"You call me brutal to my face," Raphael commented softly.
Elijah shrugged. "You inspire fear without Astaad's cruelty, or Michaela's capriciousness. It was why you clashed with Uram-you were too close to taking what was his. The leadership is already yours, whether you know it or not."
"And now Uram is being hunted." Raphael saw, in that vision, his future. To be tracked like an animal. By a woman with dawn-colored hair and eyes as silver as a cat's. "Go home to your Hannah, Elijah. I will do what has to be done." Draw blood, end the life of an immortal. But that, of course, was a misnomer. An archangel could die . . . but only at the hands of another archangel.
"Will you rest this night?" Elijah asked as they both stood.
"No. I must speak to the hunter." To Elena.
Chapter 6
Elena finished her preliminary research on Uram and sat back, nausea a pulsing fist in her throat. Uram had ruled-and as far as the rest of the world knew, still ruled-parts of eastern Europe and all of neighboring Russia. Oh, just like America, those countries had their presidents and prime ministers, their parliaments and councils, but everyone knew that true power rested in the hands of the archangels. Government, business, art-there was nothing they didn't influence, either directly or indirectly.
Uram, it appeared, was a very hands-on sort of guy.
It had been the first story she'd found-a news article about the president of a tiny country that had once been part of the Soviet Union. The president, one Mr. Chernoff, had made the mistake of defying Uram publicly, calling for citizens to boycott the draconian archangel's businesses, as well as those of his "vampire children," and patronize those run by humans. Elena didn't agree with the president's rhetoric. Being humancentric was a kind of prejudice, too. What about all those poor vampires who were only out to make a living for their families? Most vampires didn't automatically gain power with the transformation-that took centuries. Some would always remain weak.
After reading the first few paragraphs of the article, which summarized President Chernoff's policies, she'd expected the story to end with a notice of his funeral arrangements. To her surprise, she'd discovered the president was alive . . . if you could call it that.
Soon after his inflammatory comments, Mr. Chernoff had suffered an unfortunate car accident-his driver had lost control of the wheel and crashed into an oncoming semi. That driver had walked away without a scratch, a feat labeled "miraculous." El presidente hadn't been so lucky. He'd had so many broken bones the doctors said he'd never regain full use of his limbs. His eye sockets had shattered inward, destroying his eyes. And his throat had been crushed just enough to ruin his vocal cords . . . but not to kill him.
He could no longer hold a pen or type.
He could no longer speak.
He could no longer see.
No one had dared enunciate it, but the message had come through loud and clear. Defy Uram and you would be silenced. The politician who'd stepped in to take Chernoff's place had pledged allegiance to Uram even before he took the oath of office.
Say what you would about Raphael, she found herself thinking, but at least he was no tyrant. She had no illusions about the fact that he ran North America with an iron fist, but he didn't meddle in inconsequential human affairs. A few years back, they'd even had a mayoral candidate who'd pledged to flout the archangel should he be elected. Raphael had let the campaign run, his only response a slight smile when some reporter dared approach him.
That smile, that hint that he found the whole situation ridiculous, had sunk the mayoral hopeful's chances as surely as the Titanic. The man had slunk off, never to be seen again. Raphael had achieved victory without drawing a single drop of blood. And he'd retained his powerful status in the eyes of the population.
"That doesn't make him good," she muttered, worried about the direction of her thoughts. Raphael might shine in comparison to Uram, but that wasn't saying much.
It was Raphael who'd threatened to harm little Zoe, no one else.
"Bastard," she muttered, repeating Sara's imprecation. That threat put him in the same league as Uram. The European archangel had reportedly once destroyed an entire school full of five-to-ten-year-olds after the villagers asked him to remove his pet vampire from their midst.
Elena would have frowned on such a request had the vamp not been taking blood forcibly. He'd violated several of the village females, left them broken. The villagers had turned to Uram for help. He'd replied by killing their children and stealing their women. That had been over three decades ago and none of those women had ever been seen again. The village no longer existed.
He was, without a doubt, a very bad man. And she was-
Something tapped on the plate-glass window.
Hand sliding down to retrieve the knife hidden under the coffee table, she glanced up. Her eyes locked with those of an archangel. Silhouetted against the glittering Manhattan skyline, he should've appeared diminished, but he was even more beautiful than in daylight. It was a measure of his control that he barely had to move his wings to maintain position-the sheer power of him buffeted her even through the glass.
She swallowed and stood. "That window doesn't open," she said, wondering if he could hear her.
He pointed upward. She felt her eyes widen. "The roof isn't-" But he was already gone.
"Damn it!" Angry at him for catching her unawares, for inciting this assuredly fatal edge of attraction, she slid the knife back, closed the laptop, and left the apartment.
It took her several minutes to get to the roof and push open the door. "I'm not coming out there!" she called out when she didn't see him. The top of her building had been designed by some avant-garde architect who believed in form over function-a series of uneven, jagged peaks spread out in front of her. It was impossible to walk on them without sliding and falling to your death. "No, thank you," she muttered, feeling the wind whip her hair off her face as she waited with the door partly open. "Raphael!"
Maybe, she thought, the architect hadn't been avant-garde at all. Maybe he'd simply hated angels. That sounded good to her about then. She might admire their wings, but she had no misapprehensions about their inner goodness. "Inner goodness. Hah!" She snorted and suddenly he was landing in front of her, his wings flooding her vision.
She backed up a step without meaning to and by the time she recovered, he was inside and closing the door. Damn it, she hated that he could make her react like a green recruit tracking her first vamp. If it went on like this much longer, she'd lose all respect for herself. "What?" she asked, folding her arms.