“Why didn’t you take us to the trees instead?” she asked, pointing to the leafy perimeter that surrounded the place.
Her heart thumped at his intense gaze. “I didn’t think of them. I apologize.”
It would’ve been her first thought, but she’d been outwitting primes, overthrowing her government, and basically sneaking around a long time.
“Does this place have a security system?” It did, but she had to find out what he knew. She’d already clocked a camera at each corner. What kind of alarms were on the doors? Windows?
“Ah…yes.” His frustration was apparent. Another thing he hadn’t thought of. His naivety was almost refreshing. Not everyone thought like someone was out to kill them. “They hire out for it. I found and scheduled everything, and I keep up the maintenance.”
“We need to disable it.”
“What if someone’s home? They’re often out all night and day partying, but I can’t see Master Gaston rushing to someone’s place and asking for refuge.”
“He could’ve gone to a commoner’s place.”
“Not Master Gaston.”
“A mistress then?”
Bastian’s brow scrunched. “They had their dalliances, from what I’ve heard, but he wouldn’t have gotten emotionally close to another female. He and the madam were true mates.”
Her chest constricted. Like she wanted to jump at him and say, yes, please. I’m a true mate. As if she ever could be. “Master Gaston sounds like a pawn, and pawns don’t have the power, but he should lead us to those that do. So if he is home, I might have to question him. With force. When I’m satisfied, I’m going to execute him. Is that going to be a problem for you?”
She gave him time to answer, and he needed it. He continued to squat, the top of his head even with her abdomen. Yet he made no inappropriate moves, his expression neutral.
“I’m out of a job already,” he finally said. “Telling Antonia she lost another parent would be my only concern. But I fear for her safety while his cold heart still beats.”
The hard glint in his eyes was familiar. It was the same one her team got while hunting a target. Bastian was adaptable indeed. He might abhor violence, but he wouldn’t stop her from getting her hands dirty. The glint dissipated as if it was dawning on him that his hands might get dirty.
Nope. He wouldn’t be stooping to her level.
“What’s your last name, if I may?” he asked. His chestnut hair was slicked back like a servant of days long past. More like her day than his. The servants of her day resembled the cast of Downton Abbey. Bastian had arrived dressed much like one of them, too.
“LeFevre. Ophelia LeFevre.” She watched his reaction for any sign of recognition. Assuming he’d started with the Gastons as his first house, he’d be about half her age.
“LeFevre. I’ve heard the name but not much else.”
“They’re like the Gastons, minus any urge to give a shit about anyone besides themselves.”
“I’m sorry.”
She wasn’t prepared for an apology. No one had apologized to her for her upbringing. “We’re wasting moonlight,” she snapped, turning to the manor’s brick exterior. “Where are the controls for the security system?”
Solid windows dotted the facade, heavy drapes pulled close behind every one. They could sneak through the servants’ quarters and—
“I almost forgot. I had to download an app to control the blasted thing.” Bastian held up the loaner phone they’d given him. “Can I download the app and log in?”
“By all means.” She waited and glowered at the manor.
He chuckled softly and tapped on the screen. “There. Disabled. The benefits of living with a teenager.”
One hurdle down. “Where’s the window you busted through to escape?”
***
“The window is the first one around the corner, on the ground floor,” he whispered.
Bastian crept behind Ophelia as she rounded the manor. He used every ounce of effort to tread as soundlessly as she did through the snowy perimeter. No effort showed on her face. They could be out for a Sunday stroll.
Except no weekend walk would have the view he was trying to ignore. Her rounded hips were accentuated by her weapons belt, the coiled strength of her body evident as her defined muscles filled out her clothing. Her work uniform was…appealing.
There’d been a glimpse of vulnerability when they’d talked. And he had a feeling she’d cut his tongue out if he mentioned it. He felt no smugness at the knowledge, just a deep humility. Undoubtedly, it was a side of herself she showed no one.
Using all his senses, he detected no one home, but the main living quarters were underground. Although it was night, and Master Gaston might’ve continued his search for his daughter.
Had they gotten any money for the girl, or was it just greed for power? Had they been stupid enough to think they’d harness the strength of the demon through Antonia?
Being a servant didn’t mean he had no personal life. He was friendly with other household staff, though he often missed the parties and the accompanying opportunities to catch up with others in service. But his position was a solitary one. After the former government had failed and lost its ability to funnel illegal funds to those who did them favors, the Gastons’ finances had nose-dived. The other help had been let go to scramble for whatever meager night jobs they could find—or had fled in delight at the offerings of a new world, in the case of the younger ones. Bastian had stayed on. He had no lover, no other family, and by then, he’d dedicated his time to raising Antonia.
How could parents do that to a child? He would gladly give his life for Antonia, and she wasn’t even of his blood.
Ophelia flagged him forward. She pointed to the window, to herself, then to him. He nodded and waited for her to grab the windowsill and swing herself up.
She didn’t swing. She leapt and landed firmly on the sill. Broken glass crunched beneath her massive boots, but she launched herself inside without stopping. He didn’t even hear her land.
