Angel’s Blood (Guild Hunter #1)(25)
Author: Nalini Singh

"I think you’re far stronger than the others realize." Calculation filled her gaze, even as she dropped into less formal speech.

Raphael would’ve cursed himself for having made a mistake except that he knew this was part of Lijuan’s modus operandi. To speak with her, you had to be, if not an equal, at least strong enough to make things interesting. "If you weren’t a woman, I’d say you have a need to prove whose c**k is bigger."

She actually giggled but the sound was somehow . . . off. "Oh, that I’d found you when I was still interested in such things." She waved a hand. "You would’ve made a fine lover." Her lips turned sensuous, some faded remembrance lighting sparks in the winter chill of her eyes. "Have you ever danced with an angel in flight?"

Memory hit Raphael like a body blow. Yes, he had danced. But it had not been in pleasure. However, he said nothing, simply watched, listened, knowing he was her audience.

"I had a lover once who actually made me feel human." She blinked. "Extraordinary, isn’t it?"

He considered what kind of a young angel Zhou Lijuan might’ve been and found he didn’t like the answer. "Is he with you still?" he asked for form’s sake.

"I had him killed-an archangel can never be human." Her face shifted, becoming less and less of this world, a caricature of angelic features, paper-thin skin over bone glowing from within. "There are some humans-one among half a billion perhaps-who make us something other than what we are. The barriers fall, the fires ignite, and the minds merge."

He stayed absolutely silent.

"You must kill her." Her pupils had expanded to devour the irises, her eyes black flame, her face a burning skeletal mask. "Unless and until you do, you can never be certain when the barriers will fall again."

"What happens if I don’t kill her?"

"Then she will kill you. She will make you mortal."

Chapter 13

Ransom stopped the motorcycle in the bowels of Guild HQ. Pulling off his helmet, he hung it on the right handlebar. "My, but you lead an interesting life, Elieanora."

She rubbed her cheek against the braid hanging down his back, too happy with him to tell him to stop using that stupid name. Not only was it not her name-okay, maybe on her birth certificate-it made her sound about a hundred years old. According to Ransom, she’d been drunk the night she confessed her secret shame. She thought it was more likely he’d hacked into some database and stolen the intel.

Reaching back, he patted her thigh. "Am I going to get lucky tonight?"

"You wish." Grinning, she slapped away his hand and got off the bike.

His too-handsome-to-live face bore a wide grin. "It was worth a try." With high cheekbones and rich copper-gold skin inherited from his Cherokee ancestors, not to mention green eyes from Ireland-via a short sojourn in an Australian penal colony-he was pretty enough to lick up like ice cream.

It was almost a pity they were just friends. Almost. "The night I sleep with you, you’ll cry like a baby."

His eyes widened as he unzipped his leather jacket. "I know you’re into knives, but in bed? Isn’t that taking it a little far?"

Leaning in, she put her hands on his shoulders. "The instant we have sex, we stop being friends. Tear-time, honey pie." It was a relief to be doing something as normal as bantering with Ransom.

He wrapped an arm around her waist. "You don’t know what you’re missing."

"I’ll survive." She knew full well he didn’t really want to mess up their friendship. And the second sex intruded, that’s exactly what would happen-Ransom didn’t deal well with intimacy. He might not be sleeping with Elena, but she bet she knew him a hell of a lot better than his girlfriend did. "And I won’t even tell Nyree you were hitting on me."

Shadows moved across his face. "She left me."

"Well, that’s a new one. It’s usually you doing the cutting and running."

"She said I had commitment issues." He squeezed her waist in emphasis. "Where the hell does she get that from?"

"Er, Ransom"-she patted his cheek-"your longest relationship, not counting me or Sara, was with Nyree and that was what, eight weeks?"

He scowled. "Who the f**k needs commitment? We had good times. I can find another piece of ass the second I walk into a bar."

Despite all the problems in her own life-certain-death job, kinky vampire, superpowerful archangel-she felt her attention switch completely. "Wow, hell froze over while I wasn’t looking. You care about her."

He dropped his arm. "I let her leave stuff at my place. Girly shit."

Which, she assumed, was as good as a marriage certificate to him. "And?"

"And what?"

Sensing that line of questioning would get her nowhere, she changed gears. "That’s your plan-to go out and find an easy lay?"

"You’re the morality police now?"

The shrug made her muscles protest, threatening to remind her of how she’d overstretched them in the first place. "Hey, none of my business if you and Nyree decide to find new bed partners."

His skin turned white over bone. "She lets any other f**ker lay a hand on her, he’ll be singing soprano the rest of his miserable life."

"Maybe you should let Nyree know." Elena decided that was about the limit of the advice she was capable of right then. It was time to return to the nightmare of her life. "Now get your cute butt up off there. We need to powwow with Sara."

"She’s on her way," he told her, sprawling back on the bike with an easy grace that made most women drool. "When you called for a retrieval, she told me to haul ass and to make sure you stayed hidden until she knew what was going on."

Elena remembered what Sara had implied about spies in the Guild. Raphael’s spies. Her hands fisted. "I hate men."

Ransom sat back up, face absolutely expressionless. "What happened?"

And she knew that if she told him, he’d be ready to go archangel hunting with her. She called him her sometimes-friend because they tended to fight half the time, but when push came to shove, Ransom would stand at her back. But this was a private war. "Personal stuff," she answered, just as the elevator doors opened to reveal Sara.

She strode out, a petite woman with skin the rich, melting color of cinnamon coffee and huge brown eyes set off by dark hair cut in thick, straight bangs and twisted up off her neck. Her tailored burgundy suit and white lace camisole screamed executive, but she had her feet perched on what looked like five-inch high heels. "You smell like you’ve been running a marathon," was her greeting to Elena. "And you"-a glance at Ransom-"look like a reject from a biker show."