Archangel's Kiss (Guild Hunter 2)

Her lips twisted. How he must've hated that, having to go through his daughter's filthy, inhuman occupation to get to her.Abomination . That's what he'd called her the final night she'd spent under his roof. She'd never forgotten, would never forget.

Her fingers clenched on the enclosed letter as she almost ripped it from the envelope. For an instant, she didn't understand what she was seeing, then she did and her emotions crashed in a violent wave.

It wasn't from her father. The letter had come from the Deveraux family solicitors - a note advising her that they'd paid the fees for her storage unit out of courtesy for her father's business, though the items in that unit now belonged solely to her.

The paper crumpled in her fist. She'd almost forgotten . . . no, that was a lie. She'd deliberately put the memory out of her mind. Her inheritance from her mother, she understood. Marguerite Deveraux had left Elena half her small personal estate, the other half going to Beth.

But the things in that storage unit . . . they were from Elena's childhood.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

"Come here, little hunter. Taste."

Shoving aside the blankets with hands that wouldn't work right, she got out of bed, the letter lying abandoned on the sheets as she stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Her fingers slipped off the knob. Biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, she tried again. Finally, thankfully, the water came down in a soft, warm rain. It washed away the sleep, but nothing could erase the memories now that they'd awakened.

Ariel had been the best big sister any girl could want. She'd never once told Elena to go away, though Elena knew she must have been a pest with her constant need to know what was going on in her teenage sister's life. Mirabelle, the oldest of them all, had been more apt to snarl, but Belle had also taught Elena to play baseball, spending long, patient hours teaching her how to throw, how to catch.

Yin and Yang, her mother had called her two oldest. Ari was the sweetness, Belle the spice.

"Belle, where do you think you're going dressed like that?"

"Aw, come on, Mom. It's all the rage."

"It might be all the rage,mon ange, but you'll be grounded for a month if your father sees your butt hanging out of those shorts."

"Mom!"

Elena remembered sitting at the kitchen table, giggling, as her long-legged fifteen-year-old sister stomped upstairs to change. Across the table, Beth, too little at five to really understand, had giggled with her.

"And you two little monsters, eat your fruit."

Her heart twisted at the memory of her mother's uniquely accented voice; her fingers rose to her cheek, searching for the faded echo of Marguerite's kiss. "Mama." It came out a broken whisper, a child's plea.

There'd been so much blood later. Elena had slipped, fallen hard. And heard Belle's dying breaths as she met Ari's horror-filled eyes. Even then, her sister had been trying to protect her, trying to tell her to run, her voice a gurgle as blood filled her throat. But Slater Patalis hadn't been interested in killing Elena. He'd other plans for her.

"Sweet little hunter."

Jerking off the water, Elena stepped out and dried herself off with a concentrated kind of focus. She snapped out her wings like she'd seen Raphael do, then gasped at the pain that radiated down her back. Embracing the pulses of hurt because they broke the endless loop of memory, she dressed in workout gear - loose black exercise pants with a white stripe down the sides, and a severe black tank with a built-in bra.

As with all the clothing she'd found in the wardrobe that was hers, it had clearly been designed with wings in mind, the tank pulled tight at the halter neck, and having three panels - one on each side of her wings, the other down the middle of her back - that looped into a wide strap she wrapped around her waist then locked at the sides using adjustable clasps. Extra support was provided by boning around the breast area. Satisfied her body wouldn't distract her from what she needed to learn, she plaited the damp mass of her pale hair into a braid close to her skull.

Then, unused to leaving things a mess, she made the bed - stuffing the letter in a drawer - and walked out. The bedroom, with its walls of glass, was connected to the large living area she'd already used. Across the hallway outside the living area lay what appeared to be an office and a small but well-appointed library, both with clear walls that brought the mountains inside. Books filled the low shelves, some old, some new, but she'd also glimpsed a sophisticated computer station. It all sat at the very top of the stronghold, above the soaring central core. More living quarters spread out below, rooms for the Seven, other angels and vampires. But the top wing was private, Raphael's.

The hallway - which led eventually to stairs cut into the side of the central core - was a symphony of clean lines broken up by the unexpected. A scimitar, ancient runes burned into the blade itself, was mounted on the left wall, the steel gleaming wicked sharp. She could see Dmitri holding that blade, wondered if it had been his once upon a time.

Because Dmitri was old, one of the oldest vampires she'd ever met.

A few feet down, a handwoven tapestry covered most of the right wall. She'd spent almost half an hour staring at it yesterday, compelled by something she didn't understand. Now, in spite of her need to get out, to combat the churning in her gut with raw physicality, her feet hesitated, then stopped. There was a story woven within those precise threads, a story she desperately wanted to understand.

The panel showed an angel silhouetted golden against the sun, his face obscured by shadow as he headed downward to a forest village engulfed in flames. Another angel rose up toward him, her hair a rippling fall of black down her back, her wings the purest white Elena had ever seen. The flying strands of her hair hid her face, until she, too, was a shadow. But the faces of the villagers as they writhed in agony . . . each had been woven in exquisite detail, down to the screaming horror in the eyes of a woman who stood trapped as flames licked at her skirts, began to blister the skin of her arm.

Who were the two angels? Were they trying to help the burning? Or were they the reason for the massacre? Most important of all, Elena thought, shivers trailing over her skin, why did Raphael have this disturbing image in a place where he couldn't help but see it almost every single day?

Raphael looked down at the injured vampire, even more sharply conscious of the calculated nature of the insult, the care that had been taken to beat Noel so that his face was so much ground meat - but one eye remained undamaged, a dull blue visible around the swelling caused by his other injuries. His remaining eye was nothing but pulp. His nose was gone, but his lips untouched, perfect in their form.