Stifling a groan as he recalled his apish behavior, he pressed a kiss on her sleeping head, silently asking for forgiveness for his rampant, boorish nature. He unfolded his arm and pulled her closer to him. Her soft breaths fanned his skin, the even pattern bringing him a peace he had only ever dreamed of.
Here, draped naked and sated across his chest, was the key to his freedom. A chance at a normal life, a chance at a normal death. So much of his life had been spent in battle, death only a fleeting possibility, that the true inevitability began to give him pause. Did he want to die?
Not really, but how much longer could he do this job before he clawed his own brain out? Centuries of warfare and bloodshed, and for what? Men were still as cruel to one another as they had been back in his youth. The only twist was the weapons he chose. Where once blades were the order of the day, now lives could be ended with the push of a button. The world had both grown and shrunk, thanks to technology which allowed people to hate other people halfway across the globe.
A muffled sigh from his sleeping bundle yanked his head from his dark musings. Mumbling incoherently, she snuggled deeper into his embrace and stilled. He watched over her until she settled back into slumber.
There was so much he needed to tell her, so much she needed to know before he could ask her to accept all of him. Words had never been his strong suit, but he was going to need to man up and soon. He had unleashed destiny and if he lagged, he would not only lose her, but his soul as well. Tattered and shredded though it may be, it was still his, and the only person he entrusted that broken spirit to was currently nestled close to his heart.
The floorboards outside creaked the instant before the door swung silently inward. Shielding his eyes from the encroaching light, he glared at the tall silhouette.
“Bastian. We have to talk.”
Every Guardian was able to communicate telepathically with one another and with those humans sensitive to thoughts. Conduits, those who could control and manipulate the thoughts of others, were rarer now more than ever, but rumor had it that some of his brethren had found spiritmates from within their shrinking numbers. Channelers, like Viktor, were more common, the influx attributed to the web and Penn & Teller. After all, who didn’t love a good magician?
His strand in the Triumvirate, the Marshals, were the most elusive of all, not to mention the specialty he possessed as a Catenate.
So much information swirled around in his mind, so many things he needed to tell her, he almost lost track of Viktor’s message.
He narrowed his gaze but slipped from the comforting warmth of his angel’s embrace. Her hands fumbled, fingertips brushing his skin as he climbed free from the entangling sheets.
“No, Bastian. Don’t go.”
He recalled a similar request from her drowsy lips only a couple nights ago. A sad smile touched his lips as he leaned over, breathing his response against her damp hair.
“Rest, tesorina. I won’t be far.”
She curled up, digging her head against the pillow. “Why are you always leaving me?”
He froze, his eyes flashing wide as her sleepy condemnation pierced his heart. He whispered roughly, his lips hovering a cat’s whisker above her ear. “You are my life, Miranda. I will always come for you.”
He stroked her bare shoulder as a single tear trailed from her closed eyes. Kissing away the salty drop, he tucked the blankets around her and rose to his full height. Angry strides ate up the floor between the bed and the shadowy door. He tried to shove his way past Viktor only to be stopped by his friend’s outstretched arm and the pair of lounge pants hanging from his hand.
Great. That must mean Miranda’s brother was awake and sure to be neck-deep in some new trouble. Grumbling, he yanked on the muted flannel pants and dressed as he headed down the hallway.
“You’d better have coffee for this conversation.”
The aroma of the strong special blend of French Roast and Kona filled the air and he made a beeline for the steaming pot. One foot into the kitchen and the temperature chilled, his gaze icy as he lifted his hand, stopping Miranda’s brother in his tracks. Large mug in hand, he poured out a full measure of the thick, black, brain-starting fluid, his thoughts his own as he took the first sip.
“Trust me on this, kid,” Viktor said. “If you want to keep your body parts attached, let him get at least half way through the first cup before talking.” Viktor smirked as Bastian lifted his wrathful gaze. “I think I learned that lesson during the first Huguenot War.”
Bastian arched an eyebrow, sneering over the lip of his mug. “Who says you ever learned that lesson, stronzo?”
Viktor laughed, patting him on the shoulder as he retrieved his own mug. “Oh, you love me and you know it, Bas. Besides, if you didn’t kill me after that fiasco at the 1801 World’s Fair, I must be safe.” He took a drink before adding with an impish grin, “Bas, you are the only person I know who isn’t in a better mood after getting laid.”
Bastian growled, rolling his eyes as he shook his head sadly at his friend’s attempt at levity. With the high degree of playful banter from Viktor, Bastian had a good idea that this conversation was going to be a complete cluster fuck.
“Huh? Huguenot War?” Kyle sputtered from his seat at the black marbled counter. One eye was still swollen shut and the bruising on his cheek had moved from bright red to a sickly purple, but his one working eye was wide with surprise. “You guys are kidding, right?”
Bastian swung his narrowed gaze toward the gaping young man. “What, about him being an asshole and nearly toppling the Arc de Triomphe before it was built?”
Viktor grinned broadly. “Or about him not owning a sense of humor? C’mon. It worked in Pisa so I figured why not.”
Kyle shook his head incredulously. “This has gotta be a joke. You’re pulling my leg.”
