by Skye Malone
An explosion rocks the building. The chandelier swings wildly, sending its candles toppling to the floor. Lucretia staggers, her hand catching her on the round table.
Amar looks to the door behind him. Shouts carry from beyond the dense wood.
He doesn’t waste any more time. “Shadow-cross,” he says to the young man. “Now.”
The guy shakes his head. “The defenses were the first thing hit. They’re flaring out of control. If we try to pass them, they could kill the Mistr—”
Wood shatters behind him. The young man turns, his hands going for his weapons.
Bullets shred through the tapestry. Amar drops to the ground fast while the young man crumples.
In a heartbeat, Lucretia surges across the room, tearing past the tapestry. The fabric falls and a man goes with it, his screams cut short by her ripping hands.
She snarls furiously and whirls away from the fallen body, blood drenching her fingers. He sees bullet wounds in the velvet covering her chest.
Lucretia starts away from the corpse, and then a furious, pained noise escapes her. She staggers.
His confusion lasts only a heartbeat.
“Witch-cursed bullets,” she spits. “Those bastards. They—” She cuts off with another agonized grunt.
He heads toward the exit. Beyond the fallen tapestry, a doorway opens to a narrow passage inside the wall. A dozen feet ahead, it turns to the right, leaving him blind to any approaching threats.
“If you had anything to do with this, Amar,” Lucretia warns from behind him. “I promise you will pay for it. That girl will as well.”
“I don’t.”
She doesn’t respond. He glances back to find her watching him, weighing the response.
“I swear,” he emphasizes. “Now stay behind me.”
Without another word, he strides through the doorway. Past the walls, he can hear the pounding footsteps of people rushing along the corridors. Gunfire follows. Something crashes against the wall, sending a shower of dust raining down from the beams and boards around him. The footsteps race away.
He lets out a breath and keeps moving.
A woman runs around the corner, mist glowing from her hands. But the moment she spots him, she stops, the mist vanishing and her hands raising in a defensive gesture. “Whoa, hey, hold on.”
His eyes narrow. “One of yours?” he asks Lucretia.
“This doesn’t concern you,” the succubus says hurriedly. “We’re only after Volg—”
Air stirs beside him and silver flashes at the corner of his eye. A knife strikes the woman’s midsection, sending her staggering back into the wall.
“No, she isn’t,” Lucretia snaps, pushing past with her hand still gripping her chest where the bullets tore through. At the woman’s side, she drops to a crouch and takes the hilt of the knife. “Who sent you?”
Mist flickers to life around the woman’s hands. Lucretia grabs the succubus’ wrist, pinning it to the ground, and then she tugs on the blade, cutting further into the woman’s insides.
The succubus chokes while the mist flickers and disappears.
He holds his breathing steady, old habits rising to protect him. Any pity for this woman will be taken as a sign of betrayal. Any discomfort will give rise to the idea that he’d lied when he told Lucretia he had nothing to do with the people attacking the manor. He’d seen worse than this in the years with his father, and he’d paid dearly until he’d learned how to bury his reactions.
“Who?” Lucretia repeats.
“Please—”
Lucretia’s grip tightens on her wrist and the succubus shrieks. He hears bones break under the pressure of Lucretia’s grasp.
Whimpering with pain, the succubus doesn’t answer. Blood soaks her shirt and seeps from the edges of her mouth. She doesn’t have much longer to live, even without Lucretia’s questions.
And Lucretia knows it. Sharply, she twists her hold on the woman’s broken wrist. “Who?”
“Alistair!” the woman screams.
Lucretia releases her grip, a stillness coming over her. But there’s a glint to her eyes. A fervor like bloodlust and satisfaction all rolled into one.
It turns his body cold.
“We…” The succubus coughs. Blood spills from her lips. “We’ll kill you… vampire bitch.”
Lucretia ignores the words, rising to her feet. “I warned you this could happen,” she says to him. “You really think you can stay uninvolved?”