He attempted the same thing, and only pride kept him from rolling back on the grass. The glass had been cleared out, probably by his and Antonia’s pursuers.
He stumbled in the rest of the way. His boots slammed to the floor, but he righted himself before he could make more of a racket than he had already.
Ophelia glared at him and he nodded, not sure what he was agreeing to or if he was just promising to do better next time.
The faint trail of brimstone led her right to the lowest level and to the room the demon had been summoned in. The rest of the house was quiet. If Master Gaston was home, he was sleeping or reading and likely in his quarters, which was the next level up and on the other side of the building.
She ignored him as she paced the space, studying the bookshelves and riffling through the desk. Stuffing a few papers in her pocket, she made her way to the remnants of salt.
Spelled salt. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he hadn’t known such a thing existed.
Eyes narrowed, she circled the salt. Her nostrils flared, scenting the demon and the vampires who’d been involved.
He could watch her work all night. She was different from any other female of his kind. Captivating, competent, with fierce intelligence brewing behind those brown eyes of hers. Her work was unlike anything he’d been exposed to.
He shook himself. At what point did watching become creepy? He could use the excuse that he was staying out of her way, and it’d be a solid one, or he could roam around and see what he could find.
Nothing. That was all he found. The off-limits secret room was boring. The items for the summoning were strewn where they’d been left.
Ophelia planted her hands on her trim hips. “The Gastons did their dirty work elsewhere. Is there another office in the manor?”
He scowled at the interior. “Other than the library, there’s no room I don’t know intimately. I’ve done everything in this
place since your crew demolished our government.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, her mouth set in a hard line.
The corner of his mouth hitched up. “I meant no offense. I give you my thanks on behalf of a great many others, though the coup had no effect on me other than increasing my job security when the staff was let go.”
She considered him. He wasn’t being facetious. There was no anger brewing in his eyes. “Truly? It didn’t affect you?”
“I’ve no one but Antonia, and in truth, it was best for her also. I feared losing my battle to keep her from turning into her mother.” He tracked the perimeter of the room. “They were often gone, so perhaps they did indeed work somewhere else. But…” He frowned at the wall of bookcases.
“But?”
She might think him crazy. “I rarely had to vacuum the stairs down to this level more than once a month, and I never ventured past the landing, much less into the library. But there’s nothing but books here, and I can’t imagine anything that would interest the Gastons less than reading. Something drew them to this room and it’s got to still be in here.”
“Secret passages then.” Okay, she wouldn’t think his notion ridiculous. “Primes lack imagination. Look for a book that’s different from the rest and try yanking on it like a lever. If that doesn’t work, try fireplace pokers and wall sconces. If you’ve seen it in a bad horror flick, try it. If all else fails, we’ll knock on the walls until we find some hidden panels.”
They combed the room. He located a suspicious book first. Before pulling on it, he pulled back the carpet in front of the bookshelf. Underneath, smooth arcs the length of the shelf had been scraped into the hardwood’s finish.
Ophelia drew her gun and aimed at the bookshelf. She nodded to him.
One tug on the book and the entire case swung out, revealing a small, dark room on the other side. Two plush chairs sat in front of an old-fashioned desk. A laptop rested on the burled surface. The room was otherwise empty.
“That was anticlimactic,” Ophelia muttered and stepped past him. He moved to follow, a click barely registering.
“Shit!” She slammed back into him.
“Wha—”
The force of her flung them both backward, knocking him over a millisecond before an explosion rocked the room.
Dust and bits of rock rained down on them. He coughed and spit out debris. His ears rang, barely registering the muffled thuds of books hitting the floor.
Ophelia rolled off him, her weight so slight he’d barely noticed her. A shame he’d missed the chance.
And a shame he entertained the thought at such a time.
“Are you all right?” He shouted it, but his own voice was hard to hear.
Ophelia held her hand out, silencing him. She peered into the din. “Don’t move,” she mouthed.
He followed her gaze. What was she looking for? The hidden room had been reduced to rubble. Chunks had been blown out of the walls, and the secret bookcase hung from a hinge. The laptop that had been sitting on the desk was nothing but twisted plastic now, fragments of it littering the floor.
Ophelia snagged his elbow and retreated to the exit as his hearing returned. “There must’ve been a tripwire for anyone who found this place and shouldn’t have,” she said. “We’ll leave the way we came before we get our heads blown off.”
“Now what are we going to do?” They could keep Antonia safe at the compound, but those males were still out there. They’d hunt another young victim if they gave up on her.
“I have one more place in mind. Two, actually. I was hoping we wouldn’t have to go to either of them, but life has a wicked sense of humor. There’s a list I want you to go over, of prime names and businesses they frequent. We’ll see if any ring a bell for where Gaston might be hiding.”
Where you go, I will follow.
An odd thought, but true. He was safest with her. She’d saved him from blood loss, and she’d saved him from the explosion.
She took care of everyone around her. But who took care of her?
