“Who discovered the bodies?’ Raphael asked aloud.
Ransom’s answer was immediate. “I did. Got a tip about the smell, broke in when I recognized it.”
He is lying.
He’s protecting someone. It was what Ransom did when it came to the street people, who were as much family to him as his fellow hunters.
I can’t permit news of this to spread, Elena. It would incite a panic. Either Ransom talks or I’ll have to take the information from his mind.
Stomach tight, her hand clenched on the blade she’d dropped into her palm when they entered the house. He’s my friend.
I trust Ransom to keep his mouth shut. The sea, clean and bright, the wind an icy blast. I do not trust those he trusts.
And if I ask you to let it go?
I won’t.
13
Jerking at the vicious bluntness of Raphael’s response, at the realization that she was helpless to protect someone she cared for deeply, she stopped Ransom in the bedroom doorway. “You need to tell the truth,” she said, each word a razor in her throat. “Who found the bodies?”
A shake of his head, his jaw stiff. “If I do, I make that person a target.”
“I will take this memory alone and do the witness no harm.” Raphael came to stand beside Elena. “He or she will live and remember nothing of this night.”
Ransom’s eyes slid to Elena and in them she saw the harsh realization that if he didn’t answer the question, Raphael would take the information anyway.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, ready for anger.
But Ransom shrugged. “He’s an archangel, Ellie. We’re just rats to him.”
She knew he hadn’t meant anything by it, had in fact been trying to comfort her, but Ransom’s words brought home how little power she had in this relationship. Raphael could override her in so many ways, but she’d become used to having him listen to her, to being able to argue her points. Never had she expected to hear a flat negative, with no room for negotiation.
“You won’t touch her other memories?” Ransom asked Raphael, while she was still reeling under the force of the cruel emotional slap.
“Questioning the word of an archangel is a good way to end up dead.”
Raphael! Stop it. Furious, she met Ransom’s green eyes. “He doesn’t want anything but this particular memory.” Don’t make me a liar, she said mind to mind at the same instant.
A dangerous pause. You question my word, too, Elena?
Ransom is right. We are rats to you.
You aren’t part of any other group. You are my consort.
Ransom spoke before she could respond and it was just as well, since what she wanted to say would probably only have thrown fuel on the ugly fight brewing between her and Raphael.
“Cici lives down the street,” he said. “She came to buddy-watch the latest episode of Hunter’s Prey like she does every week, and when no one answered, she used the key they gave her a while back when she needed a place to hide out from a violent ex. She knew something was wrong as soon as she got a whiff of the smell, but she figured maybe the cat had dragged in a dead rat or something while everyone was out.”
Running a hand through his hair, he messed it up, tugged off the rawhide tie to put it back in order. “She’s a tough working girl, has come up against knife-wielding assailants and walked out the winner, but I found her curled up in a ball sobbing when I arrived.” A look at Raphael. “Janvier is with her. We were out riding together when I got the call.”
That explained the unfamiliar red motorcycle out front, parked next to Ransom’s black one. As for how Ransom knew the vampire who held the trust of senior Tower personnel, Janvier had some kind of a relationship—no one quite understood what—with one of their fellow hunters.
“Which house?”
“It’s an apartment. I’ll show you.”
Remaining behind after Raphael left with Ransom, Elena forced herself to go through the house, while Keir focused on the victims and Illium stood watch outside to make sure no one decided to get curious.
Three males and two females lay dead. Five more lives snuffed out. Two couples, judging from the photos she could see in the bedrooms. One couple was in bed, the two men spooned together as if they’d held on to each other as the sickness became too much to bear. The male half of the other couple was slumped on the couch, his girlfriend on the floor, and to Elena, it looked as if the girl had fallen in a spasm and been unable to get back up. The second girl was in a tiny room at the back, the petite prettiness evident in the photos tucked under the edges of her vanity obliterated by the pox.
This victim’s room might have been the smallest in the house, but it was well kept and made individual by the framed Broadway posters on the walls and the glittering masks hung around the same vanity mirror that held the photos. A dancer, Elena realized, seeing the costumes in the doorless cupboard. She recognized one of them from an off-Broadway show that had closed six months ago, after a respectable run.