Bastian sobered up, glaring at naïve innocence reflected at him in the male version of his angel’s face. “This is no joke.” He set down his mug and folded his arms across his chest before shifting his attention to Viktor. “So what was so important for you to drag me from such sweet company?”
Viktor gestured grandly toward the slack-jawed expression staring at him. “Oh, I will let him fill you in on the gory details.”
Kyle blanched, swiveling his gaze between Viktor and Bastian. “Me?” he squeaked and snapped his head back to Viktor. “But you said you’d tell him.”
The temperature of the room crept upward degree by degree the longer Bastian waited in impatient silence, his lethal stare slinking between the other two occupants.
“Wow. Some Guardian you’d make, kid.” Viktor sighed and met Bastian’s hard eyes. “Seems that not only does Boy Genius here owe nearly fifty big ones to Slick Sal,” he paused, letting that nugget sink in. “He also signed a Rogue soul contract, but…”
His voice trailed off, and Bastian’s blood turned to ice.
“But what?”
Viktor moved to stand closer and he countered back only to bump his shoulders against the fridge. He swatted away his friend’s outstretched hand, fending off the lure of his Channeler’s soothing skills. The dance was short lived as Viktor’s fingers dug into his neck and he leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together.
“I’m sorry, lillebror. He didn’t realize it wasn’t his name on the dotted line.”
Bastian roared in impotent rage. Channeler manipulation or not, his fury was beyond containing. He lurched toward, snarling as he lunged for the source of this new wrinkle. Viktor’s feet skidded on the tile, his shoulder driving into Bastian’s chest in an effort to hold him back. Kyle scrambled away, the chair clattering on the pale wood floor, pathetic apologies flying from his lips as he continued to scoot out of arm’s reach.
“Bastian. Focus,” Viktor grunted, his face pinched as he struggled with the rampaging warrior. With a growl, Bastian turned his red-tinged gaze to his only friend. “You need to be the Guardian now, not the assassin. You lose this, you lose not only her, but you, f
or good.”
“I want blood,” he snarled.
“And you will have it, Sebastiani,” Viktor said calmly, using that tone reserved for frightened children and wild animals. “But from those who truly deserve it to be spilled.”
Sal. Pieter’s goons. And anything else that dared to stand between him and his spiritmate.
The silence was comforting as it lengthened, only the sound of his ragged breathing punctuated the bright room. Viktor’s Channeler skills were at full power, and for the first time, Bastian was grateful for the added calm. His friend was right. He needed to have a level head, but his desire for vengeance and wrath were a temptation he almost did not want to pass up.
“You with me, lillebror?”
Bastian took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, shoving past the veil of anger. He retreated a step and nodded. “What’s our time window?”
Viktor held Bastian’s gaze a moment longer before releasing the firm grip on his shoulder. “Not long. Maybe a solid two hours before the contract comes due.”
The house shrunk, the walls closing in as Bastian’s eyes widened with fury. A tic began under his right eye.
“And you let me sleep?”
Viktor stared at him. “Oh, yeah. Because interrupting you would have been such a fabulous idea.” The sarcasm clung to each word like a blanket. “C’mon, Bas. Give me a little credit.”
Bastian paced around the kitchen, forcing his feet to remain in the room and not follow the path his heart desired. His angel was in danger, and he wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms and vanish. But if her dumbass brother had indeed signed her soul over in a Rogue contract, there was no corner of the world far enough to hide away. He flexed and tensed his arms, his hands tingling at the strong drive to hurt something. His gaze slid to the cause of his whole mess, who sat in smart silence with his back wedged in the relative safety of the breakfast nook. At least the kid has the decency to look petrified.
He remembered the easy smile and blindered innocence of the youth in Miranda’s apartment. Obviously, Kyle had never been held responsible for any of his life choices. Now, the choice the kid made might condemn the only person who ever gave a shit about him.
A pair of blue eyes blinked at him, helplessness and terror lacing his gaze.
“I didn’t know, I—”
Bastian growled low in his throat. “Maybe it’s time you opened your eyes, boy. Man up and fucking do something.”
He held the young man’s gaze, hoping to see some glimmer of maturity. Instead, Kyle looked away, embarrassment lining his weary face. Bastian shook his head and returned to his circular path.
“All right,” Viktor chimed in, cutting through the tension with surgical precision. “So the money isn’t a problem.”
“The bank might question a large cash withdrawal,” Bastian added. Granted, after living for seven centuries, it wasn’t as if he were a pauper. Since their long life spans made living in one place for more fifty years problematic, domiciles changed a couple times a century. But thank God for the Swiss. European banks were used to dealing with old accounts passed down through generations, so keeping money had never been an issue.
“Just have a wire transfer and call it a day. Most places won’t blink an eye if it’s done that way.”
True, especially in such a place as Chicago, where a three-bedroom condo in downtown can go for an easy million. Bastian would have preferred to live in a more rural setting, but long ago Viktor made a very good point. Metropolitans were oblivious places. With so many people crammed into one space, it was easy to miss a face here or there. Yet, if he had had his wish and lived quietly in the countryside, he ran a greater risk of being outted by an unknowing neighbor.
