by Skye Malone
Swiftly, the guy motions. Leaves whisper against one another when his companions slip from the bushes, moving to surround the house.
The guy looks to him expectantly. He ignores the glance but starts toward the house as well, circling toward the cellar access on the side of the building. The basement would be the best place for the chains and cages the Houses use to keep their victims under control.
In silence, the vampire moves ahead of him, aiming for the same destination. Several of the others do as well.
A simple brass lock secures the latch. From a pouch on his belt, the vampire draws out a small crystal and sweeps it quickly above the cellar door. The wooden surface seems to ripple, like it’s coated in the faintest of sheens from an oil slick. Straightening again, the vampire tucks the stone away and then draws out another tool. The witch-cursed troll bone clunks onto the door. The oil-slick ripples become agitated for a moment and then disappear.
Amar’s eyes narrow. That was too easy.
The vampire doesn’t seem to agree. Returning the bone to his belt, he tosses a quick glance to his companions and then snaps the lock away. With both hands, he yanks the cellar door wide.
Nothing moves. The stairway appears empty.
The others start forward warily, testing the steps before trusting any weight to them. Amar follows them into the black. His kind don’t consistently have the excellent night vision of the vampires or werewolves. Instead, their eyesight varies, with some among the incubi and succubi able to see better in the darkness than others.
After all these years, he’s learned he’s among the best.
They reach the bottom of the steps. His gaze darts across the space, picking out the shapes of bolts on the walls. Chains dangle from them, thick and heavy as if meant to restrain rabid beasts. There are no cages and, more importantly, no Touched.
But there is a television. A flat panel affixed high on the wall. Small cameras hang near it, their tiny red lights blinking.
The leader among Lucretia’s people throws a disgusted look around. “Dammit, they—”
On the far side of the cellar, the door to the house opens. Boots clunk on the stairway. Noise comes from behind him. He turns to see more people hurrying down the steps from the outside.
And they have guns, knives, all of them almost certainly witch-cursed. He tenses while Lucretia’s people draw their weapons as well.
The television flares to life, casting the whole room in its glow. “Well,” comes a cultured voice. “This is a surprise.”
His gaze snaps to the screen.
Alistair Linden smiles at them from what appears to be a luxuriously decorated lounge. He’s dressed in a suit and seated in a wingback leather chair, flames crackling in the fireplace beside him. Holding a glass of liquor in his hand, he regards the camera like he’s been caught in a pleasant moment of relaxation.
“What is this?” the vampire demands.
“What does it look like?” Alistair chuckles. “We have a psychic in our possession, silly boy; she saw you coming. Though I must say, she hadn’t mentioned you would be here, Mister Okoro. Again you appear where I do not expect you. This is becoming a rather disappointing habit of yours.”
Alistair’s people adjust their grips on their weapons. Lucretia’s people immediately do the same.
“Oh, careful now,” Alistair admonishes from the screen. “No need for that.”
His people hesitate like the words are unexpected.
“I’d say plans have changed now, haven’t they, Mister Okoro? But what she’s said about this evening… oh, that is starting to make much more sense.” A hint of a smile pulls at Alistair’s lip while he regards the screen. “How intriguing.” He draws a breath, shifting a bit in his chair. “Fall back, all of you. Leave them be.”
A heartbeat of a pause follows, and then Alistair’s people edge toward the stairs.
“I’d recommend staying out of my way once you’ve finished up here, my boy. What comes next for Volgert needn’t be your concern. Consider that a fair warning. And as for Cait…” Alistair shakes his head. “I know you believe she could be advantageous to you, what with her heritage and all. I won’t deny your strategy is sound. But you should let her join me. There is more to her than meets the eye, Mister Okoro, and what’s been hinted, what’s been seen…” He makes a worried noise. “It’s not too late, you know, for either of you. Safety is still yours for the taking, just as it’s always been. All you have to do is ask. Think on that—for both your sakes.” He lifts his glass slightly and tilts it toward the camera. “Good evening, Mister Okoro.”
The screen turns black. The doors shut as Alistair’s people leave the basement behind.
And then only Lucretia’s people remain.
The leader reaches for his walkie-talkie. “Report.”
A moment creeps past in silence, and then the speaker on the radio crackles. “Hostiles leaving the area.”
Relief crosses the vampire’s face.
A crackle comes from the walkie-talkie again. “Contact from Operations, sir. Response negative. I repeat, response negative. Target acquisition failed.”
Watching the vampire, Amar doesn’t show his confusion at the words. Response? Target acquisition? He glances to the others. Alistair had known something. Had been implying something, and there aren’t many good versions of what that could be.
His gaze returns to the leader, who has become utterly motionless.
And that, more than anything, sends every alarm in his body clamoring to life.
“Understood,” the man replies.
The vampire puts the radio away and then glances to the others. With the speed of their kind, every one of them suddenly turns, aiming their weapons. The leader gets off a shot.
The rest aren’t fast enough.
