"You're not God, to make that decision."
Raphael's face was a study in silence. "No harm will come to her while you are gone."
She read between the lines. "And when I return?"
"Then I will decide if she dies or lives." Eyes of blue fire. "She might be infected, Elena. We must test her. If she is, she has to die."
"Infected?" She frowned, then shook her head. "I know-later."
"Yes. Time is passing." His head angled slightly to the left. "Dmitri comes, but he can't approach until he poses no danger to the scent trail. Leave the woman-the leader of my Seven has a weakness for innocents caught in violence."
Elena nodded at the oblique reassurance, and bent down. "Dmitri is going to help you. Please go with him."
The woman didn't stop rocking but she was no longer making that keening sound and her body wasn't so tense. Praying that Dmitri would be able to get her out without harming her, she made her way back under the chain link and to the other side.
"Can you check the roof-see if there's any sign he took off from there?" As Raphael nodded and flew up, she circled her way around the building. She finally found Uram's exit point on the right side of the warehouse, a few feet from a gaping hole in the chain link.
Aware of Raphael following overhead, she made her way through the hole to the grassy wilderness of the neighboring lot. Blood coated the tips of the grass, as if Uram had run his hand along the top. She found a feather-a brilliant, silvery gray that shimmered with flecks of amber. Its delicate beauty was an insult, a mockery of the blood and suffering she'd seen inside the warehouse. Fighting the urge to crush it, she held it to her nose, drawing in the richness of Uram's true scent. That bite of acid but other things, too. An edge of metal, a dark blade. Blood refined, she thought. Acid and blood and something else, something that spoke of . . . sunlight. She shivered, shoved the feather into her pocket, then carried on.
The scent simply ended in the middle of the lot. "Shit." She put her hands on her h*ps and blew out a breath, waving Raphael down. He landed in a feat of pure grace.
"Uram took flight."
"Yes," she said. "I never had that problem with vampires-that's how I can track them. I can't track a being who can fly!" It made her blood boil. She wanted to make the monster pay for the bright young lives he'd stolen. "Dmitri?"
"I've told him to approach. And angels don't always fly," Raphael said. "You're the only one who has any chance of finding his scent on the streets." He paused. "We'll return, so you can bathe and gather your things." He glanced at his wing, distaste open on his face. "I must also clean off the blood."
She blushed at the reminder of how ripe she had to be by now. "Why do I need to gather my things?"
"This hunt won't be long, but it will be intense."
"He'll keep killing," she guessed, fists tight. "Leaving a trail."
"Yes." Raphael's anger was tightly controlled, but the sheer force of it almost cut her skin. "You need to stay close to me or one of my angels so that you can be flown out immediately after we discover a fresh kill."
She realized he wasn't giving her a choice. "I suppose if I say no you'll just make me?"
A moment where the only sounds were those of the grass rustling and the whispers of wings at her back as other angels landed-to begin cleanup, she guessed.
"Uram must be stopped." Raphael's face was quiet, expressionless . . . and all the more dangerous for it. "Would you not say that goal excuses any and all means used?"
"No." But her mind filled with an endless slideshow of images-of a woman with her mouth full of organs that should've remained inside her body, another whose head had been impaled on her arm, a third who stared sightlessly out of empty eye sockets. "I'll cooperate."
"Come." He held out an arm.
She went closer. "Sorry if I stink." Her cheeks heated.
His arms closed around her. "You smell of angel dust." With that, he lifted off-and turned them invisible.
She closed her eyes. "I'm never going to get used to that."
"I thought you liked flying."
"Not that." She held on harder, hoping she'd laced her boots up tight. She wouldn't want to accidentally brain someone. "The being-invisible thing."
"The glamour does take some getting used to."
"You aren't born with it?" She fought a shiver as they rose higher.
"No. It's a gift that comes with age."
She bit her tongue at the question that wanted out.
"Learning discretion, Elena?" A tinge of amusement dulled the fury she could sense just beneath his skin.
"I-I-" When her teeth began to chatter, she decided to hell with discretion, and pretty much crawled onto him, wrapping her legs around his waist. He was so deliciously warm. "I'm trying to limit the reasons for which you might have to kill me."
He changed his hold to accommodate her. "Why should I kill you when I can wipe your mind?"
"I don't want to lose my memories." Even the bad ones, they were what made her who she was. Now, today, she was a different Elena to the one who'd never known what it was to kiss an archangel. "Don't make me forget."
"Will you trade your life to keep your memories?" A soft question.
She thought that over. "Yes," she said quietly. "I would rather die as Elena, than live as a shadow."
"We're almost to your apartment."
Forcing open her eyes, she turned to look at her home. The blown-out window had been covered by some sort of clear plastic, but whoever had done it hadn't bothered to anchor it in anything but a cursory fashion. One side was down, flapping in the wind. Her eyes watered. She told herself it was caused by the rush of air cutting over her face.
Raphael flew to that corner and had her tug at the plastic until enough of it was free that she could squeeze inside. Once she was in, she made a wider hole and he walked in, snapping his wings closed behind him. The wind whistled into the apartment as she stood there taking in the mess and feeling her heart break.
The glass was still where it had been when Raphael had shattered the window. So was the blood. Raphael's blood. Her own where she'd cut herself. But a massive wind had come through the living room at some stage, throwing her bookshelf to the floor and breaking the twin to the vase in her bedroom. Papers littered the carpet and the walls were streaked in a way that said there'd been a small squall, a flash of rain that had destroyed what wasn't already broken. The carpet felt damp, the air musty.