“Dmitri, stop playing games.”
Words spoken in a distant language, as clear to him as the sunlight. She’d been angry with him that day, his Ingrede. And yet in the end, he’d tumbled her into bed, stripped her down to her skin, and kissed every inch of her small, lush body. He’d loved sinking into her, of having his hands full of her breasts, his thighs wedged between her softer, plumper ones as he sucked and licked at her mouth, her neck. That was the day Caterina had been conceived, or so Ingrede had always maintained.
“That’s why she is such a bad-tempered child, your daughter.”
“Dmitri?”
Lashes lowering, he fought to hang on to a memory that held nothing of the pain or horror that was to follow, only to have it flitting out of reach. “I’m listening,” he said, eyes on Honor.
Her gaze lingered on him and, for an instant, he felt the most disconcerting sensation—as if he had been in this moment before—but then she blinked and looked down and it passed. “The tattoo isn’t in our database. However, I’ve sent out some discreet feelers along the international hunter network.”
Dmitri had also put out the word amongst the network of high-level vampires who either worked in or with powerful courts. The cooperation at that level was much more prevalent than believed by most people. It was only when issues of territory and power became involved that things got problematic. “Have you had any success deciphering the lines of text?”
Her eyes sparkled, the first time he’d seen such a light in them. It fascinated him, the sudden, brilliant life of her. This, he thought, this was who she had been before she’d been broken . . . before she’d learned to taste fear in her every breath. He understood what it was to break, better than she could imagine.
“Watch, Dmitri.”
“No, don’t!” Pulling against his chains until his wrists bled. “I’ll do whatever you wish—crawl on my hands and knees!”
Laughter, beautiful and mocking. “You will anyway.”
“No! No! Please!”
6
“The language”—Honor’s voice intertwining with one of the most painful moments of his hundreds of years of existence—“is close to Aramaic, but not quite. It’s almost as if someone took Aramaic as the base, then wrote their own . . .” A puff of breath that lifted the fine tendrils of hair that had escaped the clip at her nape. “I’d call it a code. The lines are a code.”
Drawn by the softness of her, he walked closer, saw her stiffen. “Can you unravel it?”
“It’ll be difficult with so small a sample,” she said, holding her position, “but yes, I think so. I’ve already begun.”
He was about to ask for more details when his cell phone rang. Glancing at the screen, he saw it was Jason, Raphael’s spymaster and a member of the Seven. “You’ve found something,” he said to the angel, his attention on the curls in Honor’s hair.
“In a sense—I’ll be there in five minutes to discuss it.”
Hanging up, Dmitri glanced at the skies beyond the glass, searching for Jason’s distinctive black-winged form. He didn’t find it—not a surprise, given that Jason had a habit of flying high above the cloud layer and then descending in a burst of speed. Looking back to Honor, he caught her staring at him. “Usually when a woman looks at me like that,” he murmured in deliberate provocation, “I consider it an invitation to take whatever I want.”
Hand clenching around the pen in her grasp, she stood to her full height. “I was thinking that you looked like a man who could break my neck with the same inhuman calm as you might a cell phone.”
Dmitri slid his hands into his pockets. “I’d be more worried at losing my cell.” He said it to shock her, but part of him wasn’t certain it wasn’t in fact the truth.
Honor’s gaze lingered on his face, those midnight green eyes full of secrets too old to belong to a mortal . . . except this one had lived an eon in the months she’d spent trapped at the mercy of those who had none. “Everyone,” she now said, “knows vampires were once human. I’m not sure you were.”
“Neither am I.” A lie, made so by his awakening memories, memories that incited the same rage, horror, and anguish he’d felt so long ago that the time was nothing but an ancient legend to mortals. However, Honor had no right to that knowledge. Only to Ingrede would he have laid his soul bare, and his wife was long dead, ashes on the unforgiving wind.
Dmitri.
I’ll meet you on the balcony, Jason. Though their ranges and specific abilities varied dramatically, every member of the Seven could communicate on the mental plane, an incalculable strategic advantage in certain situations. “Don’t leave just yet, Honor. I wouldn’t want to have to chase you down.”
Honor watched Dmitri prowl out through the small door that led onto the balcony. An angel with wings as black as the endless heart of night swept down to land with quiet grace on the very edge of the open space an instant later. Honor sucked in a breath as she saw the tattoo covering the left-hand side of his face—swirling lines, dots arcing along the curves to create a striking piece of art. Beautiful and haunting, it suited a face that carried the compelling strength of the Pacific intermingled with other cultures she couldn’t quite identify. His hair, tied back in a neat queue, reached to midway between his shoulder blades.
Dmitri, with his flawlessly cut black suit paired with a vivid blue shirt, his hair just long enough to invite the thrust of a woman’s fingers, was as urbane and sophisticated as the angel was rough around the edges. But one thing was clear—both were honed blades, blooded and ruthless.
Jason glanced through the plate-glass window. “Honor St. Nicholas,” he said. “Found abandoned as a newborn on the doorstep of a small church in rural North Dakota. Named after the nun who discovered her and the patron saint of children. No known family.”
Dmitri wasn’t surprised at Jason’s knowledge—there was a reason the angel was called the best spymaster in the Cadre. “I assume you didn’t come here to talk about Honor.”
The angel tucked his wings in tighter as a swift wind swept across the balcony suspended high above the frenetic beat of the city. “There’s something in your voice, Dmitri.”
It was odd how good Jason was at picking up cues about people, though he was an angel who preferred to keep to himself. “Unless you have intentions toward Honor,” he said, “it’s not something you need to worry about.”
Jason didn’t speak for a long moment unbroken by any sound but for the wind whispering over his wings. “Do you know what was done to her?”
“I can guess.” Unlike Jason, he had intimate knowledge of the bloodlust that lived within the Made. Dmitri had had control of his from the start—perhaps because he’d stabbed his rage into Isis’s body, or perhaps because he’d been determined never to become a slave to anyone or anything—but that didn’t mean it didn’t exist. “She’s stronger than she appears.”
“Are you certain?”
“Why the sudden concern about a hunter?” Jason saw everything, but preferred to keep his distance from those he watched.