“The cemetery, then?” Trent asked.
“Right. Let’s go.”
* * *
Having lived for millennia, nothing surprised Adrian anymore. He’d seen everything, countless times. Or so he’d thought.
From his vantage in a tree a half mile away from the statue, he tracked the young couple crouch-walking toward the massive angel, laughing softy and pausing occasionally for breathless kisses. He watched them reach their destination and lean against the marble in a passionate embrace. Her hands slid through the young man’s hair as he took her mouth with more enthusiasm than skill. Then he lifted her onto the angel’s lap, putting her at the perfect height for him to step between her legs and push up her pleated mini-skirt.
Dropping from the tree, Adrian approached carefully, eyes on the prize as he waited for a sign that he was dealing with more than just an ordinary set of horny college kids. He was distantly aware of Elijah and Trent on the perimeter, holding back to keep their scent from reaching the sensitive nostrils of their vampire quarry.
The girl’s head fell back with a sigh of pleasure, exposing the creamy expanse of her throat to the greedy slide of her boyfriend’s parted lips.
Then Adrian saw the soft amber glow of her irises.
His brow arched. Well, then.
Her furtive hand signal alerted him to the presence of the others, warning him to shift into the shadows of a massive tree for cover. The pack converged from points behind the young man, four vampresses, their fangs gleaming in the moonlight. Their gender took him aback, although he would later wonder why it had. Although they hid it well, females were usually more vicious than males.
The girl on the angel’s lap shoved her would-be lover back into the waiting arms of her laughing friends. Adrian engaged, darting forward, going for the victim. Catching him up in the center of the pack, Adrian snapped his wings free, spinning fluidly. The razor-sharp tips of his feathers sliced like a circular saw, halving the vampires at the waist in less than a second. As the pieces fell to the ground with sickening thuds, he delved into the young man’s mind and removed all memory of the night, resetting his recollections back to the point when he’d met the vampress at a frat party.
Then he faced her, the ringleader. She cowered into the arms of the angel, caged by Elijah and Trent in their lupine forms. But when her gaze met Adrian’s it was hot with defiance and swirling with madness.
Plucking her off the statue, Adrian rifled through her memories, confirming her guilt in the previous attack and discovering the tragedy of her Change. She’d been caught just this way by a young rogue and his friends. The attack had stolen her sanity; the Change had taken her soul, as it did all minions. What was left behind was one of the monsters he hunted.
Nevertheless, pity stirred in his chest.
“I’ll find the ones who did this to you,” he promised softly. Then he ended her.
In the morning, several dozen white lilies were found in the lap of the mourning angel statue. And in the years that followed, it became known as an unusually peaceful spot, one where visitors felt a joyous equanimity and departed with a renewed sense of hope in the days to come.
The following interview appeared on UnderTheCoversBookBlog.blogspot.com, Oct 2011.
AUTHOR OVERRIDE
Interview with Adrian Mitchell
I’m not overly surprised to find Adrian in a pensive mood when I visit him for this interview. I know he’s under a great deal of pressure now, although he hides it beautifully, as always.
I find him in his office, looking out the window at the native Southern California landscape. His hands are clasped beneath his wings and his inky black hair touches the collar of his dress shirt, having grown longer over the last few weeks as his world has steadily unraveled. Those beautiful wings of his, so pristinely and blindingly white except for the crimson tips, reveal so much about him. I wonder if he realizes that. He can hide them at will and the fact that he’s chosen not to do so today tells me how agitated he is. They stretch and flex when he’s of a mood, the only visible sign he gives of how he’s feeling.
I know it’s those feelings that are exacerbating his problems now. He’s a Sentinel, after all. An angel created to hunt and punish other angels. He was designed and built to feel no emotion, to function almost like a machine. A Terminator, perhaps. One mission, one purpose, no deviations. But he’s deviated a lot over the years. Now more so than ever before. And he’s paid the price. He’s paying it even now.
“Hi, Adrian,” I say in greeting, although he knows I’ve been standing here watching him.