He doesn’t respond, watching while the last of the succubus’ life passes out of her and she sags to the floor. Alistair’s succubus. Just another piece on a House chessboard, sacrificed for House purposes.
“That old bastard will tear into the neutrals, same as he’s tearing into my people. With that psychic—”
He strides past her, not needing to hear the rest. Disgust rolls through him, tumbling like the magic under his skin and thick with contempt for himself, for Alistair, for Lucretia and all that this means. They wanted a war, both of them. For all their protests, for all their claims to the contrary, Alistair and Lucretia were only too eager for it to happen.
And now it’s begun.
He fights to keep breathing, even as the possibilities present themselves like images from a nightmare. There hasn’t been a war between any of the Houses in nearly fifty years. Skirmishes, yes, but not an all-out war. But his father used to tell stories of it. Tales of the things he’d seen in his childhood. The relish in his voice had been terrible enough, but the images he described, the atrocities he’d gladly taken part in…
And now Linden has a psychic at their disposal.
Chills run through him. He’d intended to find this person, to heal them from being Touched and hopefully end the psychic power they have at the same time. He’d intended to secure Cait’s safety, and his own as well.
And he’d failed.
His heart pounds in spite of himself. Relative peace between the Houses has been the only thing that allowed him the life he’s led since his father died. As long as Linden, Volgert, or any of the Houses hadn’t been trying to annihilate each other, they’d been willing to accept his assertion that he didn’t want the authority and fear his father had commanded. That he only wanted as close to a normal life as he could find. His own power had left the arrangement something of a bargain of mutually assured destruction for any House that would try to force him to join; a simple understanding that he wouldn’t kill them if they didn’t try to kill him, and that as long as his powers were kept secret, no stupidly ambitious underling could screw that arrangement up.
But all that would be over if they started a war. His life would be over, and Cait’s would as well. Linden, Volgert—hell, any of them—they’d figure out a way to corral the two of them into a House or kill them, because it’d be better than risking someone else gaining use of what he and Cait could do.
All because of this poor, damned psychic.
The thought slows his racing heart. It’s still true. Katsuro may have talked of the magic in the world shifting, but that’s not what the Houses are fighting about. Not really. The psychic is the key. Without her, Linden and Volgert have nothing to start a war over. And no, that may not stop them entirely now that Alistair sent his people to attack Lucretia in her own home.
But then again, it might.
His feet move faster. There’s still a chance. All he has to do is find the psychic. Help her. And keep Linden and everyone else from concluding that he’s sided with Volgert in the meantime.
He buries a grimace. That last part might be a problem.
The narrow passage ends, and its exit stands open to a well-appointed library. Swiftly, his gaze sweeps over the space, searching for any sign of life. Bookshelves line the walls and stiff armchairs are placed near a large stained glass window on the far side of the room. A bulky, wooden desk occupies another wall. A glass case displaying large, leather-bound books stands behind it.
But nothing moves. His gaze pauses on the edge
of a shadow cast by the moonlight pouring past the stained glass window. The manor defenses might be down now. If they are, then the simple line of shadow and light is all he needs.
Lucretia makes a tiny grunt behind him, the stifled sound pained. He glances back. Her skin looks too pale, even for a vampire. Tightly controlled agony carves lines on her face.
A rustling from the far end of the room draws his attention instantly.
“Mistress?” The maid peeks over the edge of the desk. She freezes when her wide, red eyes find him. “Oh, M-Master Okoro. My apologies. Please don’t hurt—”
Lucretia pushes past him. “Enough, Mira. Where are my bodyguards?”
The relief on the girl’s face is immediate. “Mistress! I worried—” She cuts off, seeming to remember the question. “I don’t know, ma’am. I-I hid, but I saw some heading for the—”
Her gaze goes to the door and alarm takes the place of her relief. He turns fast, magic rushing through him.
