Creed bared his fangs and struck. The man’s cry drowned to a gurgle until he died. Creed withdrew his fangs, let the man drop, and wiped his mouth on his shirt.
“Yuck.” He spit mouthfuls of blood on the body. “Like sucking on a book of matches.”
But Stryke’s blood wasn’t. He had the subtlest tang of brimstone…
Zoey cut off that thought. That male scrambled her brains.
“We might find one more human and Yancy.” Creed crept forward. He’d also drawn a knife. Capturing a prime would take more than fangs.
They wove through hallways. The mansion was dank and lifeless. No wonder Yancy had offered herself up as a host. She must be going bat-shit crazy, alone on this island.
Zoey didn’t know her personally. They’d gone to school around the same time, but the female had always kept to herself. She’d always reminded Zoey of the vampire version of Wednesday Addams. Straight black hair, big eyes, and a creepy vibe a mile wide.
Yancy’s scent grew stronger as they neared the far end of the house. They could find no basement in the place. The lack of light came from blackout shades on every window. A few were raised. The guards must’ve been watching for them.
Creed broke to the left of the closed door at the end of the hall. Zoey took the right.
Loud blasts rocked the walls, and wood from the door fragmented outward. Creed and Zoey ducked while bullets flew overhead.
Zoey grunted as two rounds struck her.
Shit! Fire burned in her thigh and from a long graze over her back.
The scent of Creed’s blood mingled with hers. He’d been hit, too. She crouched lower and caught his eye.
His shook his head to convey that his wounds were minor, nothing to worry about.
Zoey embraced the pain. It warmed her, even as blood leaked out, taking precious electrolytes with it.
The gunfire died down. She and Creed maintained eye contact. She nodded and they both spun toward the door. Little remained for her to kick down. She stomped through, letting the agony in her thigh propel her through the door.
A woman reared up and Zoey flung her knife. It landed with a thunk, buried to the hilt in the woman’s chest. She cartwheeled backward, dropping her machine gun. Zoey didn’t have to keep watching to know that the woman had been dead when she’d hit the floor.
She and Creed spread through the room. Zoey had expected a bedroom, but it was a huge sitting room. Antique, upholstered chairs dotted the floor. It was easy to see that no one hid around the furniture.
Zoey looked toward Creed. He motioned to the walls.
Right. Yancy’s scent was strong. She was in here, but there wasn’t adequate hiding in the rest of the room.
The prime had to have a bolt-hole.
Zoey rolled her eyes. A hidden room. Real original, and a favorite among vampires.
They swept the room, looking for knobs and levers disguised as everyday items.
Zoey spotted three possibilities. A bookshelf with perfectly lined books. A random picture hanging by itself on a section of wall several feet from the bookshelf. A fireplace poker alone in a stand next to the opening. The fireplace itself was spotless.
If she were a vampire who suddenly had a need to hide her brimstone-tainted scent, which place would she choose? Zoey drifted closer to the fireplace.
Creed inclined his head and stationed himself between the picture and the bookshelf. If the poker was a fluke, Creed would pick one of the others to try, and Zoey would dive for the third.
She jiggled the poker, moving it around like the clutch of a stick-shift vehicle.
Stone scraping against stone shrieked through the room. The entire section of wall that held the fireplace swung out. Zoey jumped back and busted the poker out of the stand. She brandished it like a baseball bat. Yancy came flying out of the opening, fangs flashing and claws extended, hollering a shrill battle cry.
Zoey swung. Yancy’s head recoiled backward and her body followed. She landed with a thump, her eyes dazed as she blinked at the ceiling.
Zoey stood over her. Yancy’s eyes were mud brown, free of demonic influence. Zoey inhaled. The brimstone tinge was fading. Hypna must’ve abandoned her.
“Yancy de Mornay,” Zoey lifted the poker for another swing, “you’re coming with us.”
Yancy’s eyes flashed with rage and intent, but before she could react, Zoey put her poker into motion. She whacked the prime hard enough to knock her out.
