Angel Unleashed. Linda Thomas-Sundstrom
all that was holy, he was looking at a woman. One who was both basking in and shielding her presence from everyone other than a special kind of onlooker with a flair for tracking anomalies in the darkest places.
Impossible, was his initial response. He’d gotten those details wrong. No female immortals existed, as far as he knew. None without fangs and a nasty need to bite, anyway. Yet only true immortals, those with their souls intact and their chests filled with echoing heartbeats, left such an indelible imprint on the world.
Excitement drove Rhys toward the edge of the roof. In spite of everything he had seen and done over the centuries, and though he would have thought it impossible for him to be stunned by anything, that’s how he felt right that minute. Stunned.
In all the years since becoming immortal himself, how was it possible that he had never gotten wind of an immortal She?
Pulses of excitement pounded at his throat. He felt his blood pressure spike.
What are you doing here? he wanted to shout, to see if her hearing was as exceptional as his and if she possessed the kind of telepathy he and his brethren shared, a connection enhanced by the designs carved into their backs. Blood Knight sigils had been etched with the mingled black blood of all seven of them, fostering true closeness.
Are you friend, or foe?
He could jump down there to confront her with that question. His network of jangling nerves demanded that he did.
Find her. See her. Speak with her, those nerves seemed to whisper to him. Red flags waved in his mind. His sigils were scoring him raw, as if they knew whatever facts he was missing.
Then again, he had no real right to confront her if she wasn’t a beast. No universal agreement existed between species that directed them to announce their presence to those already in residence when entering any particular area. Out of necessity, immortals moved around. He had been in London for less than a year, and in many other cities before that. So many cities, he’d lost count.
Is it so with you, my fine bearer of light? Are you a nomad?
As the strange female wove through the alley on this dark fall night, an even stronger feeling of familiarity washed over Rhys. Like a hound dog on a scent, he followed her progress toward the closest street by moving soundlessly above her from roof to roof. At the corner, where the alley met the main boulevard, the woman’s accompanying lights winked out.
At least you show some sense.
Fascinated, Rhys watched her slip to the door of a storefront as if that had been her intended destination. When she opened the door, the thunder of loud music poured out.
Rhys saw her hesitate. His body rocked, mimicking the shiver that ran through her as she altered her shape enough to face the mortals inside the shop. Not a shape-shift, just a setting of her real power back to stealth mode.
Mortal was a game immortals often played.
How many times had he done that same thing when confronting the good people of London and elsewhere? Masking his identity, hiding his power, was the only way to walk among them.
The marks on his back throbbed with empathy. This female didn’t look forward to going inside. Four walls would make her feel trapped if she was in any way like him. Loud music would be sensory torture for an old soul.
I know, he wanted to tell her. I know how you feel.
No one that had come out of Castle Broceliande’s gates ever truly became used to extremes. Throughout time, the Blood Knights had been doomed to exist on the fringes of society, sharing the shadows with bad things that preyed on the people of those societies—keeping to themselves to avoid the hustle and bustle of mortals clumping too close together.
And you, my friend, are going to enter a building where mortals hang out. For that, my interest is piqued.
Anxious, Rhys shifted sideways for a better view of the doorway, eyeing the female down there, unable to keep from thinking back.
His Makers had offered no distractions to waylay the purpose of the Knights’ quests. There were no female Blood Knights. Finding this feminine soul was exhilarating for the very reason that such a thing was to have been avoided. Females would have been major distractions from the Knights’ quests, though they also would have provided a respite from the loneliness of existing endlessly through time alone.
The Knights had been created to serve a higher power. Personal needs had little to do with carrying out God’s will.
Who made you, woman?
Where have you come from?
He almost jumped. Nearly did, until patience stayed him. Distance had to be maintained, managed, until he knew more about what this visitor was up to. His brotherhood’s existence remained a secret to this day, to all but a chosen few. If this female sparkled her way through London’s side streets, what would happen to the secrecy surrounding immortals in general?
What if someone else gets wind of you, milady?
Plenty of creatures on this planet would like nothing more than to take down the immortal Guardians, and afterward enjoy a parasitic free-for-all. More than a few of them had tried.
Thoughts stalled there.
In the light of the doorway, the newcomer’s silhouette took shape. Reed-thin and narrow-shouldered, his new prey had the willowy body of an elf. Dressed from head to toe in black, she blended well with street shadows and had covered her head with a hood.
Black for camouflage was always wise. He was dressed similarly.
The desire to see her up close was overwhelming. However, Rhys knew better than to rush things. His hammering heart would have to wait a bit longer for a face-to-face with the enigma down there. The hunger gnawing at him was a none-too-subtle reminder that devils often resided in details, and that things were not always what they seemed.
He smiled sagely.
Giving in to the need to speak aloud, in a normal voice, since he so seldom did, Rhys said, “I will wait here, my immortal friend. I will be waiting for you.”
The bells on the door of Shakespearean Ink, put there to announce the presence of visitors, couldn’t compete with the blaring music Avery Arcadia Quinn met when she stepped inside the tattoo parlor. The heavy metal recording made her hesitate just past the threshold.
One glance over her shoulder at the street suggested that she was okay for the time being. Her hope was that no other customers would be looking for a tattoo needle on a cold, foggy night like this one, and that she would be alone. Anonymity was the name of this game. She couldn’t afford to attract attention.
Stiff shoulders made her roll them back to ease the buildup of tension. Her black leather jacket creaked as she took stock of her surroundings.
The tat parlor was uncommonly tidy for such a dark, rather seedy, less than desirable location on the London outskirts. A metal counter ran the length of the store on one side. Several cheap chairs crowded the room. Pinned to the milky-blue walls were hundreds of photos of tattoo art, hanging in fairly neat, symmetrical rows.
Bad luck, though. She wasn’t the only customer.
In the center of the small space, a padded chair that had been patched one too many times was occupied by another client. Still, it could have been worse. The occupant of that chair was a young girl probably no more than sixteen years old.
Tears of discomfort dripped from the girl’s big brown eyes. Her thin hands white-knuckled the seat. No doubt this teen had snuck in here while in the midst of a rebellious streak with her allowance money. A sixteen-year-old’s tat of choice? Winnie-the-Pooh.
Avery didn’t bother to check the place for tidiness or proper hygiene since those things didn’t matter to her. The guy in the