Blood, dark and red, seeped out of the cut as the vampire whimpered. “We weren’t supposed to damage her and I gave her a black eye. So we tied her up and left her where the directions said and got the hell out.”
“You didn’t stay out.” Another cut, this one horizontal, and deep enough that it brushed Leon’s internal organs.
But the other vampire kept talking, because he knew Dmitri could do far worse. “Seven weeks later, client calls me again, gives me an address, says maybe we’d like to join in the festivities.”
Twisting the blade, Dmitri pulled up, collapsing a lung. “Keep talking.” Vampires of Leon’s age didn’t need to breathe . . . much.
“We got there”—harsh, gasping attempts to take in air—“the place was empty except for the hunter, but it was clear more than one vampire had fed from her. Client left us a note to enjoy ourselves. Note’s gone. I threw it away.”
Dmitri removed the knife. “And did you? Enjoy yourself?” They were rhetorical questions—these two had been found with Honor over a week later, their mouths smeared with her blood. “You invited your friends, too, didn’t you?” The two vampires killed during the rescue had worked for the same security company. “Who else?”
“No one,” Leon answered. “I swear. Just the four of us.”
They were too terrified to lie, so Dmitri accepted that. “Good.”
The screaming stopped when he removed their voice boxes. But he left them alive. Raphael had told him something once, a long time ago. Something his mother, Caliane, had said.
“Three days in the span of a mortal lifetime can feel like three decades.”
Raphael’s mother might yet turn out to be an insane Ancient, but on this point, Dmitri agreed with her completely. So he would make sure Andreas knew not to let Reg and Leon die. As for the others . . . they would wish for death every single night for the next two centuries once he found them.
Two months, after all, was a lot longer than three days.
Nine at night, and Honor didn’t know what she was doing here. “Sorry about canceling our other appointments. Thanks for coming in so late.”
Anastasia Reuben smiled, her steely gray hair pulled back in a neat bun. “I’ve worked with hunters for two decades, Honor. I know going to see a therapist is worse than getting your teeth pulled.”
She laughed, or tried to, the sound an awkward rasp. “So, how does this work?”
“There’s no pressure, no rules here,” Dr. Reuben said, eyes gentle. “If all you want to do is talk about the latest episode of Hunter’s Prey, then that’s what we’ll do.”
Honor had the feeling that wasn’t a hypothetical example. “I came because . . .” Shaking her head, she jerked to her feet, adrenaline racing through every cell in her body. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
Dr. Reuben rose, too. “I’m glad you came.” Reaching into a cupboard, she pulled out a small book covered in gold and white swirls. “Some hunters never talk, but I’ve found that putting words down on paper can help.”
Honor took the notebook, having no intention of using it. “Thanks.”
“It’s for your eyes alone. Burn it afterward if you want.”
Giving a nod, Honor strode out of the small, discreet office two blocks from Guild HQ.
It wasn’t until she was back in her apartment, laptop open to the tattoo file, that she allowed herself to think about why she’d gone. Perhaps it had been the slowly awakening anger inside of her, a cold, bright thing that was all teeth and gleaming edges. Then again, perhaps it had been the knowledge that, stupid or not, she wanted to taste the dark sin of Dmitri’s lips. Or perhaps it had been the nightmares.
All her life, she’d felt alone, rootless. Even now, when she had friends, loyal and strong, there was a huge hole deep within—as if she’d lost something terrible and precious. As a child, she’d thought she must be a twin, that her mother had kept one and given away the other. However, as an adult, she recognized the sense of loss as something other, outside of herself. That strange, piercing loneliness was never more prevalent than after a nightmare—whether waking or sleeping.
“Enough,” she muttered. “Time to work.”
And work she did, until the city began to pulse with a quieter beat, the sky that impenetrable opaque shade between midnight and dawn. She shouldn’t have given in to sleep but she was tired, her eyes gritty from the parade of sleepless nights, and oblivion hit before she knew it.
It was the sound of a woman’s endless, ragged screams that jerked her awake. Her body was curled up into a tight ball on the sofa, wracked by dry sobs, the lingering echo of the woman’s torment ripping holes in her soul. Unable to bear it, she stumbled to the bathroom and threw ice-cold water on a face ravaged by an anguish so deep, she’d never felt its like. How could that be? She’d been tortured and broken . . . but this desolation, it came from another place, so very, very deep that it had no name.
Swallowing the burn in her throat before the sadness could recapture her in its aching grip, she stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower. It was barely five a.m. but the three hours of sleep she’d gotten tonight were better than the hour the previous night. Washing off the sweat, she pressed her head against the tile and simply let the water roll over and off her.
She’d always loved water. Part of the reason she’d ended up in Manhattan was because it was surrounded by water. It had been a considered decision to apply to the Academy. She’d wanted to study ancient languages and knew that the Guild would cover her fees if she signed a contract to remain active on the roster for at least four years after graduation.
The four-year mark had come and gone, but she’d never even considered leaving. Not only had the other hunters become her family, but her expertise in ancient cultures and languages was a skill in constant demand, given the fact that theirs was a world ruled by immortals. The thought circled her mind back to the Tower and to the vampire who had always been her darkest, most secret weakness.
Switching off the shower, she stepped out to dry herself off, forcing her brain to focus on the task that had left her with a splitting headache the previous night. Whatever it was that had been tattooed on the vampire’s face—and on the back of his right shoulder, according to the photos she’d received from the pathologist—was so idiosyncratic as to defy logical explanation. And yet she knew there had to be one. Because regardless of how the head had come into Dmitri’s hands, the body had been an unmistakable message.
Dressing in jeans and a plain white tee, she headed out into the kitchen area, which flowed off the lounge, to prepare some tea. The view from the entire front section of the apartment was the same—the Tower. Brilliant with light against the dark early morning skies, it drew the eye like a lodestar.
Walking to the glass wall, tea in hand, she watched a solitary angel come in to land. He was only a silhouette from this far out, but even then, his grace was extraordinary. Not one of the “normal” angels, she thought. This was someone akin to the black-winged angel Dmitri had spoken with on the balcony outside his office.
The knock on her door was so unexpected that she didn’t startle, just stared. When it came again, she put down the tea, pulled her gun, and walked on silent feet to the peephole. The vampire on the other side was a sleek predator she should’ve shot at first glance. Instead, she opened the door. “Dmitri.”