"Yet you followed his scent here."
Chapter 30
She rocked back on her heels, staring at the single blood-stain that didn't fit the timeline-the one on the carpet. It was too fresh. "You're right. The bastard came back to admire his handiwork!"
"I'll put watchers in place." He rose to his feet after her, his fingertips dusted with blood, his clothing stained where the bodies had brushed up against him. It made her remember the last time she'd seen him, a bloody fist, the panicked beat of a pulsing heart.
Somehow, it no longer seemed horrific. Not after this. Uram had played with his victims-like a cat with a mouse it doesn't want to eat but simply torment. Say what you would about the Archangel of New York-pitiless, hard, certainly lethal-he didn't torture for the sake of it. Everything Raphael did had a purpose. Even if that purpose was to scare people so badly that no one would dare betray him again.
She spoke as he walked to the kitchen area to wash his hands. "I don't think he'll come back-he returned after the warehouse kills, maybe to gloat, maybe to rest, but look at this." She pointed her foot at a bowl that had rolled under a table. "He threw this-probably after finding the blood he'd saved didn't satisfy him."
"This was his funhouse, but he's realized he prefers live playthings."
"Yes, he's going to want fresh meat." The words sounded cold but she had to stay on that level. If she allowed herself to feel . . .
Raphael nodded. "Do you think he'll rise to feed again tonight?"
"Even if he's continuously in bloodlust"-and that was a nightmare she didn't want to contemplate-"I'd say it's unlikely, given the way he glutted himself at the warehouse."
That was when rain thundered to earth outside, as if some great faucet had been turned.
"Shit!" She swiveled to the door. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"
Raphael just watched her have a fit, then calmly asked, "I thought you said Uram flew?"
"Scent markers like the ones that led me here are now all gone! He's been erased from the entire city." She gave a little scream. "Rain's the one thing that messes up the trail this bad-vampires who have any idea of what they're doing run to the wettest places on this earth." She wanted to kill the rain gods, settled for kicking the stone of the counter. "Fuck! That hurt!"
Raphael nodded at the doorway. "Take care of it."
She didn't have to turn around to know Dmitri had arrived. His scent wrapped around her like a damn coat. "Turn it off, vampire, or I swear to God, I'll stake you with your own leg."
"I'm not doing anything, Elena."
She glanced over, saw the tight lines of strain on his face, and knew he wasn't messing with her. "Double-shit. I'm wired, too much adrenaline, I'm going to crash soon." Her ability always spiked before a crash. "Might as well give in to it and catch a few hours' shut-eye." She hadn't slept much more than an hour or two last night, that damn chair had been so uncomfortable. "I won't be able to get anything now until Uram moves again."
Until he killed again.
"Are you keeping an eye on Michaela?" she asked Raphael. "She might be our best bet for catching him."
"She's an archangel," Raphael reminded her. "To augment her resources with my own would be to say I consider her weak."
"She's refusing?" Elena shook her head. "Then I hope to God she has good men and you have good spies." Pissed at the arrogance of angels, at the rain, at the whole f**king universe, she strode out without a backward look. Venom was at the gate. Damn man looked good wet. "I need a car."
To her surprise, he dropped keys into her palm and pointed across the road to the sedan she'd left double-parked somewhere. "Thanks."
"You're welcome."
She decided the vamp was playing with her, couldn't be bothered to snipe at him. Pushing through the gate, she walked toward the car.
Go to my home, Elena. I'll meet you there.
She opened the door and got in, brushing rain from her face, tasting the freshness of it on her tongue. But no, that was Raphael. He was waiting for an answer. "You know what, Archangel? I think it's time I took you up on your offer."
Which particular offer?
"The one about f**king me into oblivion." She had to forget-the blood, the death, the viscera of evil sprayed on the walls of that innocuous-looking town house.
A better man wouldn't take advantage of you in your current emotional state.
"Good thing you're not a man."
Yes.
Her thighs clenched at the eroticism implicit in that single word. Sticking the key in the ignition, she started the car and pulled out. The scent of rain, of the sea, faded from her mind. Raphael had left. But she could still taste him on her tongue, as if he'd exuded some exotic pheromone that rewired her body to scent angel, not vampire.
Not that she cared.
The hanging bodies, the shadows on the wall-
No, there had been no shadows. Not today.
Her hands clenched on the steering wheel as she came to a stop at a red light, her vision hazed by rain, by memories. "Stuff it back," she ordered herself. "Don't remember."
But it was too late. A single, terrifying shadow took shape on the wall of her mind, swaying in the breeze from the open windows.
Her mother had always liked fresh air.
Someone honked and she realized the light had turned green. Mentally thanking the other driver for snapping her awake, she focused every part of herself on driving. The rain should've made it hell but the streets were eerily quiet. As if the gathering darkness was a malevolent force that had captured the population, taking them to earth, to death.
And that quickly, she was back in the huge entranceway to the Big House, the house Jeffrey had bought after . . . After. Such a Big House for a family of four. Above her was a mezzanine floor with a lovely white railing, so strong, metal not wood. Elegant, old, the perfect home for a man who planned to be mayor.
"Mom, I'm home!"
Quiet. So quiet.
Panic in her throat, pain in her eyes, blood in her mouth.
She'd bitten her tongue. In fear. In terror. But no, there was no trace of vampire.
"Mom?" A tremulous question.
Looking at the huge hallway, she'd wondered why her mother had left one high-heeled shoe in the middle of the tile. Maybe she'd forgotten. Marguerite was different. Beautiful, wild, artistic. Sometimes she forgot the days of the week, or wore two different shoes, but that was okay. Elena didn't care.
The shoe fooled her. Made her step inside.
A crash of noise and memory shattered under the heart-thudding reality of the present. She slammed the car to a shuddering halt, sickeningly aware that something had just ricocheted off her windshield. "Jesus." Unclipping her belt, she opened the door and got out. Had she hit someone?