Archangel's Blade (Guild Hunter #4)(55)

Perhaps he was even worse.

Where Raphael was remote, removed from humanity, the violence that was so much a part of Dmitri hummed just below the surface of his sophisticated skin. Blood and pain, she thought, that was what drove Dmitri. Why that should cause her heart to clench in unrelenting sorrow was a question to which she had no answer.





The body lay on the concrete floor of the warehouse, the young male’s arms and legs splayed in a way that was nothing natural. Jeans covered his legs but his upper half was unclothed, better to display the brand seared into a chest that bore lines of muscle development as yet incomplete.

Dmitri had repudiated the same mark with blood-soaked violence, using a knife he’d taken from Isis’s home. It was only fitting, he’d thought as he stripped off his rough shirt and pressed his back against one of the beams that had survived the fire that had taken everything from him.

The point of the blade was so sharp, it caused a bloody droplet to appear the instant he put it to his skin.

Gritting his teeth, he began to cut, thrusting deep enough to excise the scar tissue. He was a vampire now. The skin would heal whole and unmarked.

But vampires still felt pain.

Blackness engulfed him when he was less than a quarter of the way around the brand. Picking up the fallen blade with blood-slick hands the instant he awakened, he began again. And again. And again. Until there was no more trace of Isis on his body and his heart had grown so weak, he could feel death whispering in sweet, dark welcome.

A shadow of wings, a glimpse of searing blue. “Dmitri. What have you done?”

“Leave me.” It was the only thing he had the strength to say.

“No.” A wrist being thrust in front of him, his head pushed forward by an unyielding hand. “Drink.”

Dmitri resisted.

Cursing, Raphael used that same blade to slice open his vein, pushing the bleeding flesh to Dmitri’s lips without warning. A single taste and the newly awake predator within him took over.

He fed.

He hadn’t healed that day, or in the days that followed. He’d been too young Made, the same reason why Raphael had been able to overwhelm him. But he did heal. At least on the outside.

“So young,” Honor said, squatting beside the dead male, her sadness a poignant thread in her voice.

Compelled by the sound, he watched her put a gloved hand on the protovampire’s jaw, open his mouth. “We already know of the fangs.”

“No, I’m looking for something else.” Leaning in, one hand continuing to hold the victim’s jaws open, she reached back to pull a slender tube off her belt. “Would you hold the flashlight so I can see into his mouth?”

He came down on his haunches beside her, his focus on her rather than the male on the concrete. The lines of her face were elegant, her eyes not bitter or hard in spite of what she’d suffered. She’d survived with her soul intact, still had the capacity to feel compassion for the loss of a life.

Dmitri couldn’t say the same. The tattered remnants of his soul had burned up in his son’s funeral pyre. Such golden flames around his boy, such a wild blaze for such a small child. It suited him, Dmitri had thought as the final piece of his heart broke, suited his Misha with the deep laugh and the hunger to explore.

“Dmitri.”

Glancing up, he saw too much knowledge in the mysterious green eyes that watched him, too much tenderness. “Don’t you know to keep your distance, Honor?” He was a predator, would strike at her weaknesses, take every advantage.

A slight shake of her head, curls escaping the rough braid she’d done on the flight over. “I think it’s too late for that.” Breaking the eye contact with that quiet statement, she said, “Do you see?”

Dmitri followed her gaze. “He doesn’t have his wisdom teeth.” While such a lack wasn’t an absolute indicator of age, when paired with his baby-faced appearance it was another sign these vampires were being Made outside of any accepted structure—the Cadre had long decreed that no mortal who had not lived a quarter of a century could be Made.

“He was vulnerable,” Honor said, reaching out to brush the victim’s hair out of his eyes with quiet care. “A target who could be controlled once he’d been hooked by the idea of immortality.”

Again Dmitri looked at the victim’s face. He wasn’t completely heartless—he mourned for the young—but this man-child was old enough to have made his own decisions. At that age, Dmitri had been working the fields and courting a woman with sunshine in her smile and eyes that told him he was beautiful without her ever saying a word.

“Leave him,” he said, rising to his feet. “There’s nothing you can do to discover his identity.” The Tower’s own technicians would fingerprint and otherwise process the body.

Honor, however, didn’t get up. “Anyone looked at his back?”

“It matters little.” But he bent down to pull the victim’s shoulders off the floor for her.

“Nothing,” she said in open disappointment. “I was hoping for another tattoo. Might’ve given us more clues.”

Standing, Dmitri waited for her to join him. They didn’t speak again until they were outside the gleaming metal of the warehouse, the late afternoon sun a gentle warmth in comparison to the shadows within. “There was no need for any such marking, Honor. The brand is message enough.”