“What’d I miss?” Calli breezed into the room. Her hair streamed behind her as bright as an indoor sunlamp. Ophelia jerked out of her trance and busied herself rinsing the blood off her arm in the infirmary’s utilitarian sink. She hadn’t been staring at him, had she?
Thank darkness Calli was nothing but vampire or Antonia might’ve fainted. And from the concerned way Bastian hovered over the girl, he might not have dealt with someone like Bishop well.
Bishop had concealed his demonic nature his entire life, mostly because he hadn’t known about it. Since he’d mated with Fyra, though, he’d done the equivalent of developing a beer gut and wearing wife-beaters. He didn’t really hide that icy part of himself anymore, often indulging in his underworld powers. He had to, with a mate like Fyra.
Fyra filled Calli in, then pointed at Antonia. “She was on the verge of a panic attack. The girl, not Ophelia.”
Calli’s mouth quirked as she struggled to retain her regal composure around Fyra. Bastian would feel more comfortable dealing with Calli, who was prime breeding at its best.
Ophelia had seen enough. She held out the slip of paper. “I think they were trying to turn her into a host.”
Calli frowned and accepted the sheet. “Will they ever run out of greedy primes to act as hosts?”
“That’d be too easy,” Ophelia replied.
Calli’s frown faded and her mouth dropped open. “They were doing to her what they did to me.”
“Bonding her with a second-tier?”
“Worse. Bonding her with a purebred Circle member.”
Fyra’s sharp inhale echoed through the room. Calli nodded, her eyes wide.
Bastian watched them closely. “What’s a second-tier and what’s a Circle member?”
Calli folded the paper and stuffed it into her jeans pocket. “Life in the underworld is broken into classes, like vampires. The purebreds are the underworld primes, but they’re big and ugly and look like demons. Second-tiers are the mutts of the underworld. The quarter horses, so to speak. They’re more intelligent, more focused, but not as powerful.”
Fyra tapped her head and winked. “I’m a second-tier. Somewhere in my heritage, there’s a vampire. That’s true with most of us second-tier demons.” She leaned forward to whisper, “And several vampires in this realm.”
Antonia covered her mouth. “My parents?”
Sympathy crossed Calli’s face. “They’re probably full-blooded vampires working with or for the underworld. They put you up to it?” Calli’s parents had done the same thing—only when Calli had been much younger, and they’d succeeded where the Gastons had failed.
Ophelia’s parents hadn’t dabbled in demons. They had no such excuse for their cruelty or their total disregard for the life of their own daughter.
Antonia’s face crumpled, and tears poured down her cheeks. She buried her head in Bastian’s shoulder and sobbed.
Ophelia and the others eyed the move. Awfully familiar for a servant and his employer’s daughter.
Calli was the first to probe. “You two are close?”
Bastian rubbed Antonia’s bony shoulder. “I raised her. No nanny could be enticed to stay for long.”
He didn’t elaborate. Ophelia filled in the blanks. Antonia’s parents were selfish privilege-whores and had ignored their daughter. Bastian had swooped in with his heart of gold to keep the girl from becoming a mini-mama.
Here’s hoping he got to her in time. And that his heart wasn’t really fool’s gold.
Ophelia exchanged a look with Calli. Yeah, she’d come to the same conclusion, too. Gotta love prime upbringing.
“You interrupted the ceremony and got out alive with Antonia,” Calli said. “Tell us about it.”
“There was this…beast.” Bastian’s eyes clouded with terror. “And the smell of sulfur.”
“Brimstone,” Fyra interjected.
He inclined his head. “Yes. The Gastons were there, and another vampire. His eyes were completely black.”
“Possessed,” Calli said.
Bastian’s mouth worked. “How— I guess? I didn’t recognize him.”
“He wasn’t one of us,” Antonia’s muffled voice came from his shoulder.
Spoken like a prime. While the girl was being comforted by the only person in the world to give a shit about her, she still didn’t consider Bastian one of “them.” But the way events were unfolding, who would want to be one of them?
