Archangel's Kiss by Nalini Singh Page A

wouldn’t distract her from what she needed to learn, she plaited the damp mass of her pale hair into a braid close to her skull.
    Then, unused to leaving things a mess, she made the bed—stuffing the letter in a drawer—and walked out. The bedroom, with its walls of glass, was connected to the large living area she’d already used. Across the hallway outside the living area lay what appeared to be an office and a small but well-appointed library, both with clear walls that brought the mountains inside. Books filled the low shelves, some old, some new, but she’d also glimpsed a sophisticated computer station. It all sat at the very top of the stronghold, above the soaring central core. More living quarters spread out below, rooms for the Seven, other angels and vampires. But the top wing was private, Raphael’s.
    The hallway—which led eventually to stairs cut into the side of the central core—was a symphony of clean lines broken up by the unexpected. A scimitar, ancient runes burned into the blade itself, was mounted on the left wall, the steel gleaming wicked sharp. She could see Dmitri holding that blade, wondered if it had been his once upon a time. Because Dmitri was old, one of the oldest vampires she’d ever met.
    A few feet down, a handwoven tapestry covered most of the right wall. She’d spent almost half an hour staring at it yesterday, compelled by something she didn’t understand. Now, in spite of her need to get out, to combat the churning in her gut with raw physicality, her feet hesitated, then stopped. There was a story woven within those precise threads, a story she desperately wanted to understand.
    The panel showed an angel silhouetted golden against the sun, his face obscured by shadow as he headed downward to a forest village engulfed in flames. Another angel rose up toward him, her hair a rippling fall of black down her back, her wings the purest white Elena had ever seen. The flying strands of her hair hid her face, until she, too, was a shadow. But the faces of the villagers as they writhed in agony . . . each had been woven in exquisite detail, down to the screaming horror in the eyes of a woman who stood trapped as flames licked at her skirts, began to blister the skin of her arm.
    Who were the two angels? Were they trying to help the burning? Or were they the reason for the massacre? Most important of all, Elena thought, shivers trailing over her skin, why did Raphael have this disturbing image in a place where he couldn’t help but see it almost every single day?
     
     
    R aphael looked down at the injured vampire, even more sharply conscious of the calculated nature of the insult, the care that had been taken to beat Noel so that his face was so much ground meat—but one eye remained undamaged, a dull blue visible around the swelling caused by his other injuries. His remaining eye was nothing but pulp. His nose was gone, but his lips untouched, perfect in their form.
    Below the neck, he’d been all but crushed, his bones in so many pieces that some were dust. Raphael had broken a vampire not long ago—punishment for disloyalty. He’d snapped Germaine’s bones, each with a single move of his hands. It had been a brutal penalty, one Germaine would remember for the rest of his existence, but Raphael had taken no pleasure in it.
    Noel’s attackers had most assuredly taken pleasure in what they’d done, continuing to savage him far beyond the point of sending a message. The brand lay a malignant cancer over the flesh of his breastbone, but their healer, Keir, had also found boot imprints on his back, his face. The dagger hadn’t been the sole thing they’d left inside the vampire, either. Shards of glass had been shoved deep into his wounds, where his flesh would grow over them. He’d been battered in other ways, too, his body assaulted by something that had cut and torn. The only mercy was it appeared to have been done after he lost consciousness.
    Raphael would’ve liked to