Her terrified gaze flew to Stryke’s shocked one. At least Stryke hadn’t known the bracelet’s full power when he’d trapped her in it.
A small comfort, but with what she faced, it was all she had.
Chapter Fourteen
Bishop tore through the mansion. The occupants weren’t home and he found nothing that’d lead him to Fyra.
He’d tracked her to an area of Freemont that was heavily populated with prime families, and he’d pounded through each dwelling. Three families had woken to his destruction as he’d stormed through their dwellings, searching for a sign of Fyra. Between his size and his gear, they’d recognized him but demanded to know why he was in their home.
He’d snarled something about Synod business, someone in danger. Not wishing to interfere with their government, the occupants had left him alone and Bishop had left as soon as he’d determined their house to be of no use to him. A remaining sense of self-preservation had made him flash as soon as he’d exited the front door to where he’d parked his SUV. His sunlight advantage didn’t need any more witnesses.
This was his fourth home, and with three upper levels and two belowground, it’d taken a frustrating amount of time to clear.
Nothing.
He bared his fangs and clenched his fists. The wards on the building kept him from flashing. He flung open the door and flashed before his boot touched the ground. Landing by his black vehicle, he ripped the door open and got in.
A growing sense of urgency plagued him. It was her.
He stomped on the gas and the tires squealed on the pavement as he sped in the direction of a fifth estate.
As he approached, Fyra’s presence didn’t grow stronger, but he couldn’t discount the place. He was severely short of clues as to her whereabouts.
Parking where he could see the building through the trees, he flashed to the entrance without bothering to exit the vehicle.
He’d been around long enough to know the vampires established in Freemont. Had dealt with many of them at some point, even gone to school with a few of them. If they behaved, he’d hardly had anything to do with them. If they weren’t behaving, they’d hidden it well.
He tested the front door. Locked, of course. He backed up a few steps and, with a powerful kick, splintered the door. Another kick sent it flying open.
Inhaling deeply, he cursed. No Fyra.
This house had three upper levels with a ton of bedrooms on each floor. Bishop chose the lower levels first. Fyra could tolerate the light, but Rancor and his minions were in vampire bodies.
He was sweeping through an empty bedroom when he sensed a presence. Whirling around with a gun already in his hand, the scent registered.
“Ophelia?” Thank the darkness. She must’ve sensed it was him, otherwise he’d be plugged full of holes by now.
The petite vampire looked as calm as a summer breeze. Her arms were crossed over a white satin robe that fell to her knees and highlighted her dark complexion. She studied him with hard brown eyes, her hair slicked back into a braid. The barrel of a gun poked out from under one arm.
“Bishop.” Her tone was flat, annoyed. “Did I miss a few messages? What’s going on?”
“What are you doing here?” It wasn’t her home, but she was prime and unmated. He shook his head. “None of my business. Have you sensed any demons at all? Heard of any random fires breaking out?”
She frowned at him. “This have something to do with that demon you were chasing?”
“You heard?”
Ophelia wasn’t around much, given her attempts to worm into polite vampire society and find out who was helping the underworld.
She shrugged. Rourke couldn’t rival her frigid, uncommunicative demeanor.
“Yes. I’m afraid she’s in danger.”
“A demon.” Her only reaction was the subtle infusion of curiosity into her dark gaze. “Moved on from humans, have you?”
“She doesn’t deserve what’s going to happen to her.” That was the crux of it. Nothing about her told him she deserved to be handed over to Rancor.
“Not many beings deserve the bad stuff that happens to them.” She blinked and looked around. “Are you out in broad daylight?”
The basement had no windows, but she’d be able to sense the approximate time of day. “Sunlight doesn’t affect me.”
An elegant eyebrow quirked. “Well, that’s handy.” She dropped her arms and turned to exit, beckoning for him to follow.
She walked with no sound. He did the same, all the way to an ornate study.
After they entered, she quietly clicked the door shut.
“I shouldn’t have to worry if your racket didn’t wake him.” She had a bemused expression. “I wore him out.”
Bishop shook his head. Ophelia had been his friend for as long as she’d been on the team, and one thing he knew about her, she was a sexual creature. More so than most vampires. Even if he’d been brave enough to risk being with a vampire, he wouldn’t have approached her. Close to two feet shorter than him, she would have been crushed, though she probably would have relished the pain.
He checked out the papers on the desk. Moiré. He’d heard of the family but not enough to know why Ophelia was in one of their beds. Work or pleasure?
“Here’s what I’ve heard.” Ophelia dropped to a whisper. “The Godets are a prime family. The male has taken an extreme interest in all things underworld. He plays it off as ‘information is power’ but I think he’s after the power.”
“Do you think he’d host one of the Circle?”
Ophelia’s expression turned hard. “Most of these families would give away their left nut for the kind of power a demon could bring them. The trick is finding one with a little discretion. Which the Godet male lacks.”
“Rancor was desperate.” Probably jumped into the first willing prime once Fyra vanished.
“He’s a rash one. I don’t know how he got so high.”
Bishop’s turn to be surprised. She knew Rancor enough to know his personality? And Demetrius worried about Bishop.
