Angel Unleashed. Linda Thomas-Sundstrom
you looking deep enough? Hard enough?
Do you not see yourself in me?
Her story? Until the twenty-first century, when whole sections of the human race had gone through phases with names like Goth and cyberpunk, she’d had to stay completely hidden. After that, when pretty much anything worked, fitting in was easier. Her white skin was even envied by a select few. Dressed in black leather, she could skate through crowds if she had to, if those crowds occupied the outskirts of places where normal people gathered.
Parts of her story encapsulated this Knight’s story, as well. Neither of them could ever really fit in. The magnificent Blood Knight was hugging the shadows, just as she was. They were freaks because of their unique kind of beauty.
When she looked up, he had raised a hand as if expecting her to take it. As if he was tossing her a lifeline to a better place.
Go to hell, was the response on the tip of her tongue. But that was overruled by another reaction. Because, God, yes, she wanted to take that hand, touch him, believe in him. She wanted those things badly enough to taste the sweet irony of her own stubborn objections. Way back, she had trusted in the power of good, and in those who wielded goodness like a weapon.
The Knight spoke again. “If you allow me to help with this quest of yours, you’ll be doing me a favor, you know. Things can get pretty boring around here. Same old fights. Endless hours. More and more monsters.”
Body rebelling, mind reeling with comebacks so indecent they’d send this Knight away forever... Avery took a breath and closed her eyes. Another surprise, one to top all of the others, was hearing herself say, “Yes. Okay. Help me.”
Afraid to see his reaction, she kept her eyes shut, figuring a thank-you would have been going too damn far, even if this Blood Knight expected it.
“Good,” Rhys said, though he wasn’t sure his new companion wholeheartedly agreed with what she had just committed to. On the plus side, she didn’t run away. When her eyes reopened, she turned her head to listen to the sounds he also heard.
“Do we fight what’s coming our way first?” she asked. “That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Keep the streets safe?”
“It’s what I choose to do,” Rhys corrected. “You feel the monsters coming?”
“Like a foul wave.”
“Maybe facing more of them isn’t what you choose to do.”
“I’ve had my moments with the monsters. Far too many.”
Was that the cause of her scars? Rhys wondered.
“So we turn back this tide and then we talk about your search,” he said.
“Yes. Then we talk.”
He walked to the edge of the roof and peered over, joined by this new, unlikely companion whose body language made it clear she wasn’t going to get too close to him.
Go ahead, Rhys thought. Keep your distance a while longer.
“Ten of them,” she noted, her attention fixed on the street. “Vampires. Not so young this time. The odor is fouler, stronger.”
“Ten is ten too many to be roaming the streets all at once,” Rhys said.
With her silhouette half hidden by her fall of fair hair, his companion gave him a sideways glance. “How many can you take?”
“All ten. How about you?”
“I could leave you one, if you like.”
Rhys grinned. “Very generous.” He waved at the street below them. “On the count of three?”
“Hell, why wait?” she said, and jumped.
They’d been three stories up. Rhys landed in a crouch on the pavement with one hand on the asphalt. She was beside him. Standing in unison, they looked both ways to make sure they hadn’t been seen and then took off at a jog toward the oncoming gang of vamps.
Lucky for Londoners, it was the wee hours of the night, or morning, depending on which way they looked at it. Most people would be tucked safely in their beds. The few roaming around at 3:00 a.m. would have a hard lesson to learn if they weren’t careful, and if a Guardian hadn’t been watching this particular area.
The woman next to him waved a hand upward, indicating that a couple of the fanged horde had climbed drainpipes to reach the higher floors of the building beside them. Nodding, Rhys headed after those beasts. Climbing as easily as the bloodsuckers had, he reached the roof in seconds, hoping his companion would be able to handle things on the ground until he returned.
Two bloodless faces peered at him speculatively as he approached. Older vampires, but not ancient. Experienced. Hungry. Dull black eyes showed no hint of recognition when fixed on him. Word had not yet spread to this nest about the Guardian in their midst, a being with fangs who came from a larger gene pool.
“Not a good night to be out in this part of town,” Rhys said. “Tonight there are two of us to welcome you.”
Neither of the bloodsuckers responded with an audible comeback. To Rhys, their thoughts were like waves of chatter. Too hungry to remain idle, both vampires rushed toward him with their fangs exposed. Their taloned hands slashed at the air.
Rhys had the first vamp on the ground before the second reached him, holding it firmly with a boot on the bloodsucker’s bony chest. The damn thing snapped and squirmed, struggling to free itself. In this state, the beast could have butchered any human in its path.
Rhys put the vampire out of its misery with a stake to the chest in time to face the second attacker. He was doing the people of London and these creatures a favor. No decent human being would have wanted this kind of fanged afterlife existence.
Vampire number two was wily and halted a few steps from Rhys, taking stock of its formidable opponent. Mouth opening and closing as if snapping at the air, it issued a shrill cry.
“Won’t help. The good folks around here need protection, and at the moment I’m their best bet.”
The vampire turned its attention from Rhys to the street below them, as if aware of some new threat. Beyond the echo of its cry, Rhys heard what the monster had heard—the sharp repeat of a weapon going off, followed closely by an echoing howl.
Recognizing the sound, the vampire took off in a smear of speed that would have rendered it invisible to any human that had been looking. Rhys caught the creature by its coattails near the roof’s rim and spun the bloodsucker around.
“How many more of you are there?” Rhys demanded, his face close to the death mask that was the vampire’s face.
Mad with bloodlust and the need to escape, the vamp lunged sideways, biting at Rhys’s right arm. With a swift motion born of decades of self-defense, Rhys flung the vampire over the edge of the roof and lunged after it.
He needn’t have bothered giving chase, as it turned out. Funnels of gray ash met him on the ground, all that was left of that particular monster.
Standing in a rainfall of ash stood his petite, blue-eyed warrior maiden, silver blade in hand. Rhys saw no other vampires. Their foul scent had dissipated to a faint, odorous stench.
The pale warrior’s dark-rimmed blue eyes met his.
“All eight?” Rhys asked, after a beat.
“Nine,” she corrected. “I’m assuming you got the other one?”
That was the moment—as Rhys faced the immortal who was looking more like an avenging angel than anything else—that he figured her story had to be one hell of a tale, and that he’d be damned if he’d let her go without hearing all of it.
And