“So a vampire of regular breeding, but possessed by a second-tier,” Ophelia clarified.
“How do you know the demon wasn’t a purebred?” Good. Bastian was tracking all the information. He’d need it to keep the girl safe.
“Regular vamps aren’t strong enough to host a purebred. Primes have stronger blood, can tolerate a little sunlight. And they can host a purebred demon without going up in flames. On the flip side, second-tiers aren’t strong enough to overpower a prime. Being prime does more for us than make us assholes, I guess.”
His ochre eyes flared. Oh yes, she knew that look, too. Look at this prime female, so tiny and therefore so abused by her household, and now she’s mad at the world and compensates for it with vulgarity.
Nothing she hadn’t heard before from everyone else. So why did it bother her so much coming from him?
***
The dichotomy that was Ophelia could become an obsession.
All Bastian’s life, females had been easy to categorize: attainable or unattainable. Common or prime. Madame Gaston had been a picture of fine porcelain beauty, but nothing about her ethereal good looks had been personally alluring or captivating, though he’d heard rumors that she had many willing partners besides Master Gaston. Even if Bastian had been attracted to her, his birth status would have been a total turn-off for her. Prime females were like priceless art: to be gazed at from afar but never touched up close.
But Ophelia. Her shoulders were square, her chin up, and as short as she was, she still managed to look down on those around her. Her prime status was obvious in her stance, if not her smell. If he’d been an ignorant fool and missed the first two indicators, the power of her blood would’ve knocked him on his ass if he hadn’t already been planted on it.
Sultry, salty, with a hint of sweetness, her rich life had flowed into him. And my vein isn’t some treasured piece of rare jewelry. It’s been shared all over town.
She’d said it as if to shock him, to downplay her healing gift. Primes were very sexual beings. Vampires as a species were hypersexual. But she spoke as if he should be disgusted by her.
His fangs throbbed as anger beat a low rhythm in his skull. Someone had hurt this compact powerhouse. They’d taken the bright life that should be in her expression and stamped it out with their words and actions.
Even now, she glared at him. Her hard, brown stare would skewer a weaker male. He’d never thought of himself in terms of weak or strong. His life had been dedicated to service, a decision that had saved him from the ravages of the streets. He’d taken a job with a notoriously difficult family and held it for over thirty years.
But the male of this one’s choosing would have to be strong. Not physically, but mentally. He would have to be sure of himself—and her—when she raged against what life had dealt her.
And what had life dealt her?
Muscles rounded out her long-sleeved black shirt and the legs of her cargo pants. Her black hair was bound in a French braid. Her dark skin shimmered under the fluorescent lights. His fingers itched to find out if she was as silky as she looked. An obviously bad idea—no one should touch this female without her permission.
Why was he even thinking about the softness of her skin or any other part of her body? It wasn’t his place. She wasn’t someone he was allowed to woo.
Antonia shivered; shock had set in. He tightened his hold around her. Her mother had likely perished, and her father would make her a literal puppet for a demon. It’d been a mentally challenging hour
for her on so many levels.
He licked his lips to speak. His mouth was dry from his body’s rampant healing. And the effort to keep his gaze off the vein his lips had kissed was draining him.
“We think her mother died during our escape. The smell of blood was—”
A sob ripped from Antonia. He hated relaying the story in front of her, but with all she’d been through, the end of her troubles wasn’t here yet.
“We’re both certain she didn’t make it. Her father and the second vampire pursued us, but we busted through a window and flashed.”
Ophelia and Calli exchanged looks.
“Describe the beast,” Calli said. She spoke with the easy authority of her class, yet she had a down-to-earth quality that he never saw in other primes.
The beast. That was an image he’d never scrub from his mind. “Huge. Sharp horns, fangs just as long. He was lanky, but strong enough to rip the manor apart with his bare hands if he wished to. They had a white substance poured around him.”
