Archangel's Consort (Guild Hunter #3)(68)

Placing her hand over his forearm, she shook her head. “I can’t. Not when I see how much it hurts him.” She’d believed she knew the greatest tragedy of the blue-winged angel’s life. He’d loved a mortal, lost her to angelic law and her human life span. But the pain she’d seen tonight, it was older, deeper ...

raw and aged and angry. “How long is she staying in the city?”

“She will leave within the hour—she finds it difficult to linger far from home.”

As they stood there in silence, there was a spark of fire in the sky. Then another, and another.

The stars were falling.




There was no magic the next day. Even the spring sunshine promised by a stunning dawn was subsumed by bone—chill ing horror as the calm broke in the most decisive of ways.

Flying down, then up toward the bottom of Manhattan Bridge, Elena hooked her fingers in the massive metal structure and stared at the five bodies that hung from its bel y. They’d been spotted at daybreak by one of the craft that used this section of the East River—the witness was apparently still puking his guts out.

Elena swallowed her own gorge as the bodies swung from the ropes.

Swinging so gently. One foot bare, one clad in a shiny highheeled shoe.

“No shadows,” she said, fighting the nightmare. “There are no shadows.” It was too early in the day, and for that mercy, she could only be grateful. “One, two, three.” Her fingers refused to release their grip.

Another river-borne wind. The bodies swayed.

Her stomach bucked, bile burning the back of her throat.

“Hey, you see anything useful?” Santiago’s distinctive voice came from the wireless device tucked over her ear.

“No,” she said, forcing the word out through gritted teeth. “Let me get closer.” And do my job. She would not let the past steal her future from her.

Taking a deep breath, she let go of the bridge finger by finger, then dropped low enough that she could spiral over the water before beating her way to a closer position. As she rose up over the choppy waves, she kept her eyes resolutely on the spot underneath the bridge where she intended to hook her arms in an effort to brace herself. “This would be easier if I was human,” she muttered.

“Yeah?”

She jerked, having forgotten Santiago could hear everything. “Harness would be useful,” she said. “Impossible to get wings into one though.”

“We’ll have to get a special set made for you.”

Nothing in his tone said he was joking.

“Thanks.” For accepting her wings in as straightforward a fashion as he’d accept a new coat.

There.

Grabbing the metal in a secure grip, she held on with one arm as she hooked her leg over the beam. Only when she was in a stable position did she look down at the rope, thick and brown, where it had been tied to the beam. Her eyes skimmed forward—each of the five bodies hung from the bridge the same way, the ropes the same length.



“Someone took their time.” It wasn’t the broken necks alone that had killed them—most vampires over a decade old could survive that unless the break was close to decapitation, and hunter instincts whispered that these men were all over fifty, though not by too much. No, it was the fact that it looked like their hearts had been removed, too, their shirts plastered to their fronts by stains that could’ve come from only one thing. At this age, the dual shock would’ve been enough even without total separation of the head from the body.

“Had to be f*cking what’s-his-name? The guy in the red and blue suit with the spider thing.”

“Not a movie buff, Santiago?”

“I’m a man. I watch footbal and hockey as I should.”

Even as she responded to his dry humor, Elena thought of the vampires she’d seen skittering over wall s with the strength and speed of arachnids, and knew the answer had to be both more prosaic than a comic-book superhero—and possibly more terrifying, if the hint of scent Elena could taste in the air was to be believed.

Lush. Sensual. Exotic. Whispers of a rain-dark forest, a hidden glade.

Keeping her wings tight to her back in an effort to avoid the rusted metal all around, she shifted along her perch until she was directly above the first vampire. It wasn’t so bad from that position, she realized, because she’d never been on the mezzanine when her mother had chosen to—

Slamming the door shut on that memory, she took a deep, steady breath, drawing in the scents. Salt, the sea, it was a constant, so she took that out of the equation straight away. She also put aside the puzzlingly pristine fragrance of Caliane’s signature black orchids.

Sweetgrass, cut on a summer’s day.

It was one of the most delicate scents she’d ever sensed on a vampire, and it belonged to the one who hung on this rope. Which meant the kil er’s scent was either much more faint or not present. Knowing she had to get closer to the victim, she twisted, managing to drop down into a hanging position with both arms hooked over the metal beam for support, her wings spread wide for balance.

The body was only inches away ... but too far down.

Gritting her teeth, she shifted her hold until she was gripping the metal with her fingers. Still not close enough. “There’s nothing I can do here,” she said at last, frustration gnawing at her temper. “I’ll have to do the final scent track when the bodies are—Fuck!”