“Thousands,” came the soft answer from the vampire leaning against the wall beside the antique lounge where she sat. “Angels who rule can’t afford to be merciful.”

She turned her face into the night breeze. “And yet some people see them as messengers of the gods.”

“They are who they are. As am I.” Turning, he walked over to brace his hands on the gleaming wooden arms of her lounge. “I must feed, cher.”

Something twisted in her chest, a sharp, unexpected ache, but she held it, held control. “I’m guessing you don’t have much trouble finding food.”

“I can give pleasure with my bite. There are those who seek such pleasures.” Lifting a finger, he traced the scar just above the pulse in her neck. “Who marked you?” A quiet question formed of pure ice.

“My first hunt. I was young, inexperienced. The vamp got close enough to almost rip out my throat.” What she didn’t say was that she’d let the target get that close, let herself feel the kiss of death. Until that moment—when her blood scented the air in an iron-rich perfume—she’d thought she wanted to die, to silence the voices forever. “He taught me to value life.”

“I will ask Nazarach’s indulgence,” Janvier said after an endless moment, “use the store of blood kept here for his vampires.”

Her senses honed in on something she’d barely seen, words unsaid. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“The angel wants me to leave you alone.” Janvier’s breath brushed over her in a intimate caress. “Otherwise that blood would’ve already been provided. He wants me to go out and hunt.”

Shivers threatened at the idea of what Nazarach wanted from her. “So you’ll anger him.”