Elena couldn't help staring at the new angel. His face . . . she'd never seen anything like it. The entire left-hand side was covered in an exotic tattoo composed of fine dots and swirling curves, the ink pure black against his glowing brown skin. There was a hint of Polynesia in that skin, that tattoo, but the sharpness of his facial features hinted at part of her own ancestry. Old Europe mixed with the exotic winds of the Pacific-it was one hell of a sexy combination.

"Jason," Raphael said in greeting.

"You're injured." The new angel's eyes went to Raphael's wing. "This can wait." He shifted slightly, the rustle of his wings alerting Elena to the fact that she hadn't truly seen them. Frowning, she squinted into the dimness of the hall-the stained glass dull without sunlight-but still saw nothing aside from an indistinct shadow.

She had to ask. "Where are your wings?"

Jason gave her an inscrutable look, then flared out a wing in silence. It was a deep, sooty black. The wing didn't reflect light but seemed to absorb it, the edges fading into the spreading gloom. "Wow," she said. "Guess you make one hell of a night scout."

Jason glanced from her to Raphael. "The report can wait, but it's important you hear it."

"I'll join you in an hour."

"Sire, if early evening would suit, I'd like to fly out to check on something else."

"Contact me when you return."

With a short nod, Jason left. Elena didn't say anything until after both she and Raphael had cleaned up and were tucking into the food Jeeves had brought up. But first things first. "Your butler laundered my clothes," she said from her cross-legged position on the bed. The cargos and T-shirt from yesterday had been waiting for her, washed and ironed.

Raphael raised an eyebrow in front of her, having chosen to sit on the bed, too, one leg on the mattress, the other foot-first on the floor beside it, his injured wing draped gently across the sheets to promote optimal healing. To her pleasure-and she was too achy and frustrated to lie to herself about how he made her feel-he'd asked her to spread a special ointment on the injured section. She knew full well it was a measure of how their relationship had changed that he'd kept her with him while he was injured. No Dmitri tying her to a chair this time. "I highly doubt that," he said now. "Montgomery runs the house-he'd never sully himself washing clothes."

"You know what I mean, Archangel. He's like the house-work fairy-only better!"

"Somehow, the idea of Montgomery as a fairy doesn't have the same effect on me as it appears to have on you."

"Give it time." She bit into her everything-and-more sandwich. "So, Jason's your spy. Or should I say, spymaster?"

"Very good, Guild Hunter." He ate the other half of the sandwich in about three bites. "Though some would say his face makes him too distinctive."

"That tattoo-it had to have hurt." She winced, having been too chicken to get inked herself. Ransom had tried to talk her into one when he'd gotten the band around his arm. Watching the blood being blotted off his skin hadn't inspired her to follow suit . "How long do you think it took?"

"Exactly ten years," Raphael said, watching her with those eyes that seemed to see straight through to her soul.

She shook her head as she finished off the sandwich. "Crazy comes in all forms, I guess."

Raphael held up an apple. "A bite?"

"Tempting me, Archangel?"

"Ah, but you've already fallen, hunter." He used a sharp knife to cut into the fruit and put a slice to her lips, watching her bite off the end with concentrated interest. "Your mouth fascinates me."

The languid heat in her body, ever present around Raphael, seemed to grow, spread, until it was in every part of her, a living, demanding beat. Swallowing her bite of apple, she crawled around the food to kneel in front of him. When he raised the rest of the slice to her lips, she bit down, holding on to his wrist.

Eyes locked, the living warmth of him against her fingertips, it was more erotic than a kiss from another man. Her lips brushed his fingers.

Something hot and male spread across his face, a look that told her very well where he wanted her to put her lips. But what he said was, "Another slice?"

She shook her head with regret. "You have to heal and I need to start running the trace again." Uram couldn't have gone far. Most likely he'd been forced to return to one of his earlier hiding places. Which meant there was a high chance it was in the circuit they'd already mapped out. "This could be our best shot."

Raphael put down the knife and the rest of the apple, tracing her lips with his finger. "Did you hear what Michaela said?"

"That he's all monster?" She shrugged, even as lust snaked around her like a heady perfume. "No surprise after what we saw at that warehouse."

"Would you hunt me, Elena? If I became bloodborn?"

Her heart froze in her chest. "Yes," she said. "But you'll never become a monster." Yet she remembered the knife cutting into her hand, remembered, too, that vampire in Times Square.

A humorless smile. "That's hope, not knowledge." He shook his head. "We're all as susceptible to the lure of power. The blood makes him stronger, harder to defeat."

Cupping his face in her hands, she looked into eyes that had seen thousands of sunrises before she was even a glimmer in the scheme of the universe. "But you have an advantage," she whispered. "You're a little bit human now."

Angel of Blood

They thought he was down.

That was their mistake.

Agony shot through his wing and chest as remnants of Raphael's blue fire attempted to take hold and burrow. Gritting his teeth, he left his hiding place and flew a short distance to a normally inviting public area that had turned murky in the cloudy weather, full of shadowy corners that made it the perfect hunting ground. The glamour served him well, and he tore out the throats of two vagrants before they ever knew they were stalked.

Their blood raced through him like lightning, pushing out the blue fire until it dissipated harmlessly in the air. No longer fighting off an attack, his body focused on repairing torn muscle and cartilage. By the time he bent his head over the fifth throat-the soft, delicate flesh of a young female, his preferred kind of sustenance-he was ready to fly again . . . at least enough to take the mortal hunter out of the equation. Once she was dead, no one would be able to find him.

He smiled and wiped the blood from his mouth with a clean white handkerchief. Yes, warm was best. For a tempting moment, he considered taking another, but knew he didn't have the time. He had to hit before he was expected, while Raphael's defenses were down and the hunter thought herself safe.

After that, he would sink his fangs into Michaela's heart, drink her blood straight from the source. And he'd keep her, he decided. The urge to tear her apart was overwhelming, but he'd fight it. Why kill that which could provide so much exquisite power? Mortals were too weak, but an archangel . . . Ah, he could drink from Michaela for eternity. She'd heal every time.

He wondered if Michaela had told Raphael he'd already fed from her once. He licked his lips. She'd been sweet. Powerful. Piquant. And now she carried a little bit of him within. Yes, an archangel would make the most perfect of refreshments. He'd build her a pretty cage, so she could watch as he played with his other pets-so she'd know that she was the lucky one, the one he'd chosen to sustain him for eons.

But first, he had to break the hunter's neck.