Since her prison could only be reached by an internal staircase, she hadn’t even been able to count on a burst of light when the door opened, to orient herself. “I tried to play along, but he figured out I was manipulating him.” She forced herself to tell Dmitri the rest. It was the first time she’d spoken of the ordeal to anyone, and that it was Dmitri . . . but maybe it was always going to be him.
“He fed from me, from my throat. His hand . . . he touched me.” In a foul travesty of a lover’s caresses, the gentleness of his touch making it no less a violation. “Afterward, he whispered to me that he knew he’d been my first.” That, too, was true. She’d always had a revulsion against allowing anyone to feed from her. It hadn’t been a mere dislike, but a deep, nauseating abhorrence of the act, inexplicable in its intensity. “I think that’s why he chose me.”
“Planning,” Dmitri said, his voice glacial, “and the patience to carry it through. Put that together with his knowledge of the appetites of Valeria, Tommy, and the others, and it means we’re looking for a strong vampire of at least three hundred. Anyone younger would find it difficult to gain their trust.”
“Yes.” His pragmatic manner made it easier, made her feel a hunter, not a victim. “I got that impression from his speech—it was modern for the most part, but he’d occasionally use old-fashioned words or phrasing.”
“How did he dress?”
Honor’s gut clenched as her mind brought back the sensation of her attacker pressing against her, his aroused body making what little food she’d had rise into her throat. “Double-breasted suits.” She could still feel the buttons cutting into her skin.
“That would seem to eliminate several of the old ones from the equation”—no hint of emotion—“but I won’t disregard them just yet.”
“Yes, he’s clever, could’ve altered his normal style.” Seeing the banded tail of a Cooper’s hawk riding a thermal wind overhead, she followed its progress over the trees. “The house where they found me, it was in the middle of an abandoned housing project about an hour out of Stamford.”
“I read the file.”
She shifted to face him . . . and almost stumbled backward at the untrammeled rage in those dark eyes burning with black flame. “Dmitri.”
He didn’t respond, his hair lifting in the breeze that whipped through the trees, exposing the brutal lines of a face of such sensual beauty, she understood how an angel had hungered to possess him. But then, that angel had hurt him—the idea of it made an incandescent rage form in Honor’s soul, so deep it was as if it had been a part of her since the moment of her birth.
“I need to return to Manhattan,” Dmitri said at last, turning to head back in the direction of the clearing where the chopper waited. He looked beyond remote at that moment, a man who followed no rules but his own. But he waited for her at the edge of the wood, shortened his stride to match her own. She didn’t make the mistake of thinking that meant she had any kind of a claim on him. Whatever it was that drew them to one another, it was a fragile, almost brittle, construct.
Dmitri was anything but that; a man who had been formed in rivers of blood.
Yet once he’d lived in a small village, made his living from the land. A simple life, but one for which he had turned down the offers of an angel renowned for her beauty. Most men would have accepted such an invitation, if only for the novelty of it. Perhaps he’d been too proud to be an angel’s fleeting plaything . . . or perhaps his heart had already belonged to another.
A shimmer over her skin, a sense of indisputable rightness.
However, she swallowed the question on the tip of her tongue—about the woman whose memory had brought an intimate cadence to his voice the one and only time he’d mentioned her. Not just because this wasn’t the right time or place to ask, but because whatever the answer, it could be nothing good. Not when Dmitri walked alone. “Any word on the tattoo?” she asked instead.
“The three master tattooists we consulted were of the opinion that, regardless of the surface intricacy, it was an amateur job.”
“Damn.” It would make the doer so much more difficult to identify. “And those who might be loyal to Isis?”
“Her name appears dead, forgotten.” Turning to face her, he stopped in the shade of a tree with almost dainty branches hung with shivering leaves, the area around them relatively clear. “Whoever it is that seeks to resurrect her, he’s kept his intentions secret.”
“Devotion?” Her eyes locked with his, and in them she saw a thousand secrets, potent and swathed in velvet shadows formed of violence and pain. “If he—or she—has revered Isis this long, he must consider her his goddess.” Too precious to stain with the scrutiny of those who might look on her with a more jaundiced eye.
“Perhaps.” Not breaking the intimacy of the visual connection, Dmitri touched his hand to the side of her face.
It was no longer strange, no longer jarring, the rough heat of his skin against her own. And though her heartbeat accelerated, it did so as any woman’s would at the caress of a man so sinfully compelling. The decision instinctive, she cupped his face in her hands when, an erotic rain of bitter chocolate and liquid gold cascading over her senses, he angled his head and bent to press his lips to her own.
A flicker of black, of nothingness . . . and she was on the other side of the clearing. Glancing down at the blade in her grip, then at Dmitri, she bit back a scream. “How badly did I cut you?” A harsh question, twisted through with anger and despair and a wrenching sense of failure.