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A fine line between vengeance and desire...
As an immortal Blood Knight, Rhys de Troyes is familiar with quests. It’s obvious that the ethereal beauty who just arrived in London is on one of her own. But Avery Arcadia Quinn seems intent on keeping her secrets, even as Rhys strips away all her defenses.
A grounded angel, Avery seeks to recover the wings stolen from her centuries ago when the Knights were created from her suffering and pain. She swore vengeance, but her burning connection with Rhys threatens to consume her anger, her mission...and even her vow to destroy him.
“Now what? You’ll disappear again?” Rhys asked.
“Disappearing is what I do best,” Avery said.
“I won’t let this go, you know,” he warned. “You’re far too intriguing.”
“You’ll have to,” she said. “I’m already gone.”
“And if I were to ask you to stay?”
As fun as this was, it was now clear to Rhys that this immortal wasn’t going to volunteer any real information about herself. He was going to have to get those details some other way.
Smile widening, he said, “I do love a challenge.”
Rhys took a firm hold on her shoulders and pulled her closer, so that she had to look up to see his face. She did not try to escape from what she had to know would come next.
All that fire...
All that heat...
He was so damn hungry for those things.
LINDA THOMAS-SUNDSTROM writes contemporary and paranormal romance novels for Harlequin. A teacher by day and a writer by night, Linda lives in the West, juggling teaching, writing, family and caring for a big stretch of land. She swears she has a resident muse who sings so loudly, she often wears earplugs in order to get anything else done. But she has big plans to eventually get to all those ideas. Visit Linda at lindathomas-sundstrom.com or on Facebook.
Angel Unleashed
Linda Thomas-Sundstrom
Dear Reader,
Welcome to another story in my lineup of immortals. This one is a twist on those guys.
Made immortal in the time of the Round Table, seven knights became known as the Blood Knight Brotherhood, or the Seven. My contemporary Blood Knights are the knights of old, much updated.
You might already have met some of these sexy immortals in and around my Vampire Moons series. In Golden Vampire, we met Lancelot, going by the name of Lance Van Baaren. In Guardian of the Night and Immortal Obsession we met two more dark, sexy Blood Knights. And in Immortal Redeemed we met a gloriously hunky, leather-clad Galahad, now calling himself Kellan and riding a Harley instead of a steed.
Now in Angel Unleashed, we find Rhys de Troyes, another Blood Knight, in London. This time another immortal with a quest of her own attracts his attention. What could bring an angel to London, and why is she hiding from the Blood Knights?
So if, like me, you adore magical words like danger, sexy and forever...this book is dedicated to you.
Oh, and by request, Weres always make guest appearances in my immortal books. So if you also love men with claws, dig in!
Cheers for now, and happy reading!
Linda
To my family, those here and those gone,
who always believed I had a story to tell.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
About the Author
Title Page
Dear Reader
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Extract
Copyright
Chapter 1
The night went wild and never looked back.
An explosion of color lit the dark. Brilliant flashes of blue, orange, green were there and gone in an instant. Bright enough to cause retinal damage, the light show left a lingering imprint in the darkness, much like the aftermath of a fireworks display.
From the rooftop above the alley, Rhys straightened from a crouched position, concerned about this strange phenomenon. Equally intriguing to him was the small, shadowy figure moving through the atmospheric residue.
To most eyes turned in that direction, the figure would have been indistinguishable from the surrounding darkness. Luckily, a Blood Knight’s vision was exceptional, and Rhys had a special gift for hunting anomalies like this one. It was his job, his gig. He was good at it. Better than good. He was lethal. A monster’s worst nightmare.
Problem was...the figure down in that alley wasn’t one of London’s usual monsters.
Although it was time for the city’s abominations to crawl out of their hidey-holes, the creature with the strange light display wasn’t a vampire or a werewolf. The scent accompanying the apparition didn’t ring in as blood or damp fur, but something altogether different.
Chances were slim that he had missed a species or two in his centuries of keeping watch on the ever-growing lists of them. However, it now seemed to Rhys as if there could have been a gap in his education.
He supposed mortal Londoners might have chalked up those brief seconds of flashy lights to having had one too many drams at the local pub after work. He knew better. If something new had touched down here tonight, he wanted to know what that creature was up to.