Creed came up beside her. “I don’t feel like carrying her. How about we hog-tie her and drag her out?”
Zoey shrugged. “Sounds good. At least now we can use her boat to get back to shore.”
***
Rourke, the sadistic bastard, had kept the blade in Stryke’s back until they reached the manor. “Better than cuffs,” the asshole had said.
Creed came out dragging Yancy, who was unconscious, a poorly healing red welt on the side of her head.
Stryke rose to his knees and swayed. They should’ve killed her. And he told them so as he examined Zoey. He smelled her blood, but she walked like she’d healed already.
“We don’t kill indiscriminately,” Creed said with an arrogant tilt to his brows. Zoey stood next to him. Several strands of hair had escaped her severe bun, but damn, it’d held up well through the swim and their struggle. He smelled human blood on her and assumed they’d taken care of the hosts.
In her hands were a stack of papers and a thumb drive. Her expression was more stoic than normal.
“Hypna’s a sneaky bitch,” Stryke wheezed, hating himself for appearing weak in front of Zoey. “Ask yourself: Why didn’t she make another attempt to kill Zoey? Why not sacrifice the host?”
Creed’s eyes glinted with dislike. “Maybe hosts are hard to come by.”
Stryke barked a laugh and fuck, that hurt. “I think it’s getting easier. You lot aren’t as popular as you’d like to think. A ton of vampires don’t want to be ruled by a government that includes shifters, or their half-spawn.” He shook his head, only to freeze mid move. It jiggled the blade in his back.
“I’m afraid he might be onto something.”
Stryke shot a surprised look toward Zoey.
She tapped Yancy’s skull to make sure she was still out. “Hypna had a reason for leaving her. She could’ve been counting on us throwing Yancy in our prison so Hypna could inhabit her there.”
“Where she’d be in prison,” Rourke pointed out.
“But closer to me, and him.” Zoey tipped her head toward Stryke. “Better odds of getting to us. We need to hold her somewhere else.”
Creed made a disgusted sound. “I just towed her ass all the way out here. Fine. Where should we hold her? Here?”
Zoey shook her head. “Only if it’s the last option. We don’t know who knows about this place. And you can’t flash from here. Plus, we have these.” She waved the documents. “Hypna’s targeting anyone who’s close to us who—”
“Grace’s family?” The urgency coming off Rourke was the most emotion Stryke had witnessed from him.
Creed nodded, his solemn expression increasing the anxiety emanating from Rourke. “Melody and the boys, too. Demetrius’s parents.” He toed his unconscious load. “I hate to say it, but the demon is right. If we bring our loved ones to the compound for safety, we can’t have this monster under the same roof.”
“Where the fuck do we put her?” Rourke eyed Yancy like he’d rather stake her and forget about her.
A wave of dizziness crashed into Stryke and he swayed on his feet.
Zoey’s incensed words broke through. “Rourke, did you leave the knife buried in him?”
Rourke shrugged, his mask of calm back in place.
“A minor nuisance.” Stryke held himself rigid, not wanting Zoey’s pity.
“It looks like more than that,” she said.
“I was talking about Rourke.”
Zoey snorted a laugh, then her shoulders went rigid. She turned to Creed. “We’re running out of n
ight. I hate to leave her here, but our kind is safer with her on this island. Can you rig up a surveillance system that’ll trigger if someone gets on the island?”
“I have some items in the vehicle. I’ll go put her back.” He walked away, grumbling, “I might knock her head against a few more doorframes and walls.”
“Be my guest.” Zoey faced Rourke. “I trust you can restrain her so there’s no way she’ll go anywhere?”
“I won’t make it comfortable.”
Zoey’s mouth twitched, then she turned serious. “I’ll head back with the demon.”
Rourke’s black gaze flicked to Stryke and back.
Zoey arched a brow in challenge. Was she waiting for Rourke to offer Creed’s chaperoning capabilities?
Rourke merely nodded and strode toward the mansion.
