Hunt the Darkness

by Alexandra Ivy

  Less than a mile from the Anasso’s estate, Brandel was settled in a leather wing chair that was pulled close to the roaring fire.

  It wasn’t as if he needed the heat from the flames despite the chill in the night air, but reading in front of a fireplace suited his current image.

  He glanced around the long library with towering shelves and heavy walnut furnishings. He’d arrived in Chicago the night before, drawn by the pulsing fey magic. At the time he’d been too drained to try to slip past the King of Vampires’ impressive defenses, and chosen the closest mansion to use as his lair.

  It was only now that he had the opportunity to appreciate his surroundings.

  The elegant house that was decorated to resemble an English country estate beat the hell out of dank caves filled with obnoxious Oracles. And best of all, he had a full staff of properly trained English servants who were eager to cater to his every need.

  Even the sweet little maid who’d given him a professional blow job before breakfast.

  They didn’t have a clue he wasn’t their employer who’d Brandel killed and stuffed in the pool house that was boarded over for the season. He’d become a perfect replica of the slender, gray-haired businessman with watery brown eyes and a prominent nose.

  The stench of the rotting body would eventually blow his cover, but for now he intended to enjoy being surrounded by luxury.

  Sipping the cognac that was perfectly aged, he was debating his options of bypassing the layers of security wrapped around the Anasso’s lair when an unmistakable vibration in the air warned him that his brief sense of peace was about to be destroyed.

  Setting aside the cognac, he was prepared when the uniformed butler stepped into the room, his back poker-straight and his expression puckered, as if he’d just swallowed a lemon.

  “There is a Mr. Raith to see you, sir,” he said, his toneless voice not able to disguise his disdain for the visitor.

  Brandel clenched the arms of his chair.

  “Tell him—”

  “That you’re anxious to speak with your dear friend who has traveled so far just to see you?” a familiar voice drawled as Raith stepped into the room, still clinging to his Adonis form.

  Brandel grimaced, understanding his servant’s blatant disgust.

  Raith had left his halo of golden curls to tumble to his broad shoulders, which were revealed by a sleeveless vest stretched tight over his large muscles and a pair of jeans that had half a dozen rips in the faded material.

  He looked like he should be turning tricks on a downtown corner, not visiting a powerful tycoon of business.

  Brandel kept his own face expressionless as he met the mocking brown eyes.

  “Raith.” He waved a hand toward the servant. “That will be all, Fenmore.”

  The elder man gave a half bow. “Yes, sir.”

  They waited in silence for the servant to exit the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Then, with a motion too fluid for a mere human, Raith gave a toss of his hair and crossed to stand near the crackling fire.

  “A butler?” he drawled, speaking out loud. The human servants would be curious if they didn’t hear voices from behind the closed door.

  Brandel forced himself to relax back in his chair.

  He’d known this encounter was coming. He’d just hoped he’d already have his hands on the box when Raith tracked him down.

  “I have to find somewhere to hide from the Oracles,” he said, pointing out the obvious.

  Raith glanced around the library that was the size of most homes.

  “This is hardly discreet.”

  Brandel shrugged. “Our enemies would expect me to be cowering in a dark cave.”

  Raith didn’t look particularly impressed by his logic. “So instead you’re hiding in plain sight?”

  “You have a better suggestion?”

  Raith waved away the question, his eyes flickering to black, the slit of crimson reflecting the nearby flames.

  “And that’s the only reason you’d settled in this particular place?”

  Brandel didn’t bother pretending he didn’t know what his companion was implying.

  “No. I’m still attempting to acquire the box so it can be destroyed.”

  Raith arched a golden brow. “Destroyed?”

  “Of course.” Brandel managed a stiff smile. “The Oracles have already discovered that I’m not what I pretended to be. We can’t afford for them to realize that we’re holding a Chatri captive.”

  Raith leaned against the mantel, his gaze never wavering from Brandel’s guarded expression.

  “So—”

  “What?”

  “This has nothing to do with wanting the box for yourself ?”

  Brandel stiffened, inwardly cursing Raith’s persistence. “I said I intend to destroy it.”

  “And I’m not convinced of your sincerity,” his companion drawled.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, but for what purpose?” The air vibrated in reaction to Raith’s swelling anger. “To destroy the box or claim it?”

  Brandel rose to his feet, pacing toward the heavy walnut desk.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You twice had the opportunity to get rid of the box and yet you failed miserably on each occasion.”

  “The witch—”

  “Yes?” Raith prompted.

  “Is more.”

  “More what?”

  Brandel unconsciously frowned. It troubled him he couldn’t figure out how the female managed to disrupt his very essence. If it hadn’t been impossible, he would have suspected she was somehow gaining power from the box.

  “I’m not certain, but there’s something strange about her,” he muttered.

  The vibrations became more intense. “So that’s your excuse?” Raith demanded.

  “She’s an unexpected variable.”

  “You know what I think, Brandel?”

  Brandel turned back to meet Raith’s narrowed glare. “What?”

  “I think that you could have destroyed the box, but instead you tried to keep it for yourself.”

