Archangel's Legion (Guild Hunter 6)

He closed the sides of the shirt, doing up two buttons so it wouldn’t gape. “Then,” he said, shifting to look at the male, “there are the vampires who come out of their Contracts so used to being told what to do that they have no idea how to manage their money and end up going through it like water.”

“The musician,” Elena said, “I think he spent his money on his violin; the actor on drama classes, from the brochures I found in her room; so these five, at least, were working toward something.” There was a vibrant sense of promise in every room of the house, the kind of energy that said all five had been on the same wavelength. “It seems so unfair. They were the good ones, the ones who did their hundred years, and this is their reward?”

“Life is rarely fair, Elena.” Keir’s voice held the echoes of thousands of years of existence. “But this, at least . . . no, it should not have happened.”

Finding nothing in the living room that might provide a clue as to how all five roommates had apparently been infected simultaneously—a fact that seemed to negate their blood donor theory—Elena moved on. Ransom returned while she was in the kitchen. “Raphael is one scary motherfucker,” was his greeting.

Elena’s hand tightened around the edge of the fridge door, the cold air seeping into her clothes to scrape over her skin. “Cici?”

“Sleeping like a baby. And yeah, your scary boyfriend’s returned to the Tower to deal with something else.” Lines of strain around his mouth, he blew out a harsh breath. “Part of me is glad Cici won’t be haunted by this horror, won’t wake up whimpering and screaming night after night, but we took a piece of her life, Ellie.”

“I would rather die as Elena than live as a shadow.”

She’d said that to Raphael once, and he’d kept her faith, hadn’t messed with her memories. Maybe that was why she’d become complacent, forgetting he’d do so to others without blinking. Even to the people who were more her family than Jeffrey would ever be. “I’m sorry,” she said again, door edge digging into her palm from the force of her grip.

Ransom shoulder-bumped her. “It’s not your fault. I’d have had to report this to the Tower whether or not you were with Raphael. Only difference is, I’d have been wiped, too, and never known it, so thanks for having my back.” Bending, he began to move things around in the fridge. “Hey”—utter motionlessness—“did you see this?”

Alerted by his response, she pushed the door wide and bent down beside him. “Blood.” Bottles of it, tucked away in back of the second shelf. Most vampires preferred the vein, but bottled blood was like fast food—every city vamp had some within easy reach. “Supplier?”

If it was one of the major vamp-focused blood services, this could go nuclear very, very fast. Those services didn’t test for disease, because vampires weren’t supposed to get sick. Instead, they took in donors the human banks rejected, paying them enough that, for some, donating “food blood” was a steady source of income. And with New York being a Tower city, with a strong vampire population, demand was high. It would’ve been child’s play for the carrier of this deadly pox to slip into the donor line.

“Blood-for-Less,” Ransom read out. “That’s a new outfit in the Vampire Quarter.”

Known as Soho in the daytime, the area wasn’t exactly a cheap-rent part of the city, which meant, Elena thought, the business had to be at least moderately successful.

“Small-time blood café but with a growing fan base,” Ransom continued, closing the fridge door. “Lower-quality blood, according to my vamp contacts.”

“How can it be lower quality than diseased blood?”

“Word is they take anemics, people who overdonate, might even be watering the blood down a little, but it’s cheap. There’s a market for that—blood that’s enough for a snack, not a meal. And since that’s the Blood-for-Less motto, no one feels cheated.”

Elena walked across to flip open the lid of the garbage bin.

No bottles.

Then she spied a white plastic crate off to the side marked Recycling in sparkly purple pen that erased any distance she might’ve managed to keep from the victims. “Here we go,” she said through a throat gone raw. “One large bottle.”

“There was that half-eaten cake in the fridge.”

“Yes.” The remnants of the word Congratulations had still been readable, white icing over chocolate frosting. “A celebration, complete with cake and a shared bottle of blood to do the toast.” God, it pissed her off that these people had died so an archangel already bloated with power could gain more.

“I can reach out to my contacts”—stress lines bracketed either side of Ransom’s mouth as he spoke—“find out if there are any other budget operations like Blood-for-Less, if that information will help with whatever the hell is going on.”

Elena could taste his frustration, but she wasn’t about to risk his mind or his memories. “Yes,” she said, and the responding flash of anger on his face cut like a knife; she had the sense of a wall going up between her and someone who’d been a part of her life since the day she’d first walked into the Academy. “I’ll check out Blood-for-Less.”

Less than a minute later, she said, “I have to fly out,” to Illium, having grabbed the address from Ransom before he left, his expression tight. “I want you to stay here, keep a watch on Keir.” No sane archangel would target a healer, but there was no guarantee they were dealing with anyone sane. And what better way to cripple New York than to eliminate the one person who had any real handle on the disease?

“You can’t fly alone at night,” Illium reminded her. “It’s a blanket ban.”

“Shit.” She’d forgotten the precaution and it wasn’t one it’d be smart to flout, given the current situation. “Who—” She broke off as the gleaming red motorcycle, which had disappeared in the time she’d been inside, purred to a stop in front of the house once more.

The tall male who slid off after removing his helmet had eyes of deep green and hair of chestnut, his face holding an inherent and lazy sensuality reinforced by his every movement. It would be a mistake, however, to trust that first impression—because while Janvier wasn’t one of the Seven, he worked directly with them. No one held the respect of men that dangerous without being deadly himself.