Archangel's Storm

32

Dmitri ensured Honor was comfortable in the four-poster bed she’d made up with sheets of crisp white speckled with tiny blue forget-me-nots. Returning to the country with as much stealth as possible, they’d headed immediately to the house Jason had told Dmitri of on his and Honor’s wedding day. The instant Dmitri saw the place, he understood why Jason had been so certain no one would ever come upon them unawares.

It was a fortress created by nature itself.

The mountain had no roads—he and Honor had hiked in up the highly specific path Jason had shared. Any deviation from that path would’ve sent them to impassable cliffs, dangerous rock faces loose with gravel, hidden traps. Built of stone and wood, the house was a part of the environment, while up above was a dark green canopy that let in stray beams of sunlight while concealing the house from aerial view.

Added to that was a sophisticated security system that would alert Dmitri to anyone in the forest or in the sky.

It was the safe place Jason had promised, a place where Dmitri’s wife embraced her new existence as a near immortal. The toxin that would turn her into a vampire had been introduced into her system three hours earlier, with Raphael having left New York under cover of night to fly here to perform the task—a task the archangel would do twice more several weeks apart.

Dmitri would’ve trusted no one else with Honor’s Making, and Raphael had kept his faith, treating Honor with utmost courtesy. Now, only two neat fang marks on her wrist remained as a memento of a choice that would alter her existence, but Dmitri knew the toxin had already begun to reshape her cells, though she wouldn’t feel the burn of the process for another few minutes.

He intended her to be under by then. Everything was ready. From one honey golden arm ran a saline drip he’d set up using medical knowledge he’d accumulated out of curiosity, staving off the boredom of an immortality that had been forced on him. There was another line, one that led to a carefully calculated drip of morphine, intended to offset the pain of the transformation.

“Sleep,” he whispered as the haunting midnight green of her eyes began to blur. “I’ll be here when you wake.” It would take roughly three months for the process to complete this way, but it would be a gentle change, not the agony that had turned him into an animal bound in chains that rubbed his skin raw, his flesh exposed to the filth of the room where he’d been kept. “Dream of me.”

“As if,” she whispered with a sleepy smile, “I would dream of anyone else.” Her lashes fluttered shut, her breathing falling into the even rhythm of deepest sleep.

Caressing fine strands of hair off her cheek, he checked to make sure her vital signs were as they should be. Now came the hardest part—the waiting. Honor would need no nutrients for the first few days, and her body had stopped producing waste the instant the toxin hit her bloodstream, everything burning up in the massive surge of energy needed to begin the transformation.

After those first three or four days, depending on how fast the change progressed, he’d bring her to a hazy wakefulness so she could drink just a few drops from him. The blood kiss was a step he’d repeat, until her final feeding would be a true one. For most Candidates, it was a clinical process, the blood introduced via a feeding tube, but for Honor, it would be an intimate journey.

His wife would always wake in his arms, safe and loved.

“Come back to me,” he whispered in the language of their long-ago homeland, part of him deathly afraid now that he couldn’t hear her voice, the husky intimacy of her laughter silent.

He didn’t know how he would bear the quiet, but he’d find a way, because she would hurt if he initiated a premature waking. And Honor was never, ever to be hurt. Not so long as Dmitri lived.