  Brandel struggled to hold his human form. “Why would I do that?”

  “For the magic,” Raith accused. “The power.”

  Enough.

  Raith clearly wasn’t going to be fooled. There was no point in continuing his charade.

  “You believe you should be the only one with magic?” he instead accused.

  Raith straightened from the mantel, his anger shattering the crystal vases that were lined along a top shelf.

  “You have an entire world of fey to feast upon,” he hissed.

  As if a mere fey could remotely compare to what Raith had been gorging on for the past few centuries.

  “But none with the magic of a Chatri.”

  Raith smiled without humor. “We all have a role to play.”

  “Well, I am weary of my role.”

  “Fine.” Raith stepped forward. “Then return home and I’ll send another to clean up your mess.”

  Brandel refused to back down. He’d devoted centuries to putting his life on the line, always the one who was in danger while Raith remained in the shadows, drunk on Chatri magic.

  No more.

  He was close. So close. Nothing was going to stand in his way.

  “No one will be replacing me.”

  “Then do your duty.”

  “I’m done with duty. I want what’s mine.”

  Lifting a clenched hand he sent a concentrated burst of pulses directly toward the smirking Raith. The attack was Brandel’s specialty and designed to disrupt his opponent’s powers.

  Caught off guard, Raith abruptly turned to mist and headed toward the nearby windows.

  It wouldn’t buy much time.

  He would just have to ensure it was enough.

  Roke had reluctantly left Sally sleeping in the wide bed shortly before sunset.

  He wanted nothing more than to remain cur
led around his precious mate, pretending the world outside their door didn’t exist.

  But the unmistakable scent of Cyn arriving at the mansion had him sliding silently out of the bed and taking a swift shower before he was dressed in black jeans and matching tee with his usual moccasins that molded up his legs to his knees. He shrugged on his leather jacket as he headed down the stairs.

  It wasn’t coincidence that brought the clan chief of Ireland to Chicago.

  Roke would wager his left nut that Styx had commanded Cyn to search for a way to break his mating to Sally.

  Stepping into the small study, he eyeballed the oversize ancient berserker who was seated in a leather chair as he flipped through a leather-bound book.

  On this occasion Cyn was fully clothed, thank the gods, in a pair of faded jeans and a jade green silk shirt that perfectly matched his eyes. His hair was left free to fall halfway down his back except for the front strands that were, as always, woven into tight braids that framed his face.

  He glanced up when Roke entered the room, smoothly setting aside the book.

  “Hello, Roke. Did you miss me?”

  Roke moved to the center of the room, folding his arms over his chest.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Cyn gave a lift of one broad shoulder. “I’m the leading expert on fey. And from what I’ve heard, you’re up to your ass in the creatures.”

  Roke snorted. “If you’re such an expert, then why didn’t you know that my mate is a Chatri?”

  Cyn’s lack of astonishment revealed that Styx had already shared the information of Sally’s bloodline.

  “I have a theory,” Cyn informed him.

  “I do too,” Roke said. “You were distracted by nymph tits.”

  “They were very nice tits,” Cyn pointed out with a reminiscent smile. “But I wasn’t distracted.”

  Roke rolled his eyes, but he inwardly had to admit that Cyn might prove helpful.

  As he rightly claimed, he knew more about the fey than any other vampire.

  “Tell me your theory.”

  “Most mongrels—”

  “Careful,” Roke interrupted, baring his fangs.

  Cyn grimaced. “Half-breeds, if that makes you happier.”

  Roke didn’t know if it made him happy, but it sure the hell was better than calling his mate a mongrel.

  “Fine,” he muttered.

  “They tend to come into their powers after they hit puberty.”

  “Sally is past puberty.”

  Cyn smiled, the jade eyes darkening with appreciation. “Yes, I noticed.”

  Roke scowled, the temperature of the room dropping. “Don’t notice.”

  Cyn chuckled, clearly appreciating yanking Roke’s chain before he was leaning forward, his expression serious.

  “Most half-breeds have a combination of their parents’ DNA. One species might be more dominant, but they both exist. But when one of the species possess powers that are overwhelming when compared to the other they do more than just mix bloodlines. They scour away any genetic material until they leave behind a pureblood.”

  “Like a Chatri and a human?”

  “Yes.” Cyn rose to his feet, his massive body consuming far more than his fair share of the room. “I would guess that her blood has been slowly altering for years.”

  Roke gave a shake of his head. He’d been mated to Sally barely a month, but in that time she’d gone from a human witch with a talent for black magic, to a demon who could not only compel a vampire clan chief to do her bidding, but could create a portal to haul three people across the country.

  The gods only knew what she would be able to do a week from now.

  “Not a bad theory, but her powers have been skyrocketing over the past days, not slowly altering.”

  Cyn refused to be dissuaded. “It would’ve taken time for the Chatri blood to fully consume her human half. Especially since she was a powerful witch. But once it reached a critical mass”—he made a gesture of a bomb exploding—“the power would have blasted through her.”

  Okay. That made sense.

  “Does that mean she’s fully fey now?”

  “She’s fully Chatri, my friend,” Cyn corrected. “Which isn’t at all the same.”

