Archangel's Blade (Guild Hunter #4)(38)

“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.”

“Whoever it was that took you, hunter”—a long, slow lick along her inner thigh—“I owe them my thanks.”

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 f*cking 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.

And Evert folded. “He has this rough woodland cabin upstate—in the Catskills. No one thinks to look for him in a place like that.” Wiping away his tears, he struggled up into a sitting position against the bed, his wounds already beginning to heal. “He’s not picking up his phone, though.”

“Number?”

Evert rattled it off, hazel eyes too innocent to belong to this creature, jumping to Honor before swinging back to Dmitri. “I thought you were in on it,” he whispered, rubbing the sleeve of his suit jacket across his nose. “I thought you okayed it.”





14


Even before Honor had learned what Isis had done to Dmitri, she had never—not for an instant—considered that possibility. Didn’t now. Because if she had always understood one thing, it was that Dmitri didn’t share what was his. “Why?” she asked instead. “What possible reason could you have for thinking that?”

“When Tommy invited me,” Evert said, his breathing no longer choppy, his eyes awash with tears, “he said it was a new game all the high-level vamps were playing.”

“If you thought I was in on it,” Dmitri asked in a silken whisper, “why did you run from the club?”