Amar’s world goes still. Frozen for a heartbeat that lasts all of eternity, and in it, there’s only silence. Pain like a distant flash grazes across his bicep, but it’s nothing compared to the power flooding his veins. In an instant, it rushes from his body and rips across the room in a dark, cold wave that he hates beyond words. He wishes with everything he has that he wasn’t this. Like this. But then, this is what continues time and again to save his life.
The vampires collapse to the floor.
A breath leaves him and a small shudder runs through his body, for all that the expenditure of magic barely tapped the reserves of energy he has inside. He’s one of the strongest incubi in existence—another gift from his father and another fact that, like this horror-show talent he inherited, continues to keep him free and alive.
But that doesn’t mean using the ability is ever a welcome experience.
He glances around, despite the fact he knows what he’ll see. The vampires are dead—truly dead, beyond even what their kind can recover from. They must have suspected what they would be up against the moment they turned their weapons on him.
The question is why they chose to do it in the first place.
His gaze goes to the stairway behind him and the door to the outside at its top. Operations. There’s only one person that would be. But for Lucretia to send him all this way only to have her people turn on him—
Target acquisition failed.
His blood turns cold. Cait.
He bolts up the stairs.
Cait will be fine.
He hangs onto the thought while he speeds down the rough dirt track. It had taken forever to reach the hollow in the forest where Lucretia’s people had hidden their cars, and longer still to clear away the branches covering one of the vehicles. The keys had been where the vampires had left them, tucked into the console and not in a pocket where they might have made noise at the wrong moment. Likewise, none of the other forces Lucretia had sent along—the ones who’d kept watch outside while he and the vampires went into the house—had attempted to come near him or slow him down. They had to know it would have cost them their lives.
And it doesn’t matter anyway, because Cait is
fine.
He digs his phone from his pocket, and then grimaces when the motion causes a twinge of pain to emanate from the hastily wrapped bullet graze on his arm. But the trunk of the car had turned up a small first aid kit and bandages, and the wound isn’t bad anyway. It’ll be barely noticeable in a day or so.
Lifting the phone, he takes his eyes from the road to glance at the screen briefly. Relief hits him when a bar of signal appears. The feeling is short-lived, however, because a second later, a voicemail notification arrives.
Bracing himself, he touches the icon and then lifts the cell to his ear.
“Amar, it’s Bianca. Some jackasses did a fucking blitz attack on Temptation and Cait heard they’re after you next. Watch your back and call me when you get this.”
He lowers the phone. Cait heard… He draws a breath. Then she’s there, still there, and not hurt or dead.
His foot eases off the gas pedal. The car slows to a more rational speed. For a moment, he doesn’t do anything but drive, waiting till he can be certain his voice won’t give anything away.
He touches another icon and then lifts the phone again.
“Hello?” Bianca answers.
“It’s me. Got your message. Already taken care of.”
Bianca pauses. He’s never gone into detail of what he can do and she’s never exactly asked. It’s an unspoken understanding between them, the fact they both have their secrets. He knows she suspects, though. Whispers of what his father could do, gleaned over the years by Chastain family spies, meant it wasn’t too much of a leap for her to guess he’d inherited those ‘gifts’ too.
“Good,” she replies shortly. “Well, Cait’s with me at Temptation. Cops believe they’re going to lock the club down—the morons. We’ll have the place to ourselves soon as they go. You coming this way?”
He hesitates. He wants to answer yes. After all, returning to Temptation had been the plan.
But he knows Cait still isn’t fully safe.
What’s been hinted… what’s been seen…
He shoves the memory of Alistair’s words aside. One thing at a time. “I have something to do first.”
“Alright. Take care of yourself.”
His lip twitches. From Bianca, that’s practically emotional. “Yeah.”
He hangs up and sets the phone aside. He wishes he could have found a way to speak to Cait, but there wasn’t any reason Bianca would believe. No message she couldn’t simply pass along.
And he’s not sure how it would have affected him, hearing Cait’s voice.
Air leaves him. He needs to stay focused. They aren’t out of danger yet.
The hours of driving pass in a blur, lost to his silent debate of how best to handle the situation. Lucretia will know the moment that he shows up on her doorstep that her plan failed. Chances are, she already knows, considering her people were likely meant to check in after their task was complete.
There’s no telling what she might have waiting for him.
He slows the car several miles shy of the manor. He’s close enough now for shadow-crossing, but he’s not certain he should try it. The defenses on her property are bound to be formidable.
But aiming for somewhere outside the building will probably work, and regardless, it’s safer than driving. Or at least faster. And if he needs to make a quick retreat, the pain of passing those barriers will be significantly less of an issue than being shot while he tries to drive away.
He stops the car and gets out. He’ll give her a chance to talk, he decides. See how she can explain sending her people after him—just in case he gets the impression that there are others out there still waiting for their chance to attack. Better to be prepared, because next time Cait might not be so lucky and he might not have warning enough to stop them.