I wonder what you are...
Zeroing in on the alley, Rhys detected another surprise. An odor of power trailed in this stranger’s wake. Old power, with a scent reminiscent of an ancient library full of leather-bound books. With the unique fragrance came an atmospheric vibration similar to the hum of lightning striking the earth nearby.
Rhys looked up. No storm clouds.
The sigils covering his neck and shoulder blades rippled in reaction to the stranger’s otherworldly vibration. The inky symbols carved into his skin were issuing a warning he couldn’t ignore.
Was the newcomer dangerous?
Concern growing, Rhys refocused with another silent question.
Who are you?
He ticked off the rarer end of the species spectrum one by one. Shades and half-casts could be ruled out. A few ancient vampires could manipulate the atmosphere on occasion, but that wasn’t the case here.
What else, then? Demon? Some brand-new hybrid concoction designed to confuse the rules and subvert the senses?
Maybe not completely, though, because the vibes this creature gave off were familiar to him on an almost subliminal level, and they kicked his heart rate up a notch or two.
His nagging conscience provided reasonable assurances about having experienced similar physical responses a few times before this, in different time frames and in several places around the globe. Brief blips on his internal radar that came to nothing in the end. Now, though, wasn’t the time for pondering the parameters of déjà vu.
One thing was for sure. Tonight had just gotten a hell of a lot more interesting.
Enlisting the full resources of his extensive mental databanks, Rhys searched deeply for images to pinpoint this newcomer. Concentration brought him success. Beneath the noticeable wisp of old power lay another scent that was as different from the grimy London street odors as possible. Perfume, indicative of golden things. Sunrays on the clear water of a fountain. Morning dew on green grass. Fields of flowers.
Sure as hell, no monster he knew of smelled like that.
Shaking his head to clear his mind of images like grass and fountains, Rhys got back to the task at hand. Golden scents were always a distraction because they brought back memories of his days in the light, so very long ago, in another lifetime.
I see you, he wanted to say to test this stranger’s awareness levels. If you’re so strong, can you feel me watching?
Hunting monsters in the mortal world, finding and dealing with predators, had been his calling for as long as he could remember. Hell, with freaks and bloodsuckers increasing in numbers by the truckload, somebody had to take care of the problem so mortals could remain ignorant of what actually lurked in the shadows.
He stared at the alley, and the creature passing through it.
Are you a predator, my fine friend?
A fancy parasite, perhaps?
His inability to determine the answer to those questions was annoying and highly unusual.
“So, what are you, exactly?” Rhys whispered.
The only beings remotely as potent as this one in terms of presence were his brethren, and all six of the other Blood Knights were accounted for. He could touch their minds with his if he wanted to, just as they could touch his. None of them were anywhere near England at the moment.
You, newcomer, are a snag in my nightly rounds.
And it seemed that more surprises were in store.
Small flares, like a medley of tiny shooting stars, appeared to light this stranger’s path. Not the steady beam of a flashlight, but some other kind of source. Silvery sparkling particles swept steps ahead of their master as if clearing the way. The night itself seemed to hold its breath as the strange creature with the little fireflies journeyed through the alley.
You’re something tricky, then?
Uncomfortable with his ignorance in this matter, Rhys delved farther back into the landscape of his memory, searching for answers. Passing data regarding recent times, postmodern times, Edwardian years, he sailed backward, straining to place the interloper.
The detail he finally discovered was such a shock, he doubled back over it to make sure he’d gotten it right. The stranger in the alley had been flagged as an old soul hailing from a time prior to any of the centuries he had searched through.
Still more surprises were at hand.
This creature’s vibe now resonated as feminine. A richly layered female spirit.
By 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.”
Chapter 2
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 faded black T-shirt who was working on the girl’s ankle was her target. Rumor had it he was good at cover-ups, with a talent for making things look like something else. He was a fixer credited with being discreet.
“What are you in for?” he asked, addressing Avery without looking up from his work, and waving a small instrument that looked either like a miniature throwback to dark days in medieval dungeons or a super-sized electric toothbrush.
“Tattoo,” she said drily.
He did a double take once he’d focused on who had entered. Used to stares, Avery didn’t take this personally. She knew she presented a strange picture with her hood pulled up around her face and her mirrored sunglasses reflecting the neon signage...especially since it was after 9:00 p.m.