“Spelled salt.” This from the exotic demon they called Fyra. It couldn’t have been a more appropriate name. She scoffed. “It creates a barrier more like a chain-link fence than a concrete wall.”
Calli nodded. “You’ve said that before, but it’s in the demon tome we found.”
Fyra winked. “I know, right? Demons love a good disinformation campaign. They weave their own work-arounds in a spell so they can slip the leash when it suits them. A salt burn is a minor inconvenience to pay for the freedom to ravage a realm.”
Calli paled. “Then the tome isn’t to be trusted.”
Fyra lifted a shoulder. “It’s more like guidelines, really.”
The weight of the realm was in Calli’s expression. Perhaps literally, since Bastian had heard rumors about Demetrius and his demon-fighting team. Was this Demetrius’s mate?
“Can you pinpoint the demon?” Ophelia’s boot tapped the sterile floor. Was she getting impatient? “I want to hunt down the possessed vampire that helped with this scheme and gut him slowly, make him heal himself, and put it on repeat until he spills the story—and his intestines.”
“I like how you think.” An approving gleam lit Fyra’s already vibrant eyes. “You said he glowed. That would be Willistien. I thought he was a dunce myself, but even I forget how cunning purebreds can be.”
Calli nodded. “And the second-tier that possessed the vampire was probably Willistien’s personal guard. We need to find that vampire.”
“I know what he looks like.” Bastian never would’ve thought he’d be the male offering to hunt another vampire. He wasn’t a fighter, and that was okay with him. But this vampire had targeted Antonia, hunted a child, for his own morbid bidding. “But why Antonia?”
Ophelia’s lips pursed together a moment before she answered. “Because she’s young. They think they can manipulate her, and that she wouldn’t know any better. Prime parents are especially good at using their kids’ inappropriately placed adoration for their own gains.”
So. That was who had crushed Ophelia’s spirit.
Antonia straightened beside him, wiping her eyes. She must be in bad shape if she was willing to look so disheveled in front of strangers, especially other primes. “But my parents wouldn’t do that to me. It was that other vampire. He must’ve tricked them.”
He exchanged a look with Ophelia. Antonia had been through so much tonight; he wasn’t going to shatter the rest of the world she was clinging to.
Ophelia had no such hesitation. “Who gave you the script to read?”
“M-mother.”
“Who told you to go to the library with the demon suitor?” Ophelia asked, her tone firm.
“Father.” Antonia tensed. “But that male, he tricked them into it.”
Ophelia didn’t let up. “Who were the primes in the room?”
The girl’s lips formed a petulant line.
“Exactly. Your parents are primes. Rich, powerful, top-shelf primes. Do you think they would allow themselves to be tricked by a vampire of lesser breeding?”
Her gaze dropped to the floor. “But…”
Ophelia sighed and crossed her arms. She turned to Calli. “Tell D I’m going to hunt for Gaston.”
“Ooh, I’ll go with.” Fyra had her phone out, thumbs dancing across its surface.
Ophelia shook her head. “You need to stay on duty here. We have Calli and now Antonia and Bastian to protect.”
Bastian straightened. “I’m going as well.”
He’d never made demands of a prime before. But then he’d never chucked a phone at a demon’s head and squirreled away the daughter of a prime family before either.
“Oh, you’re a trained fighter?” Ophelia’s brow arched.
Bastian met her stare but refused to answer. His lack of fighting skills must be obvious.
“And how many guns do you have on you? Wooden stakes? Knives. A fucking can of pepper spray? Let me guess, not even a rape whistle?”
No, he’d never needed any one of those before. Except for knives, and that was to prepare food.
“Ophelia,” Calli chided. “I don’t think it’s a bad idea. He not only knows what the other male looks like, but he’s been with the Gastons for…”
“Thirty-two years,” he answered.
“He knows them. Where they go, who they do business with, who else is in their social circle.”
He inclined his head and hoped they didn’t detect his dismay. The Gastons were intensely private and rarely included Bastian in their personal dealings. He managed the manor’s bills, prepared food, did the laundry, and repaired as much as he could without hiring a stranger to visit the manor. But he wasn’t going to reject the help Calli was giving him.
