Archangel's Shadows (Guild Hunter #7)(35)

“Take care of her, Janvier,” Raphael said. “I will not have the mortals in my territory become hunted.” Human lives might be a fleeting firefly flicker in comparison to the endless span of an angel’s, but Raphael now knew their light could burn so bright, it had the strength to vanquish the ice of eternity itself.

“Sire.”

Walking to a small cherrywood table on which sat a faceted crystal decanter and six tumblers, Raphael poured out two measures of the carefully aged amber liquid in the decanter. He handed one of the tumblers to Janvier and said, “Your blades are from Neha’s land.” The Cajun, as all called Janvier, was now one of his trusted people, but they didn’t have between them the relationship Raphael had with his Seven.

That was to be expected. Janvier wasn’t yet past his third century—even Venom, the youngest of the Seven, had over a hundred years on the vampire with the bayou in his voice. However, Raphael saw in Janvier the same thing he’d seen in Venom, in Aodhan, in Illium, and in the others of his Seven: the Cajun had honor so deeply woven into his bones that it would take a cataclysm to shatter it.

Dmitri hadn’t lost it even during the worst years of his existence.

“Yes.” Janvier took the drink, his posture easing now that the report was done. “Neha gifted them to me when I left her court, said she had a feeling I’d be getting into trouble and she enjoyed my wit too much to hear I’d lost my head because I didn’t have adequate weapons.” Reaching back, the vampire withdrew one distinctively curved blade in a smooth motion, held it out handle first toward Raphael.

He took it, tested the weight and heft. It was heavier than it appeared when Janvier used it. That weight, along with the razored edge, explained how the Cajun was able to slice off heads with a single swipe. Interestingly, however, the weapon appeared decorative at first glance, the carved bone handle inset with small gemstones that sparkled prettily, drawing the eye away from the honed death of the blade itself.

“Neha favored you.” More than Raphael had realized—because he recognized the workmanship behind Janvier’s blades now that he’d handled one. “These were created by Rhys himself, if I’m not mistaken.” Neha’s trusted general, a man who’d been a weapons maker in his youth, and to this day made blades renowned for their strength and handling.

It was said he only created a new set once every decade.

Janvier took the blade back, slid it into the specially designed scabbard. “Rhys is responsible for much of my skill at the kukri.”

“And, like Venom, you keep those ties.” The youngest member of his Seven had been Made by the Queen of Poisons herself. “He manages to make himself welcome in her lands even when Neha carries a grudge against me.”

“Perhaps that’s why she’s been known to refer to the two of us as Charm and Guile.” A faint smile. “I’ve never worked out which one of us is which.”

They spoke for several more minutes before Raphael walked with the vampire to the front door.

“Sire.” Janvier paused on the doorstep after shrugging on the leather jacket he’d left with Montgomery, the gleaming red of his motorcycle visible behind him. “Ash—her Making—is it still—”

“She is cleared.” Had been for a number of years, ever since her abilities first came to the attention of the Tower, her blood covertly obtained and tested for compatibility with the process that led to vampirism. “But, Janvier”—he held the other man’s eyes—“she has shown no inclination toward accepting the offer quietly made her.”

Janvier clenched his jaw, looked away before facing Raphael once more, a bleak hollowness to his gaze. “That is the thing . . . I don’t think anything could convince her to choose a life among immortals.”





14


Janvier picked Ashwini up at eight that morning. “You didn’t sleep well,” he said, eyes on the dark smudges beneath her eyes.

“It’s not the first sleepless night I’ve ever had—I’m fine.” Unable to resist the craving to touch him, she put her hand on his shoulder and swung up onto the bike. Warm and strong, his scent earthy and familiar, he made the bruises inside her hurt less, her muscles no longer as taut.

“I checked on the snowfall records,” he said. “Last fall in Manhattan before the body was found was around ten p.m., but there were earlier flurries.”

“That still leaves us with a wide window for the body dump.” She chewed on the information as she put on the helmet he passed over. “I don’t think this was done in the light.”

“No—there would’ve been too high a risk of being seen.”

“It’s dark by roughly six, but the shops in that area are open and busy till eight, the restaurants for longer. Even with the place next door to Rocco’s being closed at the time, I’d bet on the body being dumped very close to ten.”

“I agree.” He stroked his hand over her thigh.

She didn’t protest; there was something more tender than sexy in that touch and it closed up her throat. “The autopsy’s starting soon,” she managed to say, before putting her hand on his shoulder again. “Let’s go.”

“There isn’t a drop of blood left in her,” the pathologist confirmed thirty minutes into his examination of the body, “but if this was a vampire, he’s the messiest eater I’ve ever seen. I’ll do cross sections of her throat, but I don’t have much hope of finding deep tissue wounds that confirm fangs.”