  Roke shrugged. He didn’t give a shit what blood ran through Sally’s veins.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it does,” Cyn protested. “For one thing it makes reversing your mating more difficult. We know very little about the Chatri magic. Lucky for you I’ve been doing some research and—”

  “Stop it,” Roke snapped.

  Cyn frowned in confusion. “Stop what?”

  “The research.” Roke paused, concentrating on leashing his anger. Only when he was certain he wasn’t going to bring the roof down on their heads did he continue. “Sally is my mate. There will be no reversing it.”

  “Roke.”

  “No,” Roke bit out. “That’s the last word on the subject.”

  Cyn flattened his lips, obviously fighting the urge to insist that Roke wasn’t thinking clearly.

  A good thing.

  If one more person tried to convince him to get rid of his mate, he was going to . . .

  The various possibilities ran through his mind, each bloodier than the next.

  As if sensing he was on the brink of snapping, Cyn held up his hands in a gesture of submission.

  “Whatever you want.”

  Roke wasn’t stupid. Cyn would continue searching for a way to break the mating no matter what Roke said. They were all certain he would come to his senses and demand the bond with Sally be ended.

  So long as they kept their thoughts to themselves, he didn’t give a shit.

  He understood.

  Their mating was eternal.

  Just as it was supposed to be.

  Giving a shake of his head, Roke squashed his anger and instead concentrated on how he could best use Cyn’s presence.

  “If you actually want to help, you’ll tell me what you know about the Nebules,” he at last demanded.

  Cyn’s eyes widened, easily recalling the glyphs he’d been trying to decipher for Roke.

  “Of course,” he muttered. “The mist people that were mentioned on the music box. You think the glyph was talking about the Nebules?”

  “Yes.”

  Cyn shook his head, the beads at the end of his narrow braids banging against his chest.

  “I thought they were extinct?”

  “That was the general opinion.”

  “What’s your opinion?”

  Roke didn’t hesitate. “I think one is hunting my mate.”

  Cyn nodded, accepting Roke’s fear without question. “Do you know why they would be interested in her?”

  Roke paced toward a glass case filled with ancient scrolls. Styx’s vast collection of books, scrolls, and artifacts were beginning to take over the McMansion despite Darcy’s best attempts to keep them contained.

  “I’m not sure, but it seems to have something to do with the music box,” he said, his voice harsh with frustration. “A music box that just happens to have a map leading to Sally’s father.”

  “Ah. You think they’re trying to find the Chatri?”

  “I don’t know,” Roke admitted, feeling a vast indifference when it came to his father-in-law. “He claims that he’s being held captive.”

  “The Nebule is being held captive?”

  “No.” Roke turned back to meet Cyn’s puzzled frown. “Sally’s father.”

  “Christ.” Cyn planted his hands on his hips. “Are you deliberately trying to confuse me?”

  Roke stepped forward. He would make it crystal clear.

  “I need to know how to kill a Nebule.”

  “What about the Chatri?”

  Roke made a sound of disgust. “As far as I’m concerned he can stay stuck where he is.”

  A strange expression settled on Cyn’s bluntly carved face. “And how does Sally feel about her leaving
her father trapped?”

  Roke tilted his chin. “I intend to make damn certain she doesn’t put herself in danger.”

  “Right.” Cyn’s laughter filled the room. “Good luck with that.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sally clutched the box in her hand as she crept down the grand staircase.

  She didn’t really think she could slip through a household of vampires unnoticed. Even if the house wasn’t wired with high-tech security, they would be able to hear her every footstep, her every breath, and every beat of her heart. Not to mention catching her scent from a freaking mile away.

  Yeah. There was no sneaking in a vampire house, but she did hope to do some quick research while Roke was otherwise occupied.

  Her mate wasn’t going to be pleased when he realized she hadn’t given up her determination to find her father. She grimaced. Not pleased, was the understatement of the century.

  He was going to do everything in his power to try to stop her.

  Brooding on the upcoming battle, Sally reached the landing and turned toward the hallway leading toward the library before she realized there was a slender figure waiting in a shallow alcove. She came to an abrupt halt, watching the man stroll forward with a wary expression.

  He was . . . exotic, to say the least.

  She’d never seen hair so red that it glowed beneath the light of the crystal chandelier. Or eyes that exact shade of emerald. And that outfit . . .

  The shirt was a flimsy see-through material to emphasize his surprisingly muscular chest and matched with zebra spandex pants that looked like they’d been spray-painted on him.

  All in all, he was designed to capture attention.

  “There you are.” Without warning the stranger performed a deep bow. “I have been waiting.”

  She held up a warning hand. “Please, don’t come any closer.”

  Straightening, the man took a deliberate step backward, although he ran an avid gaze over her slender form.

  “Forgive me. I just wanted a glimpse.”

  She resisted the urge to glance down and make sure she was fully covered. It had been less than a half hour ago that she’d dressed in the jeans and Chicago Bears sweatshirt she’d found in the closet of her bedroom. She’d even found a pair of comfortable running shoes.

  She knew quite well she was adequately covered.