“Nadair’s an early riser. You’d better get going.”
Bishop nodded. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“He’s more likely to invite you into the bedroom.” She stated it so matter-of-factly, he sensed it was covering emotion. Jealousy? Irritation?
“Is everything okay, Ophelia?”
“You’re wasting time, dear.”
His mouth twitched. The tiniest of them all, but she whipped out the maternal tone more than any of them. Always unexpected—might be why she did it.
Before he left the office, he turned toward her. “There’s a busted door upstairs from when I got in.”
“You’re always so subtle. I’ll find a reason to get angry and storm out.” She pursed her lips, irritation heavy in her gaze.
He guessed it wouldn’t be hard for her to find something and he suspected this Nadair meant more to Ophelia than she’d admit.
“Ken Godet lives a half mile down the road?”
She dipped her head.
The manor would’ve been his next stop, but now he’d have the upper hand.
A spike of fear shot through him, but not from him or Ophelia.
Fyra.
He jogged with as little noise as possible through the door he’d broken down before flashing back to his SUV. Using more stealth than he’d shown all day, he drove until he found a spot to hide his vehicle.
Godet’s manor was gaudier than the rest. Most prime families blended as closely as possible with moneyed humans. The eyesore in front of him could’ve posed as the haunted mansion for any book or poster that required one. Made out of rock and mortar, it had an unmistakably sinister aura. There was even a turret on each side.
Bishop sucked in a breath, tasting each molecule on the air. Brimstone.
What did he know about Master Godet? The male and his family stayed under the radar but had been in the same social circle as many of the vampire counci
l. From that, Godet was likely arrogant, righteous, and possessed an extreme amount of entitlement.
The perfect host.
He eyed the monstrosity. The front entrance was too obvious. The back, too far from the action. They were in vampire hosts; they’d be holding Fyra underground.
Bishop squinted up at the sun. A perfect time to strike.
His breath should be condensing in the cold air, but his internal temperature was dropping. It’d only lowered around Fyra, when he was turned on. This was anger. He’d been angry before, but only terrified-angry once before. When the council had executed his mother.
Her last request had been the only thing keeping him from freezing the building the council had been housed in. Then demolishing it stone by stone with his fists and watching it shatter to icy shards.
Don’t make my death in vain, Bishop. They will use you, study you. Always hide your differences.
And it hadn’t been hard. Without his mother, he’d had nothing to get too emotional about. Instead, he’d committed to dismantling the council with cold precision.
His gaze narrowed on a window on the side of the house. Larger than the rest, and centered, it had to be a window of importance.
He flashed under it in a crouch, his acute hearing attuned to the interior. Dare he look?
Yes, they’d be underground. He hauled himself up the ledge and peered inside. No one. He searched the frame and inspected every corner for security cameras and alarms. His only concern with them was the initial alert. He couldn’t care less if they recorded everything. He just needed to get the jump on them first.
He pulled out his knife and pried around the sash. The pane wouldn’t budge. His lip curled. Fyra’s distress was increasing, festering in his brain, urging him to discard years of training and caution and charge inside.
He could break the glass, but he risked them hearing it. They might be right beneath the study or roaming the hallways. No clue how many minions were here with her.
Each side had a narrow pane that was a crank-out window. Gritting his teeth, he braced his fingers against the wood and pushed. Not too hard, not too soft. The material gave under him, but didn’t open. He pushed harder. More give. Harder. The window splintered open, but the glass remained intact. A hunk of wrecked wood hung from the metal lock that was still in place.
Had he made enough noise to bring attention?
He eyed the narrow opening. Crawling through sideways was his only option. It’d be a tight fit, if he fit at all. He unbuckled his shoulder holster and gently lowered it to the floor. Next was his weapons belt.
Going in feet first, he came to a stop at his chest. He used the upper and lower window ledge as leverage and shoved himself through. If he hadn’t been wearing a shirt, he’d have taken a couple of layers of skin off. His chest and shoulders were probably completely bruised, but he barely noticed and strapped his gear back on.
The scent of Fyra and brimstone grew stronger.
He prowled through the house to find the entrance to the lower levels.
Hidden doorways were too uncouth for a prime family. An ornate, curved staircase decorated the middle of the mansion. He didn’t have time to find the servant’s entrance to the basement and his size would hinder him anyway.
Mustering enough stealth to not clod down each stair, he descended.
A male’s muffled voice carried to him. “Rancor, she knows more.”
“She can tell me after,” another male snarled.
“I really do know more.” His demon’s voice held a slight tremble of desperation. “You can even use your bracelet and order it out of me.”
A shot of fear raced through him. She didn’t know anything, other than his ancestry, and he’d just outed himself to his crew. What would the demons do with him? Make him pack up and move to the underworld?
He would invite Rancor to drag him away.
And what did she mean “bracelet”? He’d never seen her wear jewelry.
“Here’s my order. Strip.”
No thought. He sprinted down the hall and crashed through the door the voices came from.
During his rush, he managed to get a gun in his right hand and a knife in his left. His brief assessment after entering encouraged mass amounts of rage.