“Fine.” Nothing about Ophelia’s body language said it was fine. “It’s too close to daylight to leave now. We’ll go at sunset. In the meantime, I’ll find him some weapons. You find him some clean clothes, and we can get moving as soon as the sun sets. Fyra, ask Betty to get Antonia a room and watch her. If she has a phone, confiscate it. We’ll get them each a burner.”
Antonia opened her mouth to argue, but at Ophelia’s fierce look, she shut it.
Bastian stood. Calli beckoned him to go with her, and he followed. Ophelia was close behind him, her wildflower scent clouding his senses.
Chapter Three
The next night, Ophelia seethed as she stepped outside with Bastian. The idea of having him accompany her was a good one, solid, but it raised all her defenses. She was better on her own. Stealthier. She could sneak in and out, mingle with either class of vampire, and garner information.
It didn’t help that there was one place she should go. A one-stop shop for all juicy gossip. She wasn’t the most welcome there, though. Not after having been on the arm of Nadair, nor after Rourke had ashed one of their clientele. But Ophelia had worked hard to distance herself from her team so others would open up to her, and she had a long history at Sharpe’s Point. She’d get someone to talk. One way or another.
Now how would she do that with Bastian? The male screamed “good guy.” There was no way he could enter a place like that and be taken seriously. She could just imagine his expression when she told him to wait at the bar while she sauntered into the back rooms with another male for a quick—or not so quick—interrogation, Sharpe’s Point style.
Her gut churned at the thought. Lately, she’d had zero interest in visiting the club. Even before Nadair’s sacrifice on her behalf, she’d settled in with him and turned into a homebody.
Nadair hadn’t settled in with just her, of course, though that was a different story. She hadn’t strayed, but no one else had piqued her interest or any other part of her body.
Not until she’d fed Bastian. She wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable reprimand in his eye when he got a gander at her tactics.
A dull throb settled at her temples. She’d just have to exhaust all other avenues before they tried Sharp
e’s.
“Where to first?” Bastian’s deep rumble was something a girl could obsess about. And he’d clearly healed well with some rest.
He’d swapped his wreck of a servant’s uniform for a pair of Demetrius’s black tactical pants, black boots, and a long-sleeved shirt like hers. When Calli had mentioned they were her mate’s duds, and that her mate was the Demetrius Devereux, Bastian had looked like he’d prefer to go nude instead. But if there was one thing she’d learned about him already, it was that he was adaptable.
That didn’t mean he approved of the weapons he’d been outfitted with. Not that she’d given him much—only enough to save himself, not make him dangerous to her if he started firing.
She had run through the basics with him about using the sidearms he was packing. He’d listened closely, asked a few questions, and seemed respectful of the gear. She tried to forget the downturn of his mouth when she’d showed him how to use them and what each was designed to do.
“We go back to the scene of the crime.” Bastian would have to flash them there, since she’d never been to the Gaston manor before. “Flash us to a spot away from any entrances, somewhere concealed in case anyone’s still around.”
She’d rather drive. They could. The compound was stocked with vehicles, mostly black SUVs she needed a ladder to climb up into. She preferred her car, but flashing would use up less darkness.
She hooked her arm around Bastian’s bicep. Damn, it was solid. All that gilded-tray carrying and tea pouring must do a body good. She clenched her jaw. Her high and mightiness snuck out at the worst times. She hated the line between primes and commoners, yet it was a part of her. No matter how much self-improvement she did, her brain defaulted to privileged snark as a form of protection.
Bastian didn’t tense like she’d expected, but leading prime females around was literally part of his job description. So maybe she was goading him a little, but he schooled his features like the professional he was.
He flashed them into a copse of bushes. He crouched immediately, but she glanced around. The brown tangle of limbs rose above her another inch or two, and with her dark clothing, she was camouflaged well enough.
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