His eyes close briefly. He allows himself a moment to make sure he’s calm and focused, and then he heads away from the car. A nearby tree provides enough contrast between the moonlight and the pavement to give him somewhere to cross, and then the road is gone and the manor lies before him.
For a moment, nothing stirs. Even the breeze has lulled.
The front door opens and the petite maid appears. “Master Okoro?”
She sounds surprised to see him. Her gaze darts around the moonlit driveway, obviously noticing the lack of a vehicle. He ignores her, glancing across the windows and the rooftops, searching for threats.
The manor appears utterly still.
“Are you alright?” She starts down the steps toward him.
“Don’t,” he warns.
She stops, alarmed.
“Where is Lucretia?”
The girl appears perturbed. “T-the Mistress is upstairs. Is everything alright?”
“Tell her I wish to speak to her. Now.”
Blinking fast, the maid falters. She retreats toward the manor, never quite looking away from him.
He waits. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howls. Crickets, still hanging on despite the autumn cold, resume chirping in the silver-touched grass.
And nothing else changes. The manor could be empty for how quiet it seems.
The front door opens again. The maid peeks out. “This way, sir?” She motions for him to come inside.
He walks to the door, the dark and cold power coursing beneath his skin like a storm waiting to engulf the world. Lucretia might have a backup plan to kill him, he knows, and it might even work.
But it would be a plan no one in this building would probably survive.
Anxiety clear in her scurrying speed, the girl leads him upstairs and down the hall. By the end of the corridor, two men stand like butlers. They push a door wide for him as he approaches. The girl falls back, avoiding his gaze when he walks past.
Lucretia waits by the small, round table in the center of the room. Red roses fill a vase beside her and candles glow from the chandelier overhead. It could feel like a reenactment of their conversation this morning, if not for the tension he can see in her face.
The magic beneath his skin grows stronger.
“Hello Amar,” Lucretia says politely, a tight compression of her lips making some pretense at being a smile.
He wastes no time with preamble. “Did you order your people to attack Temptation and kidnap Cait?”
The tension in her expression increases.
“Did you order them to kill me when they failed to capture her?”
“I would assume from the fact that I and my servants here are still alive that you do not believe I—”
The roses in the vase beside her instantly wither and fall in a crumble of black dust to the tabletop. “Answer the question.”
Lucretia makes a swift, reassuring gesture toward the tapestries nearby. She doesn’t take her eyes from him. “One of the guards I had watching Cait was killed by whomever struck the nightclub,” she says, her voice meticulously calm. “The remainder did not see the attackers, but they reported the assault to me moments after it occurred. They have been chastened appropriately for their failure to stop it.”
“And the team you sent with me?”
She’s silent. He watches her eyes, waiting for the least slip toward the tapestries and the bodyguards he knows she has hiding there. But she’s motionless. He can’t read the calculations running behind her gaze.
“Lucretia?” he prompts, warning thick in his tone.
Her mouth tightens. “Leave us.”
Nothing happens.
“I said leave!”
The tapestries around the room stir. He hears the faint sounds of doors closing. The fabric grows still.
“I promise you,” she says carefully. “I did not break our deal.”
“Following the assault on Temptation, your people received a call from ‘Operations’ warning them that the attack failed, after which they attempted to kill me.” His brow rises in tacit question.
She looks away. “The situation—”
“The truth, Lucretia.”
She glances back at h
im. “Is complicated.”
He’s silent.
She seems to take a moment to choose her words carefully. “Recently, I began to receive indications that certain people in my House are, shall we say, not acting in the best interests of Volgert? And, sadly, my attempts to correct this unfortunate lapse in judgment have been less successful than I would have preferred.”
“A coup,” he translates flatly.
“That is not the word I would prefer to use.”
He isn’t surprised. The vampire queen of Volgert had taken power with a coup of her own, and she’s been ruthless with anyone who would try to replicate the process ever since. Admitting to a conspiracy whose existence she had not immediately been able to crush would be tantamount to admitting that she’d lost control of the House she’d ruled for over three hundred years.
But the truth is still there, between the lines.
“Who’s behind it?” he asks.
She doesn’t answer. His brow rises again.
“I am not certain,” she concedes like the words are being pulled from her.
“Linden?”
“I do not believe so.”
He weighs whether he trusts the response, coming down on the side of ‘only so far as he has to’. “What do you intend to do about it?”
She watches him, and he can predict what she’s evaluating. The question of whether he’ll help her stop this.
“I don’t work for you,” he reminds her. “And I won’t change that.”
“These nuisances could kill you next time. You need—”
The sound of a door opening cuts her off. “Mistress?” comes a man’s voice from behind the tapestry.
Amar tenses. There’s an edge to the man’s tone, like alarm under tight control.
Lucretia seems to hear it as well. “Enter,” she allows, her voice cautious.
The man pushes past the tapestry. He appears young, maybe twenty, with dark eyes and equally dark skin. Guns are tucked into the holsters strapped to either side of his chest.
“Trouble, Mistress.” The young man casts a nervous glance over his shoulder. “Please, I must ask you to evacuate—”
