Vivek stared at her for a long time. “I always wondered who’d break through that armor—figures it’d be a scary-ass archangel.” Crooked smile creasing his face, he angled his head toward the office. “So ...”
“Yep.” Vivek knew more about her tangled relationship with her family than anyone else aside from Sara. Having been rejected by his own family after his accident, perhaps he understood even better.
Now, he looked out over the paved drive and to the massive iron gates that guarded the entrance to Guild Academy. “I was watching the surveillance monitor before you landed. Your father drove your sisters here. He’s outside, sitting in his Mercedes.”
Elena felt her shoulders lock, and it was an instinctive response, one she couldn’t fight. She understood without being told that Gwendolyn was the reason Jeffrey had come. Somehow, the beautiful woman who had always seemed nothing but a decorative fixture had found the will to force her intractable husband into supporting her children.
“I’m not strong enough. Forgive me, my babies.”
The memory of her own mother’s voice, so taut with pain, so lost, tangled through her mind, making her hand fist. Unlike Gwendolyn, Marguerite hadn’t been there to stand for her daughters against a Jeffrey who’d slowly turned into a stranger. But then Gwendolyn hadn’t been forced to listen to two of her daughters being tortured to death, hadn’t had her arms and legs broken so she couldn’t go to them, hadn’t suffered such degradation that she’d screamed for days afterward.
“Ellie.”
Blinking at Vivek’s sharp tone, she straightened and glanced back toward the office. “Will you watch over her, Vivek?” Paralyzed or not, he had eyes everywhere. “While she’s here at the Academy, will you watch over her—over them both?”
“You know you don’t have to ask.” His gaze was liquid-dark with pain when she met it again. “Does it ever go away? The hurt?”
Her immediate answer was to say no, but she hesitated, thought about it. “No,” she finally replied, gripping his shoulder with her hand. “But it can be . . . muted by the strength of other emotions.” Like the blinding fury that tied a hunter to an archangel.
“Are you ever afraid? That it’ll all be taken way?” Again.
“Yes,” she admitted, because he’d had the courage to ask the question. “But I’m not a helpless child anymore. If for some reason Raphael wants to leave me, I’ll fight for him to my last breath.” Because he was hers now.
Vivek’s smile was small, solemn. “I hope you make it, Ellie. For all of us.”
Her phone rang in the silence that followed the quiet, heart-felt wish. Checking the display, she said, “Sara,” to Vivek before answering. “Hey, boss.”
“I just got a request for assistance from the police.” Sara’s tone was crisp, what Ransom liked to call “directorial.” Only once had he used the word “dictatorial”—and been assigned a hunt in the wilds of some boondock town where the locals took one look at his hair and leather jacket and termed him a “fancy boy.”
Lips twitching at the memory of how he’d had to make a run for it after the hunt ended—to avoid the local beauties and their shotgun-toting daddies—she said, “Yeah?”
“I know you had a tough day yesterday, but you’re the only one not on assignment today, so haul ass.”
Elena was more than happy to get back into the rhythm of work, but—“Am I really the only one you’ve got?” Sara had access to a large network of hunters across the five boroughs.
“I want to rest Ransom up after the spill he took,” Sara replied, as Vivek whispered that he was off. “Several others suffered similar injuries in the chaos yesterday. Ashwini’s around, but she dragged herself down to the Cellars at five this morning, so she’s out like a light.”
Hunters slept in the Cellars for any number of reasons, but one of the biggest was that they needed a place to hide. “Do I need to ask?” She waved at Vivek as he headed down the ramp to his transport.
“It involves Janvier, a handwritten sign, and large quantities of honey. That’s all I’m permitted to say.”
Snickering at the images that sprang into her mind at the mention of the Cajun vamp Ashwini seemed to spend half her life hunting, Elena said, “So, where do you need me?”
“Delancey Street, right under the Williamsburg Bridge. DB, might’ve been vampire-bit multiple times, but cops say there’s so much damage they can’t really tell. Should be a simple assignment.”
Her spine turned into a steel rod. “I don’t need to be coddled, Sara.”
“Don’t give me lip.” Snapped-out words. “You’re not back to full hunting strength, and if I’d had anyone else, I wouldn’t have sent you into Boston yesterday. Use the downtime you have to get back into shape, or I’ll be putting you on penny-ante assignments involving idiots who think they can break their Contracts after a measly year or two.”
Elena winced. “Mean.”
“That’s why I earn the big bucks.”
Glancing into the office area, Elena saw that Gwendolyn and the girls seemed to be finishing up. “I’ll probably be about twenty-five minutes.”
“Cops’ll hold the scene.”
The cops had not only held the scene, they’d quarantined it behind so much yellow crime-scene tape it might as well have been a fence.
“Fuck me.” The uniform closest to Elena shoved back his cap and stared as she landed on the lush green of the parklike area beneath the bridge. “They real?”
She couldn’t help it. “Nah, costume-shop rejects.”
He narrowed his eyes, stared some more before a big-shouldered plainclothes detective came between him and Elena. “Welcome back, Ms. Deveraux.”
“Nice to be back, Detective Santiago.” Shooting the veteran cop a genuine smile, she nodded at the crime-scene tape. “Slight overkill don’t you think?”
Santiago rubbed his jaw, solid as a boxer’s and bristly with salt-and-pepper stubble that was even more apparent against skin the color of dry tobacco leaves. “Rookie.” He lifted up a section that had enough leeway that she could duck under even with her wings. “He freaked—first DB. It’s not as bad as some I’ve seen though.”
Elena had to fight not to let the detective’s words kick her into a past that refused to stay buried. She’d freaked at her first dead body, too. The only difference was, she’d been ten years old, and the body had been that of her sister Mirabelle. Long-legged Belle, who’d played ball and danced with the same athletic grace. Belle, whose legs Slater had shattered into so many pieces that she’d never have been able to do either again even if she’d lived.