Archangel's Legion(48)

Raphael wondered if Michaela was so used to manipulating men that she simply didn’t understand he couldn’t be molded to her requirements with sweet words buttressed by an undertone of sex. “I am no longer a young man,” he said, seeing her eyes narrow at the continued ice in his tone, “and you have come perilously close to a fatal breach of the rules of Guesthood.”

Dropping her hands, she turned in a dramatic sweep of shimmering bronze, her wings arcing gracefully over her back. “You are being cruel.” Vivid green, her eyes were sheened wet when she turned to face him once more. “I ask you for sanctuary and you want me to play with formalities? You know I lost a child! I cannot lose another.”

For an instant, he almost believed her, thought that perhaps she’d miscarried the embryo and “forgotten” the knowledge in her agony . . . but then she betrayed herself, her lips curving up the slightest fraction at his hesitation. The feline smugness of her answered his final questions, told him he had no need to be gentle. “Enough of the charade, Michaela.”

“Charade? You mock me!” A thin ring of acidic green pulsing around the richer hue of her irises, an unmistakable physical sign of Uram’s influence. “I am vulnerable; you are strong. I ask for your help! Where is the charade?”

Allowing his own power to rise, he felt his wings begin to glow. “You carry no babe.”

Silence, her shock morphing rapidly into fury. “An accusation of deliberate falsehood! You incite a war!”


• • •


Golden light filled the wide mullioned windows of the graceful house where Illium indicated Elena should land.

“Pretty hunter, I’ve missed you.”

She hissed out a breath, blades falling into both hands as she recognized the blond vampire who’d shaped the simple statement into a threat, the bones of his face refined to an unearthly beauty that made it clear he was far beyond a hundred years of age.

The last time she’d seen Riker, he’d been pinned to the wall of the house next to their own, a torn-off chair leg through his throat and blood dripping down his temples. Today, Michaela’s favorite guard bared his teeth at her in a feral grin that was nothing natural, nothing sane, then waved his arm toward the front door in mocking welcome.

“My mistress flayed the skin off my back and made it into a purse.”

Hairs rising on her nape at the memory of the way he’d made that admission with the same creepily fixed smile, Elena tightened her grip on the blades. “I see you’ve healed.”

A lascivious stroke of his tongue along his upper lip. “I’ve been waiting a long time to be alone with you.” His eyes flicked over her head just as she heard the cold whisper of sound that was Illium unsheathing the sword he always carried along his spine, the weapon hidden by a glamour that spoke to Illium’s growing power.

“Go,” he murmured, then raised his voice. “I’ll watch Michaela’s rabid dog, put him out of his misery if he proves troublesome.”

Riker’s eyes glowed bloodred, his fangs flashing, but he kept his distance when she walked past him and through the front door. Raphael, how bad is it?

Michaela is not with child, has likely never been with child.

I can’t believe she used the memory of her own dead child in a scheme. Sickened by the callousness of such an act, she followed the sound of a raised voice to the large but otherwise unremarkable central core of the house. Raphael stood in the center, Michaela a few feet from him.

The female archangel’s exquisite skin, the color of coffee swirled with milk and dusted with gold, was flushed, as if as a result of passionate argument; her body the epitome of female perfection in the emerald green catsuit that caressed every curve and valley.

Raphael answered whatever it was Michaela had said just as Elena took the first step toward him. “It’s not a lie you can hope to maintain—so unless you do wish a war, cut your losses and leave.”

Shooting Elena a dagger-sharp glare, Michaela said, “Look, your pet has arrived,” the words saccharine-sweet. “Has she learned to sit and beg on command yet?”

Elena made her tone just as sweet as she played a throwing knife over her fingers. “No, but my aim’s even better now.” It might’ve been petty, but she enjoyed seeing the fury in Michaela’s expression at the reminder that Elena had once buried a blade in her eyeball.

“Don’t.” It was a soft warning from Raphael as Michaela raised her hand, her fingertips crackling with dramatic green.

A ball of angelfire formed in Raphael’s palm.

“I don’t know why you’re so amused by the creature.” Michaela closed her fingers. “But I suggest you teach it manners.”