Small towns, big mouths.
Nodding sharply, he headed to the computer in the next room. The naked dancing ladies parading across the flat face of Viktor’s iMac vanished as Bastian began the transaction. His fingers flew over the keys and he forced his gaze to avoid the clock on the bottom corner of the screen.
“Uh. I’m gonna go check on Miranda,” Kyle murmured sheepishly. Bastian kept his attentions on the task at hand and ignored him completely. He would rather have wrung the dumb kid’s neck, but nothing good would come of that. Aside from a much-needed stress relief. Footfalls shuffled down the hall and faded into nothing, leaving only the sound of Bastian’s fingers angrily tapping at the keyboard.
The aroma of fresh coffee wafted up from his left and a full mug appeared on the corner of the desk.
“You know, Bas, you could cut the kid some slack.”
Bastian paused, contemplating his friend’s simple statement. It was true. He could give Kyle a break. He could say it was an honest mistake.
He might even think about forgiving him.
But he had put the life of another before his own. Not only that, but it was the life of his own sister.
Even if Miranda was not Bastian’s spiritmate, he would have a hard time ever respecting a male who threw a female to the wolves to save his own skin.
He resumed typing, refusing to look away from the flickering screen. “He jeopardized the life of his sister.”
“Would you have cared as much if it were any other female?”
Bastian gritted his teeth, holding back the rising growl. Movement caught the corner of his eye and he instinctively leaned away from Viktor’s approaching hand.
“He still should have known better than to endanger family.”
Viktor continued to hover as Bastian finalized the necessary funds. He padded the amount, sure that interest would mysteriously be added to the lump sum. His mind spun as he calculated the price of her freedom. He would pay it and gladly. Any amount would be pocket change to ensure her happiness.
Not to mention the completion of his long years of service.
The hairs on the back of his neck bristled and he hit “Enter.” He drummed his fingertips along the keys and stared at the now blank screen. With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“If you’re hoping for some chick flick moment, you are going to be sorely disappointed.”
Viktor barked out half a laugh, shoving Bastian’s arm. “Damn, lillebror. You can be such an ass.”
Bastian shook his head slowly, smirking as he rose from the computer. “Yeah, and?”
He flinched, Viktor’s hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Leveling his gaze, he looked at the man he’d called brother for more than five centuries. The staring contest lasted only a heartbeat until an impish grin twinkled in the oceanic eyes before him.
“She’s good for you, Bas. I am truly happy for you.”
Bastian narrowed his eyes, the rebuttal frozen on his tongue. When the words finally came, he was surprised by their blatant honesty. “She deserves more than I can offer her. She deserves better.”
“Bastian, you are not the killer when she is with you. She brings out a part of you I think even you forgot existed.” Bastian waited for the aggravating effects of Viktor’s skills to make themselves known, but there was nothing. No emotional manipulation or forced comfort. Only two friends speaking unencumbered and plainly. “I know you never wanted this life. But here is your chance to be free, brother, and to live out the rest of your days in peace with your spiritmate.”
He still balked at the possibility of a quiet life. He couldn’t deny that since waking that night all those centuries ago, his world turned upside down, he wished for a way to escape his fate. Yet could he really just give it up? Could he stop being a Guardian?
Viktor frowned and looked over Bastian’s shoulder. He spun around and caught the unmistakable stench of panic a heartbeat before he spied Kyle’s ashen face.
“She’s gone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Tears coursed down Miranda’s cheeks as she put one foot before the other. She struggled to stop her body from following its current course, but each time she tried to deviate from her path, pain splintered her mind and nearly drove her to he
r knees.
Not long after Bastian disappeared once again, leaving her in an empty bed, the murmuring voices began. At first, she thought it was noise from a TV or radio from another room. But the staticky buzz between her ears told a much different story. No words were clear, only a driving pull yanking her out of the comfort of the cooling sheets. Invisible strings tugged her limbs into wooden motion as she slipped on random found clothes and stepped into ill-fitting shoes. Her feet swam in his mammoth boots but she couldn’t locate her own footwear.
Stumbling through the snow-slicked streets, her heart ached with each advancing step. Whatever malevolent force was driving her toward her terrifying destination had also cloaked her presence from the bustling throng of midday travelers. Try as she may, she couldn’t get anyone’s attention. Her voice locked in her throat while her arms refused to obey her command when someone drew near enough to touch.
Somehow, she moved unhindered. A virtual ghost in broad daylight.
Her mind screamed out for Bastian, but her sorrowful cries were lost in the yowling winds that whipped her thoughts about. Gone was his warm and comforting presence. She was alone.
And she knew exactly where was going.
Please, God. No. Bastian! Where are you?
Her tears cut icy furrows into her cheeks as her march continued. The doors to Francciolli’s gaped open, the maw of Hell waiting patiently for her arrival, carpeted red tongue flopped out onto the dingy gray snow as she drew near.
She shook, an innocent leaf caught in an evil maelstrom. She continued to fight, hoping to regain some control of her own body as her feet shuffled closer to the busy intersection. Never in her life had she prayed for a reckless driver, but she truly believed death might be the only way out of this mess.
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