to be director.” Her sense of responsibility was part of who she was. She could no more walk away and leave the Guild in weaker hands than she could force Deacon to change his lifestyle to accommodate hers. “How did you end up the Slayer?”

“The Guild keeps an eye on possibles. I was approached by the last Slayer and offered the position.”

He’d accepted, Sara knew, for the same reason she would. “Someone has to do the job.” But it was also a calling of sorts—she knew she’d love being director, that it would challenge and excite her in ways normal hunting couldn’t hope to match.

“And that someone might as well be the best.”

She smiled and shifted to face him fully, his hand on her hip, her own under her head. “Have you ever met an archangel?” The tiny hairs on her arms rose at the very idea.

“No. But you probably will.”

She gave in to the shivers. “I hope it’s not for a long, long time.” Angels, she could deal with, but archangels were a whole different story. They simply didn’t think like human beings in any way, shape, or form.

Deacon’s lips curved. “I think you’ll handle it when the time comes.” Reaching out, he brushed her hair off her face.

The tenderness of the gesture did her in. Again, she felt that promise. That tug that this could be so much more. “Right now I just want to handle you.” And she did.





An hour later, and despite her lack of sleep, she couldn’t turn off, too revved up by pleasure. Deacon could do amazing things with his tongue, she thought, happily buzzed. Maybe the endorphins lit up the right areas of her brain because she sat bolt upright and leaned over to pick up the PDA.

“What?” Deacon asked, one arm heavy around her waist.

She turned it on and checked. “Argh, it’s not here.” Returning the PDA to its previous position, she slumped back onto the bed.

“What?”

“A picture of Marco’s boyfriend.” She made a sound of frustration. “Look, we’ve been looking at this like it’s some hate-crime thing, but what if it’s a normal crazy who’s using that to throw us off the scent?”

Deacon pushed his hair off his face and raised an eyebrow. “Explain ‘normal crazy.’”

“Maybe the boyfriend dumped Marco. Maybe Marco went batshit. And now maybe he’s out cutting up vampires who look like his beloved.”

Deacon frowned. “The victims don’t fit a type—they’ve been blond, dark-haired, black, white.”

She blew out a breath. “It seemed like a good idea.”

“It might still be a good idea.” His hand went quiet on her skin. “No physical similarities, but they were all known to fraternize with humans more than usual.”

“That tracks,” she said, feeling herself on the edge of understanding. “I found Rodney through his human friends. He can’t let go.”

“Two of the victims had human lovers.”

“Not a biggie,” she said. “Human-vampire pairings are fairly common, especially with the younger vamps.”

“Yeah, but it’s a distinct pattern when you put it together with the other stuff.” Pushing off the sheet, he got out of bed.

Lord have mercy.

She stared unashamedly as he went to his jacket and grabbed a small black device. “This thing tracks the transmitters via GPS. I set it to beep if any of them moved, but just in case . . . No, they’re all where we put them. The transmitters anyway.”

“I’m worried about Tim,” she murmured, wondering whether Deacon would mind if she used her teeth on that firm, muscled flesh of his. “No one’s seen him for days. If he’s not the killer . . .”

“Yeah. But someone’s feeding Lucy—else she’d have been weaker.”

“Point.” She pulled the sheet over her head. “I can’t think with you naked. Get dressed.”

The chuckle was rich, unexpected, and so damn gorgeous, she almost jumped him again.

“Now. That’s an order from the future Guild Director.”

“Whose naked toes I want to bite.”

She curled said toes and continued to grin. “Hurry up.”

Still chuckling, he seemed to be obeying. “How about a quick shower? We’re sweaty.”

“That shower is tiny.” But she lowered the sheet.

His expression dared her.

She was such a sucker, she thought, getting up and sauntering off. But she got the last word . . . by driving him certifiably crazy while he was trapped in that steamy glass enclosure.