Naasir groaned. “I think I should jump off into traffic. It’d be less painful than such torture.”

Naasir liked sex, liked touching women’s soft, warm bodies, liked driving his cock into their tight, wet sheaths as they screamed his name. He hadn’t done it since the night he decided to go mate hunting, so he wasn’t frustrated by the vow of celibacy because he planned to seduce the scholar—no, he was frustrated because that vow confirmed she wasn’t his, and now he was going to be stuck with her for who knew how long.

No mate of his would ever be so ridiculous as to take a vow of celibacy. “What kind of strange person takes a vow like that?” Angelkind wasn’t exactly known for its lack of excess.

Raphael laughed, the big, open sound one Naasir hadn’t heard for a long time before Elena came into the sire’s life. That was what Naasir wanted—a mate who’d play with him, who’d make him laugh, who’d challenge him. And who’d rut with him. Over and over. No idiotic vow of celibacy permitted.

“There are the odd few,” Raphael said after his laughter faded. “Scholars sometimes believe cutting out physical distractions heightens the mind.”

“In that case, I’d rather stay unenlightened.” Rising to his feet, Naasir held Raphael’s gaze. “I will go, sire.” He’d miss dinner with Honor and Dmitri, but they would understand—and when he returned, he’d be welcome at their table.

Raphael shook his head, the inky strands of his hair crossing over the painful blue of his eyes as the gust returned. “Not tonight, Naasir. Tonight, you’ll spend with family in New York.”

2

Naasir hated traveling in the metal bucket of a jet, but it was the fastest way for a non-winged traveler to get most of the way to the Refuge. He paced the cabin the entire time and was out the door almost before it was fully open once they landed. The sun on his face, the kiss of wind, it was pure pleasure.

Breathing deep for the first time in hours, he shook himself to settle his skin back into proper place, then grabbed his duffel when the pilot threw it out. He grinned and saluted one of the two men—the other being the co-pilot—whom he’d driven crazy over the flight. The other vampire was used to him and flashed Naasir his fangs before disappearing back inside.

Naasir laughed and, duffel slung over his shoulder, loped to the private parking garage that housed his motorcycle. He could see mountains in the distance, clouds touching them, but they weren’t of the Refuge. He was still far, for the angels had nothing of civilization close to them.

Any unauthorized vampire, or mortal who accidentally entered Refuge territory, soon forgot about it, the memory taken quietly away. The landscape itself was so forbidding that it kept most at bay, and the powerful angels who lived permanently in the Refuge were able to do something that swathed the approaches to the angelic haven in heavy fog.

The stubborn climbers who insisted on venturing farther found themselves in an icy, inhospitable region that equaled broken limbs a hundred percent of the time. Anyone who returned a second time didn’t leave alive: angelkind did not play games when it came to protecting the place that sheltered their young.

Nodding at the mechanic on duty, Naasir went straight to his bike.

“She’s ready to go,” the vampire mechanic said in the local tongue, coming over to pat the electric-blue side panels. “I envy you the ride. The weather’s perfect for it.”

Naasir had learned to ride motorcycles with Janvier after the machines first became fast and exciting. They’d both fallen off more than once. Never during that time or afterward, had Naasir worn a helmet. He picked one up today, though—the last time Ashwini had seen him riding without a helmet, she’d gotten so angry that he’d apologized then gone out with her and bought a helmet.

Janvier’s hunter mate had lost her brother and sister less than a year earlier; she’d been so sad for so long that it had hurt Naasir to see it. He wasn’t going to be responsible for making her sad again by getting so damaged even his immortality couldn’t save him—because unlike what the mortals believed, Naasir knew no one was totally immortal.

Then there was Lijuan.

The Archangel of China had a nasty habit of coming back from the dead.

Considering once again what might keep her dead, he put on the helmet then started up the bike. It came on with a silken roar. Gear stowed, he gave the mechanic a thumbs-up and headed out. He’d fed from bottled blood and cold meat on the jet, and it would fuel him for the next stage of the journey. The bike would also need fuel later on, but he, Janvier, and a few others who used this method of transport had hidden caches in a number of discreet locations.

For now, he could just ride the mountain pathways and glory in the wind pressing against him. It threatened to push him right off his bike and into a massive gorge halfway through. Teeth bared at the challenge, he bent lower over the bars and kept going. At one point, after he’d slowed down to admire a sparkling river, he saw a sign that warned of tigers in the area.

It reminded him of Elena’s attempts to find out his origins.

Laughing so hard he almost fell off the bike, he gunned the engine and took off again. He didn’t stop when the hard, clear sunlight turned to shadows, then to midnight, his night vision as good as his ordinary sight. Utilizing a fuel cache when necessary, he continued on. He had to stop and hunt a few hours later, but even if he hadn’t found prey, he was in no danger of starving, old enough that his body didn’t burn through as much fuel as a younger vampire.