Through the chaos of an irate vampire baring his fangs, two second-tier demons jumping him, and a young human sauntering out of the fray, he spotted Fyra on her knees, shrugging out of a shredded top. The look in her eyes: pure panic.
Bishop bellowed and emptied his clip into the prime male that must host Rancor. The male toppled, blood leaking from all the wounds. He struggled to rise but was quickly growing too weak.
Fyra gasped, but didn’t scream. Then she disappeared.
The two second-tiers were no match for him, not on any of their good days, definitely not on a day where Bishop was fueled by fury. He pistol-whipped one in the face. The gun cracked as hard as the female’s skull and she fell limp. Bishop’s cold had frozen the metal. The other male grabbed Bishop from behind, then hissed and pulled back, his hands white from frostbite.
Bishop planted a blade in the man’s chest. The handle busted apart, but the blade was neatly buried. Bishop dropped him and left him to die.
He holstered the empty weapon and obtained another fully loaded handgun. A minor concern that it wouldn’t work in his cold hand didn’t stop him from advancing on the third demon-possessed human.
Bishop spared a glance at Rancor as he passed, the corner of his mouth kicking up as the vampire gaped like a guppy stranded on land. Beheading him would send Rancor back to the underworld, where he’d find a way to come back in a different host. Bishop plugged a couple more shots into him to ensure there was no jumping up for a surprise attack.
The human’s mouth also twitched as he surveyed the scene. One fallen vampire, and two felled second-tiers, none of them dead, just inconveniently incapacitated.
The human raised his hands. “You’ll have to excuse me. I chose a piss-poor host to fight a goliath vampire.”
“Where is she?” Bishop’s voice shook the walls. He couldn’t put his gun to the human’s head, not one who was barely an adult. As far as Bishop knew, the young man had volunteered as host, but demons were tricky bastards and the boy could be an innocent.
The man looked around, his gaze landing on Rancor. His features tightened. “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t assist you.”
No hostility projected off the demon in the man. He didn’t outright despise Bishop like the others in the room.
Bishop checked the Godet male over his shoulder. Rancor’s black eyes were glaring at them. He was the reason the second-tier demon wasn’t talking.
Bishop towered over the human, blocking out Rancor. “Where. Is. She.”
The man’s black eyes flicked down and back up to meet Bishop’s.
Bishop narrowed his eyes but couldn’t help looking down for a split-second. When he glanced back up, the human’s head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.
“You do understand that I can’t tell you.” The man’s voice was steady, but the hard expression on his face was too mature for the young man. Too full of hate, but not for Bishop.
There was something…familiar about this demon. He was here, so Bishop assumed he had something to do with Fyra’s abduction. Yet…the text, and to Zoey’s phone. Someone had helped her and he only knew one demon who would.
“You didn’t pick the best host,” Bishop growled.
The demon he suspected was Stryke gave a casual shrug. “Human hosts are harder to come by after you killed the brokers.”
Bishop’s head canted. Stryke had murdered the brokers. And he wasn’t admitting it in front of Rancor and the other two minions, who were writhing in pain in their hosts.
“Take me to her,” Bishop breathed so the others couldn’t hear.
“No can do, vampire. Kill my host, whatever, but I’m not helping you.” His black gaze flicked to the writhing vampires and back.
Another message. And Bishop understood. He shoved the man into the wall, nailing his head with a loud crack. With an oomph, Stryke slid down the wall with a groan.
Bishop stalked to the host with the blade in his chest. He needed to die. The host’s eyes flared in fear and Bishop felt no remorse for someone who invited evil into his body.
Bishop aimed and fired. He waited.
The yawning chasm that sucked the demon back down to where he belonged moaned open. A rush of air surrounded him, like being inside a seashell, and he let it.
What came next compared to flashing only in the instant he was transported. But the sensation of being crushed and suffocated was unlike any flashing experience he’d had.
In seconds, he appeared in a fetid-smelling environment. Heat and putrid air cloaked him. What was worse, breathing through his nose or mouth? He licked his lips and instantly regretted it. Ack, he could taste the air. If he shrank the city dump into a cube and put it into an oven set at three-fifty, then stuck his head inside, it’d still be better than where he stood. He was surrounded by stone and dirt, the only light flickering from sconces anchored to the walls. He squinted at the closest one. Bone sconces.
A humanoid demon spun on him. Bishop flinched. He hadn’t noticed anyone around him, too stunned by the new place. The male’s inky eyes were wide in shock. He was the one Bishop had shanked to get here. His bared fangs rivaled Bishop’s own and he raised his claws to strike.
Bishop slid a knife out of his belt, grateful everything attached had accompanied him and hadn’t been stripped off during the trip. “I’ve seen human manicures longer than those nails.”
The insult was enough to make the demon lash out in anger—and with less control. Bishop batted away his hand and pulled him into a bear hug. Wrapping one hand around his face, Bishop used the other to spin the body. The neck cracked and the demon went limp.
Bishop dropped the body and stared. The male was nude, but resembled a plucked chicken more than a robust demon. Would he heal? Should Bishop decapitate him? Burn him? If he healed, he’d sound the alarm that a vampire had infiltrated the realm.
Bishop (New Vampire Disorder Book 3) Page 14