Chapter Four
And here she was. Back at Nadair’s.
She unhooked her hand from Bastian’s firm bicep. Like, the dude was really fit. Holding on to him calmed her anxiety at returning to this place.
“Whose manor is this?” Bastian studied the place with a critical eye. He was probably cataloguing the state of disrepair it had fallen into and making a list of tasks to return it to its former glory.
“The Moirés.” Her throat tightened. She stormed to the front door. “Don’t worry. No one should be home. The owner died a few weeks ago.”
Bastian’s stare burned between her shoulder blades. Did he know the name? The Moiré family had been politically active for centuries in the vampire world. Nadair’s father had even served on the former vampire council. He’d been the reason for getting close to Nadair in the first place.
A small price to pay for taking down the council. And if she kept telling herself that…
Her feelings for Nadair had grown all too real until he had used them in a warped power play. After liberated servants had dusted his parents, Nadair clung to her. He told her he needed her until she spent more and more time with him. He built her up with small compliments that had nothing to do with what they did in the bedroom. Her cooking. Her sense of style. Yet he rarely wore what she bought him, and he often ordered out. We have each other. He built her up while methodically breaking her down just like she had his government.
The fucked-up part? She’d known what was going on. Yet like an addict, she’d returned to him over and over again, looking for that emotional fix, the one that made her feel like someone really, truly loved her.
She’d built up mental strength and physical strength, but that emotional shit was best to stay away from.
The door was locked, but a firm shove swung it open. She paused a heartbeat before crossing the threshold.
The inside looked the same. Old World ornate. Just like Nadair had been.
She stepped in, forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other. Dimly aware of Bastian following her, she kept the majority of her attention on finding the office.
It hadn’t been long since the night Nadair had been beheaded. Demetrius hadn’t been able to assign a crew to clean and flip the place for sale yet. With Zoey off the Synod, Demetrius was the only vampire representative available.
Ophelia suspected Demetrius had waited for her to process the loss. Despite all her secrecy, despite her conspicuous absence as she’d lived in this empty monstrosity with a known prime troublemaker, he trusted her implicitly.
As he should. She was nothing without her duty—as long as it was behind the scenes where no one silently judged her—and it was up to her how much she was willing to give.
She took the circular staircase to the lower level, her feet on autopilot. This place was more of a home than the compound. She’d decorated the lower level, her shining example of simple sophistication. Waking up to hardwood on hardwood on marble had grated her nerves. Too much like her childhood home.
“This is…nice.”
She didn’t glance at Bastian, but awe was in his voice. Soft lilac and lavenders pulled the furniture together and tied in with the art she’d chosen. All local artists, photographers who made their pictures look like fine paintings. She’d chosen sunrises.
The rare visitors Nadair entertained had thought she’d picked them because of their array of colors and the way the snow reflected the sun’s hues across the horizon.
Nope. She’d done it to flaunt her ability to see the sunrise, to tolerate almost an hour of the weak rays of morning. Not many primes could sustain that much exposure, but she’d clocked out at fifty-nine minutes and twenty-eight seconds. It had been near the winter solstice when days were shorter and the sun was as its farthest, but still. Helluva feat for a vampire.
Sometimes she wondered why she bothered to go back indoors.
She led Bastian through the lower level to the bedroom. Her heart thumped faster the closer she got to the room. Could Bastian hear it?
Did he wonder why?
She picked over what to explain. “Nadair Moiré was the previous owner. He lost his head a few weeks ago. His parents have passed already, so this place is empty. But Nadair liked to keep his fingers in the blackmail pool. You know, better than getting a job?”
A memory surfaced. Nadair laughing at the club, looking dapper and refined. He’d tapped out a white line and turned to his friend. Don’t mind Ophelia. She tells me I shouldn’t dabble in drugs, but I said if I didn’t indulge in bad habits, I wouldn’t be seeing her.
She hadn’t been able to look at him the rest of the night. She’d left, and he’d slept with someone else. On those nights, she’d told herself she didn’t mind.
Good times. She shoved the recollection in an imaginary garbage can and shoved it over an imaginary cliff.
They reached the bedroom. She sucked in a deep breath and pushed the door open.
More purple. She’d kept it subtle, weaving the hue into the earth tones of the bedding, the rugs, and another picture of the sunset to tie the whole room together. That sunset had been photographed by a very local artist. Her. At the cabin she favored as her secret getaway, a place no one knew about.
And another in-your-face to Nadair. No matter how often he’d slept with others, and no matter how much he’d dismissed her in front of his compatriots, she was still stronger than him. For whatever demented reason she’d picked his bed over others, it was still her choice.
A nod to the days when her choices had been taken away.
Bastian inhaled, frowned, then sniffed again.
She clamped her jaw down so hard her fangs pierced the inside of her lip. She swiped her tongue over the pricks to heal them. It wouldn’t do to have Bastian smell her blood. He already knew her scent; she didn’t want to make it easier for him to realize it was all over the manor.
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