“Two things.” Stryke held up two fingers in defiance of the nausea punching him in the gut. Bile rose in his throat, conjuring fantasies of removing the blade and jamming it hilt deep into Rourke’s gut. “I need the knife out of me, and I need to get my things from Lee’s place.”
She made no move to help him with the knife situation. “You have things?”
“As of yesterday morning.”
“You just tried to kill me a couple of hours ago.”
He scowled at the reminder of helpless confusion and murderous rage. Never again. “You’re alive, aren’t you? And I’ve had a knife buried in my back for two hours.” He scanned the ground around him. “Where’s that damned bracelet anyway?”
Why hadn’t he been obsessed with finding it before? It might’ve busted off him, but its power was probably still intact. He shuddered. She who wielded the bracelet, wielded him.
“In my pocket.”
He narrowed his eyes at her but couldn’t discern her thoughts.
“Destroy it.” He should say please. But he was a demon and the bracelet was worse than the blade.
“No.”
“No?”
“You bonded to me without permission. I’m keeping the bracelet.”
“To turn over to Demetrius?”
“No.”
“To give to the Synod?”
“No.”
They stared at each other.
Her tone offered no negotiation, but at least she wasn’t handing it over to anyone else.
She broke the silence. “Turn around.”
He did. Presenting his back to another being wasn’t a natural action, but someone had already stabbed him in it anyway.
Without warning, she yanked the knife free. He released a shout, partly from shock, but day-um, it was like being stabbed all over again.
Relief flooded his tight muscles and he dropped his head back. Warm blood seeped down his back and he welcomed it. Sweet brimstone, the constant pain was gone.
“We gotta take the boat back.” Zoey was already several yards away, moving swiftly and efficiently.
He jogged up to her and matched her stride. “About the choke hold earlier…”
“Yeah.”
The words “I’m sorry” hovered on the tip of his tongue, but verbalizing it was so foreign. Zoey was a smart female and she’d know the circumstances. Apology averted. “You said that if you hadn’t fed from Creed, you’d have died.”
Her pace slowed for a beat, then resumed. “And you bought it and didn’t kill me. Sounds like it worked.”
“Your poker face is superb, but I know you’re lying.”
“Why else would I say it? I needed to warm up after the freezing water and Creed has been my blood source for a while now.”
“Not any longer,” Stryke growled. “Besides, he’d just gotten out of the water, too.”
“And?”
Stubborn female. He worked another approach. “Let me ask you this. If you’d had Creed on the left and a crate of Gatorade on the right, which would you have chosen?”
They neared the boathouse, a small, square structure that housed a second fishing boat. The dock stretched into the water about twenty feet and the boat Stryke had arrived on was tied off at the end. A third boat would be sitting at the dock on the far shore. The no-flashing wards were a pain in the ass, but effective.
Zoey gave him a sidelong look. “My choice is my business.”
“Humor me.”
“I am by answering. I don’t need to say a damn thing. By the way, you’re welcome for saving your ass.”
Touché.
She stepped off the snowy path and onto the dock, her steps light and sure. “We’ll stop by Lee’s, get your shit, and go back to the compound. Think you can behave?”
Not where you’re concerned.
The boat rocked as they boarded. Zoey froze and inched slowly to the driver’s seat.
“Worried about being dumped in the cold water?” he teased.
She glared at him before firing up the motor as if she handled fishing boats on a daily basis.
They didn’t talk on the way across the lake. He watched her strong profile. Long, straight nose. Strands of brown hair framed her patrician features, her doe-brown eyes monitoring the boat’s progress.
When they docked, he let his evil side flare and shook the boat extra hard as he jumped out.
Zoey yelped and flashed onto shore next to him.
Laughter bubbled up within Stryke.
“Asshole,” she muttered and flashed.
He followed her energy signature, a comforting weave through the spectrum, easy for him to trail.
He appeared next to her outside the back of Lee’s house. Tension radiated off her and he snapped his gaze toward the house.
Lee’s scent was suffocating. That only happened when—
No.
