In spite of the fact that the building was old, its bones heavy, the corridor was filled with light. She saw the reason why when she stopped on the first step, glanced up—a magnificent glass skylight, domed and gilded with gold, and caressed by a few errant strands of ivy. The leaves looked like emeralds scattered against the glass. But that wasn’t what caught her attention.
Iron again, so rich and potent and thick that it sighed of only one thing.
Death.
“Upstairs.”
Startled, Elena turned to find herself facing a skeletal-thin woman garbed in an elegant suit that straddled the border between pale olive and deep gray. The color appeared almost harsh against skin of a pale, papery white. “I’m Adrienne Liscombe, the principal,” the stranger said at Elena’s questioning look. “I was checking to make sure all the girls got out.”
Having noticed the signs on the doors that opened off the right side of the corridor, Elena said, “This is the office building?”
“This floor,” Ms. Liscombe said, her words crisp, correct. “The second floor houses the library and work spaces for the girls. Above that are a number of dorm rooms, with further facilities on the fourth floor. We function as a home to many of our students—and the staff offices are set up as studies since a significant proportion of us also live in. A girl can come down from her room at any stage to talk to a member of the staff.”
Elena realized that notwithstanding her clear-cut enunciation, her immaculate suit, and her precise gold jewelry, the principal was rambling. Gut-wrenchingly conscious of what might have reduced a woman who gave every indication of having an almost austere toughness of spirit to such a state, she said, “Thank you, Ms. Liscombe.” Drowning as she was in the acrid scent of blood—and of thicker, more viscous fluids—it took conscious effort to make her voice gentle. “I think the girls could use your guidance outside.”
A sharp nod, light glinting off the sleek silver of her hair. “Yes, yes, I should go.”
“Wait.” The question had to be asked. “How many of your pupils are unaccounted for?”
“A full roll call hasn’t yet been taken. I’ll do it now.” Shoulders being squared, professional calm reasserting itself in response to the concrete task. “Some of the girls are away on a field trip, and we have the usual number of absences, so I’ll have to cross-check the list.”
“Please get it to us as soon as you’re able.”
“Of course.” A pause. “Celia . . . she should be here.”
“I understand.” Walking up the varnished wooden stairs that spoke of another time to the muted sounds of the principal’s retreating footsteps, Elena reminded herself to keep her wings raised. It wasn’t quite second nature yet, but she was far more adept at it than when she’d first awakened. Her original motivation had come from not wanting to have them dragging through the dust and dirt of Manhattan’s streets.
Today, she needed the reminder for a far more sinister reason.
Entering the third-floor hallway, she ignored the exquisite oil paintings that spoke of money and class to follow the stench of iron and fear to the room at the very end, a room that held an archangel with eyes of pitiless blue. “Raphael.”
She halted, tried to breathe. The cloying richness of the smell threatened to choke her as she took in the blood-drenched sheets, the pool of dark liquid edged with red on the floor, splattered on the walls, the most unspeakable graffiti. “Where’s the body?” Because there would be a body. A human being couldn’t lose this much blood and survive.
“In the woods,” he said in a tone that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise, it was so very, very, very calm. “He dragged her there to feast on her, though he spilled most of her blood here.”
Elena stiffened her spine against the flood of pity. It would do no good to Celia now—and would get in the way of what Elena could do, the justice she could help attain. “Why did you ask me to come inside?” If she was to track the vampire, her best bet would be to begin at his last known position.
“The body was discovered floating in a small pond. It’s likely he bathed in it before he left.”
Elena jerked up her head. “You’re telling me he’s thinking ?” Because water was the sole factor that could confuse the bloodhound senses of the hunter-born. Vampires caught in the grip of bloodlust—the only thing that could explain the savagery of this attack—did not think. They rampaged with unstoppable violence, were most often caught while they gorged on the blood of their victims. “Is it”—another Uram? she finished, conscious that the darkest of angelic secrets could not be spoken aloud, not here.
“No.” Raphael’s voice was, if possible, even more gentle.
Cruelty wrapped in velvet, she thought. He was riding the razor’s edge of rage.
“Find his scent, Elena. This is the place where it will be strongest.”
He was right. Anything she got near the pond would be diluted. Here, he’d killed, perhaps shed some of his own blood if the victim had been able to claw at him as she fought for her life. Taking a deep breath, Elena shut out everything—including the icy knowledge that this could have been one of her sisters—and focused on the rich strokes of scent that saturated the room.
The easiest to identify was Raphael, her anchor.
Then the metallic kiss of blood. And ... a stormy scent licked with fire.
Her eyes snapped open. “Jason was here?” Her ability to track angels continued to be wildly erratic, more often off than on, but she knew that combination of notes, knew also that it was rare for the black-winged angel to make a daylight appearance.
Yes.
Chilled by the way Raphael stared unblinking at the pool of blood, she pushed aside the question of why Raphael’s spymaster had passed through here—why, indeed, the Archangel of New York was on a scene that should’ve been filled with cops and hunters—and focused her senses once more. It was startling, what little effort it took to isolate the vampiric thread. Unlike most places in the state, this school was apparently free of vampiric employees, a humans-only zone.
No wonder Jeffrey had chosen it for his daughters.
But one vampire had invaded this sanctum, a vampire with a sickly sweet edge to his smell.
Burnt treacle . . . and slivers of glass, heavier notes of oak underneath.
Tugging on that thread, she angled her head toward the window. “That’s how he got out.” But she left the room through the door, knowing she’d never be able to squeeze out the same way, given her wings. She was aware of Raphael at her back as she found an exit and stepped outside, rounding ivy-covered walls until she stood below the window.