“Hold, please!” a woman cries, her arms raised. Several other people at her back retreat frantically, as if seeking shelter from the wall.
“They’re mine, Amar,” Lucretia says from behind him.
“And you trust them?” he counters.
She pauses. “Yes.”
The ice in his veins dies, obedient as always to his will.
“Jamila,” Lucretia continues. “Status?”
For a moment, Jamila continues to eye him as if waiting for the guillotine to drop. “Not good, my lady.” Warily, the woman steps farther into the room. Tactical gear covers her and several guns and knives hang from the belts strapping her hips and chest. The other people with her peer cautiously around the doorframe before coming inside. “Please allow us to escort you to safety. Our people can protect you from here—”
“The defenses,” he interrupts.
“Amar,” Lucretia says sharply.
He glances over. She meets his gaze, a wealth of threat in her eyes.
“I don’t work for you,” he tells her quietly.
“But you need me,” she counters, her voice equally soft.
He weighs his words for a moment. “I will find this Touched. I will stop them. Our arrangement continues—including the part that protects Cait.”
Her eyes narrow.
“The, uh, the defenses have fallen,” Jamila offers into the silence. “That’s why we must move quickly, my lady, if we’re to reach safety before—”
He doesn’t wait for more. Swiftly, he strides toward the stained glass window and the edge of shadow and moonlight there.
“No!” Lucretia snaps. “Amar, you—”
The line of shadow falls behind him and the library is gone.
“You seem to have trouble with your hearing, vampire. She’s not going.”
Sorcha’s words carry down the hall. Sitting on a barstool, I don’t look away from my study of the water glass in front of me. I know what I’ll see if I glance up anyway. Rafael’s cleaning the bar while a half dozen mercenaries watch me from various positions around the room. The wolves have been keeping an eye on me all night, and beyond answering my questions about Ulric—he’s alive; he’s been relocated to a place where the pack can better tend to his injuries—the whole group hasn’t said a word.
“Our safe houses have remained undetected by the Houses for longer than you’ve been alive.” Katsuro this time. He sounds pissed. “Do you honestly believe that prominent locations such as this can provide her more protection?”
I trace my finger through the condensation forming on the sides of my glass. Jeans and a long-sleeved shirt cover me now, warmer than the absurd dress and acquired from my apartment by two of the silent, nameless werewolves. My body aches from my run-in with that troll and everything else that happened tonight, bruises gradually making themselves known in what was sure to be a multicolored glory. Meanwhile, it’s probably getting close to dawn outside, though you’d never know it in the windowless club. The bomb squad left a few hours back and most of the cops did too. Only a squad car remains outside, keeping watch on a place they believe is empty and that they’d locked down—or so Rafael told me when I wandered in here a while ago, having abandoned any hope of sleeping on that narrow camp bed. But the others have been debating the next steps ever since the majority of the cops drove away. The primary problem is that they can’t decide where to take me. Katsuro wants us to return to his people, Sorcha refuses to allow him to accompany us any further, and Bianca just wants me gone from anywhere near her family.
I feel vaguely like a piece of luggage. Or maybe a child, being shuffled between foster homes. Neither is pleasant. I’d leave except that I know I stand a better chance of staying alive with their help and, like them, I don’t have any idea of where to go.
This is getting old, though.
“God, would you two just drop it and get her out of here?”
Bianca. I grimace. I haven’t heard from Brett, although he’s in the other room too. But I’ve got to figure his opinion is probably similar to his sister’s. I can only imagine the public relations damage control he’s going to have to do, now that a supposed bomb went off at his club.
He probably regrets ever letting me in the door.
“The point is security,” Sorcha states. “You do not—”
She cuts off and nothing follows. My brow furrowing, I glance toward the hall.
“Took you long enough,” Bianca snaps.
A low voice responds. I can’t make out the words, but the sound makes my heart jump.
I shove away from the bar. The mercenaries move immediately to precede me down the dark corridor.
