“And now Uram is being hunted.” Raphael saw, in that vision, his future. To be tracked like an animal. By a woman with dawn-colored hair and eyes as silver as a cat’s. “Go home to your Hannah, Elijah. I will do what has to be done.” Draw blood, end the life of an immortal. But that, of course, was a misnomer. An archangel could die . . . but only at the hands of another archangel.
“Will you rest this night?” Elijah asked as they both stood.
“No. I must speak to the hunter.” To Elena.
6
Elena finished her preliminary research on Uram and sat back, nausea a pulsing fist in her throat. Uram had ruled—and as far as the rest of the world knew, still ruled—parts of eastern Europe and all of neighboring Russia. Oh, just like America, those countries had their presidents and prime ministers, their parliaments and councils, but everyone knew that true power rested in the hands of the archangels. Government, business, art—there was nothing they didn’t influence, either directly or indirectly.
Uram, it appeared, was a very hands-on sort of guy.
It had been the first story she’d found—a news article about the president of a tiny country that had once been part of the Soviet Union. The president, one Mr. Chernoff, had made the mistake of defying Uram publicly, calling for citizens to boycott the draconian archangel’s businesses, as well as those of his “vampire children,” and patronize those run by humans. Elena didn’t agree with the president’s rhetoric. Being humancentric was a kind of prejudice, too. What about all those poor vampires who were only out to make a living for their families? Most vampires didn’t automatically gain power with the transformation—that took centuries. Some would always remain weak.
After reading the first few paragraphs of the article, which summarized President Chernoff’s policies, she’d expected the story to end with a notice of his funeral arrangements. To her surprise, she’d discovered the president was alive . . . if you could call it that.