Stryke sped toward the house. The back door hung askew. Sulfur mingled with Lee’s blood. Stryke dreaded what he’d find as he charged through the busted door. He ripped it off the rest of the way, tossed it aside, and skidded to a halt.
The mudroom was a bloody mess. Lee was spread-eagled in the doorway, fully clothed, but they hung off him in tatters, shredded by claws and fangs. The kid’s throat had been ripped out.
Stryke shoved his hands into his hair, his horns straightening in rage.
“Oh no…” Zoey was behind him.
Stryke hadn’t heard her come in. He couldn’t take his eyes off Lee. “He was just a fucking kid.”
He let his hands fall to his sides. He rubbed his chest. The ache in his back was nothing to the unidentifiable, dull throb he felt now.
“You cared for him.”
“Of course not—he was just…a host.” Stryke swallowed hard. The energy he kept tucked away, coiled into a ball at his disposal, unfurled. Lee was so young. He’d been so lost, dependent on Stryke.
So young… Lee was as close to an innocent as Stryke had ever met. And that demon bitch had killed him.
Stryke splayed his hands wide. Lines of energy danced between his fingertips. He ordered himself to get it under control, but energy zipped through him from head to toe. Any lights that Lee had left on before he died blew out, glass shattering. It went dark and shadows fell across Lee’s body.
Ball it up! But he couldn’t. He couldn’t tell himself Lee was just a host. He and Lee had gone fucking shopping.
If he didn’t release some energy, he was going to fry the neighborhood. He dropped to his knees and bellowed.
Chapter Nine
Zoey covered her ears as electric shrieks coursed through the tiny room. She squeezed her eyes shut against the arrows of light zinging all over. Were they coming from Stryke?
Pain filled his deep voice as he hollered. The lights must be making the shrill noise.
She should be used to this. When the compound’s industrial fire alarms went off, much more frequently now that Fyra was in residence, they shriveled her eardrums. Her sensitive vampire hearing could be out of whack for hours after they shut off. But this felt like Zoey was standing in a small room with ten of those alarms, plus twelve disco balls.
She dropp
ed to her knees and curled into herself, her mouth open in a soundless cry.
Abruptly, it stopped.
Silence. Her ragged breaths were as loud as crashing ocean waves. She released her ears and tentatively opened her eyes.
Stryke’s back was to her. She crawled toward him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
He jerked his head to the side, his shoulders heaved, his expression stricken. “I need to bury him before we go.”
“Wait.”
When he winced, she realized she’d shouted because she couldn’t hear a damn thing. So she pointed.
He followed her finger to the bare wall to their right. What had once been a closet was hanging open, all the coats flung down. Blood was smeared in stark contrast to the white wall.
You belong to me and no one else.
“She will die.” Stryke popped up and bent toward Lee. He hefted the body into his arms and cradled him like a child.
Was that what Lee had been like? Not like a child, but someone Stryke felt responsible for, a lost soul he’d helped find a place in the world.
Only days ago, when she’d come awake in the guest room, Stryke had hidden Lee from her. She’d thought he had ulterior motives, but protection had been the only one.
Lee dripped blood as Stryke carefully carried him outside.
Zoey gave Stryke some space to figure out what to do with the body. The ground would be too frozen to dig a hole. They could do it with their combined strength, but the chunks wouldn’t settle well over Lee’s body.
She inspected the room Lee had been killed in and the surrounding rooms. The entire house had been trashed. She located shopping bags that had been left untouched. Stryke’s?
Grabbing those, she finished her search. She found no other messages, written in blood or otherwise.
Her nose tickled. The smell of charred flesh floated through the house, but she detected an odd odor to the scent. She peeked out the window to see Stryke with a hand splayed over the prone form. He was using his energy to cremate Lee, leaving behind the smell of burning electrical wire.
His back was to her, but she imagined the look on his face. His violet eyes would be empty, or simmering with rage. His mouth set and his square jaw rigid. The male was capable of great emotion, a trait she hadn’t expected from a demon. She saw hints in Fyra, but Bishop was probably the sole witness to the depth of them.
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