Snow-white hair, mostly hidden behind the black hood, didn’t often stay put. Several pale strands drifted now in the stale-smelling breeze from the open doorway. The sunglasses protecting her sensitive eyes from the lights, as well as the sneak peek of pale skin around them, had to seem freakish in a healthy blond and brunette world, even in the sun-challenged UK.
All in all, though, she fit in better here than she would have in Florida.
“Take a chair by the desk if you want to wait. Feel free to peruse the art on the walls,” the guy said. “Maybe you’d like to choose one of those designs.”
Peruse. Such a strange word for a century like this one, and odd when spoken with a Cockney accent.
Avery checked out the girl in the chair. The honey-colored bear on the girl’s left ankle was a decent rendering of the cartoon and almost finished. She wouldn’t have to wait long for a turn with the whirring needles. Still, she was antsy, and anxiously tossed another glance at the street through the front window, half expecting to see someone standing there.
No one was.
Short on square footage, the shop made her feel claustrophobic. Enclosed spaces didn’t suit her. Patience had never been her forte, which was odd since she’d had such a long time to try to perfect that skill. Because her energy was untrustworthy and came in wayward steaks and flashes, sitting down to wait her turn was out of the question.
For those reasons and more, it was never sensible to remain in any one place for too long. Nor was it smart to give anyone a good long look at her. Definitely no close-up.
Since she had picked the guy in this shop for his talent and stellar reputation, however, quelling her anxiety was paramount. So was maintaining her human-like persona for a while longer.
With that in mind, Avery headed for the counter.
As he got back to work, the artist barked, “More pictures are in the book on the desk.”
When she didn’t open the three-ring binder next to her, he looked up a third time. “Ah. The lady already knows what she wants.”
Seconds later, he added, “Five more minutes here, tops. There’s beer in the cooler.”
The girl in the chair spoke up. “You didn’t offer me a beer.”
Artist guy laughed. “Yeah. Right.”
Avery wasn’t up for polite banter or alcohol, or for reminding the young girl in that chair, who seemed to be missing parental guidance, about the dangers of being out alone, past her bedtime in a city full of shadows. Nowadays, she wasn’t anybody’s conscience. Those days were far behind her.
As for the room...
A more thorough scan showed closeable blinds on the front windows and an interior door leading to an adjacent private room, probably used for etching tattoos on a person’s backside. She perceived no heartbeats beyond those of the two people in front of her. Those beats were steady and rhythmic.
Just a normal night in the life of a tattoo parlor.
But hell...her shoulder blades were already aching more than usual, as if they knew what she was going to do and also that there would be pain involved. Muscles often retained memories of what had happened to them in the past, especially after experiencing the extremes of agony. And although pain was nothing new to her, Avery always dreaded having more of it voluntarily.
“Take a chair,” the artist suggested. “They’re more comfortable than they look.”
She didn’t heed his advice. The lingering odor of hot flesh was cloying. The ink used for the tattoos offered up another distinct scent that tripped more old memories best forgotten.
Nerves bristling, Avery glanced again to the front door, nixing the return of a hazy belief that someone was out there. Anxiousness was likely the cause of her nervousness. An artist in a rundown ink shop was going to see her scars. He was going to touch them—a crime so heinous that no one had ever managed it.
Hadn’t she dispensed with the last person who tried?
In order to provide this guy with his next canvas she’d have to take off her shirt. Predicting his reaction to the sight of the multitude of scars covering her body was a no-brainer. Very little space wasn’t crowded by the grid of crisscrossed white raised lines. Tat Guy would be fascinated by the old wounds and he’d be nosey, but the stories those grids told were none of his business or anyone else’s.
She wished they weren’t hers.
“Almost there,” he said to her while dabbing at the girl’s ankle with a cloth—a benign little bear on a girl’s youthful, otherwise unblemished skin.
What would this pubescent girl say if she were to witness Avery’s roadmap of scar tissue and the two deep six-inch grooves edging her spine? Humans were squeamish about marred flesh. Other species reacted differently. Werewolves, in particular, got turned on by battle scars and displayed them like jewelry.
So, if exhibiting or touching her old wounds was blasphemy of the highest order and against the rules, why was she chancing this?