Amar is there.
My feet stop me at the end of the hallway and I’m staring. I know I’m staring. I have to quit.
But he’s alive. Alive and here and he’s been gone for days. He didn’t even—
“What?”
Bianca’s harsh tone is like a splash of ice water in my face. I flounder under her glare, at a loss for what to say.
Amar isn’t helping. He’s utterly expressionless, and cold too, like being here is simply some task he has to attend to before he can move on to other things. He scarcely even pauses to register the fact I’m there before he turns to Bianca and Brett. “Linden has declared war on Volgert. Alistair’s forces just attacked Lucretia’s manor.”
My stomach drops. What?
“And how do you know this?” Katsuro says, his tone pointed and slightly poisonous.
Amar gives him a flat look before returning his attention to Brett and Bianca. “You need to make preparations.”
Bianca stares at him for a heartbeat and then snags her phone from her pocket. Turning, she strides away while swiping through the screens and then lifting the cell to her ear. “Get my father now.”
Brett heads past me toward the bar. “Rafael!”
“Cait,” Amar calls.
My focus snaps back to him.
“May I speak with you for a moment?”
He sounds like the question is barely an afterthought. I blink, not sure how to take the tone. “Yeah, sure.” I cast a quick look around, but there’s nowhere to talk. Nowhere the others won’t overhear. Anxiously, I start toward the narrow hall leading to the storage room. Amar moves to follow me.
Like a weird entourage the mercenaries trail us.
“Keep watch,” Amar orders them when we reach the hallway.
Sorcha nods. The werewolves stop.
I continue to the storage room and hold the door while Amar walks by me. He doesn’t even glance my way. Swallowing hard, I shut the door and then turn back toward him. “What did you need to talk—”
He’s right there and before I can even gasp, he’s kissing me. His hands take my face, slide into my hair, and hold me to him like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. A heartbeat later, he breaks from me. “Are you okay?” he asks roughly.
Blinking, I try to regroup. “Y-yeah, I…” I have no idea what to say. My thoughts are a jumble. My body ac
hes but I don’t care. I want to know why he’s been gone so long. I want him to kiss me again.
I opt for the latter. I reach up quickly, pulling him to me. He doesn’t hesitate. In an instant, his lips are on mine. His grip tightens on me and his body presses me back till I run into the door. I scarcely notice. It only brings him closer, crushing my breasts against his chest. I inhale his scent, all spice and heat and a hint of sweat. It’s wonderful. My hands hurry beneath his jacket, relishing his warmth and the sheer fact that he’s here. With me. Alive. I can feel his heart beating hard in his chest while the kiss deepens. It’s like he’s trying to drink me in, like he’s reminding every cell in his body how this feels.
And I’m right there with him. I’d known I missed him. I don’t think I’d realized how much. It’s like the stress, the near-death madness, and everything I’ve been through in the past hours and days fades to the background—present yes, but hushed and less painfully vivid to me now. Because we’re together. I’m losing the room and the club and the whole damn town to the simple joy of him against me, near me, here safe with me.
My body presses to his, my legs parting to let one of his own between them. A hungry noise leaves him, tinged with desperation. He pushes harder into me, driving me against his leg and a thrill shoots through my veins. I grind my hips against him. My hands climb beneath his jacket, moving across his powerful muscles and up to his shoulders to keep him close.
He flinches suddenly, making a small hiss of pain. I release him instantly, confused, and his wince doesn’t clarify anything. And then my gaze catches on his arm. There’s a rip torn through his jacket, right around his upper bicep. The dark fabric makes it hard to be sure, but there’s also something dried on the edges of the tear.
It seems like it might be blood.
Alarmed, I look up at him.
“It’s nothing,” he assures me like he can see the question in my eyes.
I’m not certain I trust the words.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” he continues. “I heard…” He seems to struggle for a way to explain and then he pauses, his gaze going to his hands in my hair like he’s felt something.
