Page 92 of A Touch of Crimson
She set her elbows on the railing and began searching the contacts on her phone. There were so many calls and arrangements to make. She made herself go through the motions, despite feeling so hollow and cold inside. Dead.
A massive winged shadow swept over her.
An angel’s shadow, followed by the rustling of feathers as the Sentinel landed behind her. Feeling a desperate, futile hope that it might be Adrian and not wanting to let go of it, she hesitated a second before turning to face her companion.
A hand touched her shoulder. “Good morn—” she began.
She fell into unconsciousness before she finished the greeting.
Adrian rolled into Raceport on a Harley he’d purchased just an hour before. It was early afternoon. Most of the minions were ensconced somewhere in the darkness, sleeping. Unfortunately, Raceport had one of the highest concentrations of Fallen in the country. After all this time, they still hovered around Syre like moths to a flame, even though they’d all already been burned and disfigured.
If he had a contingent of Sentinels with him or a pack of lycans, he’d be in a much better position. But even with the need for success being paramount, Adrian refused to involve anyone in his personal vendetta. This was his battle. The consequences for what he was about to do would fall on his shoulders alone.
He backed his bike into a spot directly in front of the general store. Syre’s office was above it, as Adrian knew from vigilant and constant surveillance of the area—just as Angels’ Point was watched. It was all part of the careful dance between them, the need to maintain a balance even as everything shifted and moved around them.
Dismounting, he withdrew a shotgun from its holster on the bike. He wore a pistol and a dagger strapped to each thigh, and his spine tingled with the need to employ his most powerful weapons. The rage of angels pumped hot and hard through his veins.
Before he reached the bottom step of the exterior staircase leading up to the Fallen leader’s office, Adrian knew something was off. Raceport was crowded as always, due to its reputation for being a mecca for motorcycle enthusiasts from all over the country, but very few people glanced twice at him. Even when a group of chaps-wearing women across the street catcalled and whistled to him, it didn’t divert much attention his way. If Syre had been nearby, security would be as tight as what Adrian employed at Angels’ Point.
Grim-faced and determined, he climbed the stairs without incident and stepped into the hallway at the top. Two shadowy figures rushed toward him. He took them down with bullets, unable to utilize his wings in such a small space. Two more came up behind him just before he reached Syre’s office. He threw open the door and darted in, hearing a scream from one of his pursuers as sunlight flooded the hallway behind him.
Kicking the door shut, Adrian shoved a chair beneath the knob, all without taking his eyes or his pistol barrel off the vampress seated at Syre’s desk.
“Hello, Adrian,” she muttered, her lips curved in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Sunlight fell over her pale, bare arms and chocolate-colored hair. Her amber eyes glittered like tiger’s eye, but he remembered when they’d been blue like his own.
“Raven.”
“He’s not here.”
“I can see that.”
“He’s not even in Virginia.”
He moved to the closet door, opened it, and shot a cursory glance inside.
“It’s just you and me,” she assured. “And I have orders not to kill you.”
“Ah. So we’re playing by the same rules.”
She stood in a singularly graceful movement, revealing an ultrashort denim skirt that she wouldn’t be able to bend over in without exposing herself. Her top was gingham and tied in a knot between her full breasts, giving her a country-girl look.
Rounding the desk, she trailed the fingertips of her right hand down her left arm and looked up at him beneath long, thick lashes. “You look good, Adrian. Real good. Having sex suits you.”
He smiled, used to this game. The Fallen liked to taunt Sentinels with their sexuality. It was as if they wanted to flaunt the reason for their fall, as well as goad beings known for their abstinence. “Where is he?”
“What’s the rush?” She sidled closer, licking her lower lip.
He whipped out his wing, forcing her to spin away to avoid getting sliced. She ended up sprawled facedown atop the desk. He had her hands pinned behind her back before she could retaliate.
Bending over her, he hissed in her ear, “Where is he?”
“You don’t have to manhandle me,” she shot back, struggling. “He wants me to tell you.”
Adrian knew why. His stomach knotted. “He’s on his way to California.”
“Actually,” she purred malevolently, grinning, “he’s already there.”
Syre turned away from the bed upon which his daughter slept and exited into the living room of the two-room hotel suite he’d reserved in Irvine. Torque sat on the couch with his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled together beneath his chin.