She was here because it was her one shot, a last-ditch effort, at soul healing. If this artist could cover the two large wounds on her back with a design that would make her feel like her old self, maybe she’d regain some semblance of balance and a small modicum of peace.
That ever-elusive peace...
The transformation of something ugly into something better, at least superficially, would be an accomplishment terribly long overdue, and one less freakish thing to contend with in the long stretch of unending years to come...if she didn’t find what she had come to London to find.
“You still there?” the guy asked, speaking to her.
There was no need to answer him. He was acutely aware of her. She could feel how badly he wanted to take a closer look. The air between them vibrated with that need. He was struggling to keep his attention on the ankle in front of him, and eagerly awaiting the girl’s departure.
This was the reason she had to be so bloody careful. The uncanny attraction all humans felt when they saw her was due to the light of the Divine still being there...in her face, her body and her hair. Though the light had dimmed considerably over the years, there was no way to mask what was left of it completely. Throughout time, mortals had been mesmerized by its vibrant energy and lingering afterglow.
“Calm the hell down,” she silently sent to the guy to dim his growing interest. He obeyed that directive the way most humans did when she messed with their minds. She’d have to erase this guy’s thoughts completely once they were done.
Running a hand along the edge of the sleek metal counter’s iron and tin compounds served to sharpen her focus by making her fingertips burn. She blew on them, more for sport than comfort, long practiced in dealing with forbidden metals.
“Two minutes,” the artist announced.
Two minutes, and then what? Avery asked herself. Peace actually would descend? Did she actually expect that kind of outcome?
Sound...
Jolted by a sudden lash of nerve burn that instantly heated her face, Avery turned to the door.
“I will wait.”
A voice had seeped under the crack.
“I will be waiting for you.”
“Son of a...” Striding to the door, Avery rested her hand on the wood. She had been right. Someone was out there. Not just anyone, either. Somebody powerful enough to reach her with a threatening call.
All she had to do was open this door to find out who it was.
Or not.
The flush of volcanic heat and the staccato uptick in her pulse that followed that call paved the way for a streak of fiery intuition. Only one kind of presence in the world had the ability to affect her like this. Seven things, actually...which meant that one of Castle Broceliande’s Blood Knights was somewhere nearby. And he had found her.
Fired-up nerve endings were tingling en masse. Avery stifled wicked four-letter oaths. Imagining she could stride through the shadows of this city undetected had been foolish. London had always been overrun by monsters. At least one of those Knights could potentially have been on guard, protecting the city’s humans from things that went bump in the night.
While she...
She was a sitting duck in this small enclosed space, if she had indeed been made by one of them.
Damn Blood Knights.
Guardians. Overseers. Monster killers. That’s what the dangerous Seven had become. Seven physically perfect specimens of immortal manhood had been created to be as much like her as possible, and their Makers had outdone themselves. Due to their skill with alchemic machinations, the Blood Knights existed unchallenged to this day by any who stood against them—immortals unable to die by any normal means. Immortals unknowingly built on a foundation of pain.
Still, despite the agony the creation of the Knights had caused her, Avery yearned for their company with every fiber of her being, and always had. They alone, out of anyone on Earth, would come the closest to understanding her, and yet could never be allowed to. Misplaced longings for them were never to be addressed. Urges like want and need had to remain tucked inside her. Only when her mission had been fulfilled would she be strong enough to get what she required from them.
“I know you’re there, Knight. Leave here. Leave me. Honor my wishes.”
“What did you say?” The tattoo artist asked.
Hell, had she spoken those words aloud?
“Have you changed your mind?” he queried.
“No change,” Avery replied.
“Good. All done here.” To the girl in the chair, he said, “You remember what I told you about how to take care of this, right?”
The girl nodded and slid to her feet, careful to avoid putting too much pressure on her foot right away. She winced as she rolled down the hem of her jeans. After pulling on her jacket, she headed for the door without looking back.
“Will you look at that. No thank you at all,” the artist muttered. “Good thing she paid up front, but what’s the world coming to?”
Standing, he turned, careful to avoid meeting Avery’s eyes. “Now, what do you have in mind?”
“Wings,” she said.
Speaking the word produced a flutter deep inside her chest.
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