Chapter Thirteen

 

The door to the room where she’d first lost herself with Bastian loomed ahead of her. She veered into another room. The one the Segals had played in, unknowing that their son was being lured into a dark and dangerous world. The reminder fortified her resolve.

The vampires behind this were going down.

She didn’t flick on the light, but maybe she should have. Her eyes unfocused so briefly she wondered if she was imagining it.

Was it the lack of sleep the last few days? Except she’d never slept as deeply as she had when she was backed up against Bastian’s hard body.

She drained her water.

Ick. She smacked her tongue. Whatever this brand was, never again.

“Warming up for me, darling?” Finneus’s baritone rippled over her, causing absolutely no reaction.

Had she ever found him attractive? He was handsome in the way most of her kind was. She’d gotten off when he’d been in charge of her pleasure, but she’d closed her eyes, blocked everything out—memories, where she’d been, who’d she been with—and forced herself to climax.

Feathering her fingers over her hair, she scanned the walls. She’d left her weapons behind, but she was in a room full of them. They were meant to deliver painful pleasure, but in her hands, she could find a way to neutralize a threat.

“I never need to warm up, Finneus,” she purred and slinked to the table, outlining in her head how to lure him to the bench and secure him there before interrogating him. But she tripped and caught herself on the cold leather of the seat.

What the hell was wrong with her?

She considered the bench and straps before her. Yes. What was wrong with her? Losing her balance. Blurry vision. It wasn’t like her at any point in her life.

Except for the night Nadair had died. Creed’s parents had arrived, inquired about her, and then stabbed her with a drug meant to incapacitate her.

They’d been hard up for hosts. Trickery or abduction, as long as the end result was the same, they hadn’t cared.

She’d managed to escape by flash-crashing through the woods around Nadair’s. But the drugs had knocked her for a loop.

Drugs.

No. Those had been injected. But her team had been too preoccupied with the demon situation to delve into their own type of underworld—drugs and blood slaves. They’d left that up to the Guardians overseen by the Synod.

Sickening dread poured over her and she pivoted to face Finneus. The sparkling water.

But she trusted Marcus. Or did she? She’d never had a reason not to trust him, and wasn’t that the kicker when it came to betrayal?

The smug smile and arrogant tilt to Finneus’s dark brow sent a spike of adrenaline through her veins. He was in on it. Marcus was in on it. Whether he’d been blackmailed, extorted, or was a willing participant, she didn’t care.

She took a measured step back toward the wall of sex toys she hoped to turn into deadly weapons. He clocked her movement without surprise.

“Was it only a coincidence you walked into the club after I got my drink?” she asked.

The flogger? No, the straps were too short to garrote him. Handcuffs? No, they all had quick-release latches for safety. Besides, with the effects of the drug, she was losing her dexterity. She needed something brutal and efficient.

The chains and the bench would be useless. They were designed to withstand the strength of a vampire writhing in ecstasy.

“Whatever are you talking about, Mistress LeFevre?” He prowled toward her, but she tamped down her panic. She didn’t know what they wanted with her, but she could guess. Last time, they’d thought they could manipulate her into becoming a host.

They were nothing if not single-minded. “Marcus spiked my drink. Your idea or his?”

Finneus laughed. “Ophelia, Marcus doesn’t need me to plant any ideas in his head. He has many of his own.”

Her brow crinkled and her vision went wonky, this time for longer before it cleared. Her drink hadn’t been more than one glass. Maybe she could delay him and let her vampire metabolism burn off the rest. Then she’d behead him with the—

She canted to the side.

Motherfucker. Her stupid, useless heels were making the effect worse.

Wait. Her heels.

“So, Marcus?” she asked as she slipped out of each heel. “When did you start following the orders of a nonprime?”

Finneus smirked. Good. He seemed to think that she was only taking her shoes off to keep her balance.

One stiletto in each hand, she squared off without appearing too aggressive.

Finneus lifted a muscled shoulder. He wasn’t brawny, but he was stronger than her. Which she was used to. Her strength was in her experience, her determination, and her speed. Being short could be an asset in a fight if she utilized it correctly.

“Since he knows all our secrets,” Finneus said as if it should’ve been clear. But the bitterness lacing his words also told her that he cursed himself for not seeing it earlier.

And she had to agree. How long had Marcus worked at Sharpe’s Point? Who else was privy to the habits and secrets of the most influential of her kind? He was a veritable fount of information. He’d know who had marital issues, what families had small children and teenagers, and worse—Marcus would know when the teens were home alone. There weren’t a lot of social places for vampires to hang out other than their own homes. And as they loved to proclaim about themselves, they were sexual creatures.

And Marcus had capitalized on it all.

Clever, deceitful male. Odd that she hadn’t been attracted to him after all.

“Now, come here, my little troublemaker,” Finneus coaxed. “I can make you feel better.”

She gave him a look that said “Are you fucking kidding me?” And feinted left.

When he flinched and tried to dodge her, she was already on him. Heaving her arm as far back as she could, she let it go like a tightly coiled, heavy-gauge spring. All power.

The stiletto impaled his shoulder an inch before clattering to the floor. Only an inch! That damn drug was sapping her strength.

Her head spun, but she ignored it the best she could, adjusting her fighting style. She leaped backward, but he lunged toward her and tackled her around the waist. Losing her footing and cursing her sluggish brain at not seeing that coming, she flew backward.

Her head hit the wall. The impact made her brain shake like a nine on the Richter scale.

She groaned and dropped. He climbed up her body, the move tearing her dress.

Dammit. She was not going to pass out half naked around this male.

He fisted his hands in her hair and yanked her head up.

She glared at him, clenching her fist around the second shoe.

Nostrils flared, he glowered down at her. The way he reared over her on his knees sent images of her past blinking rapid-fire through her.

Summoning as much strength as she had left, she thrust the pointed heel of her second shoe into his abdomen and dragged it across his stomach as hard as she could.

As he recoiled in pain, his fist jerked, snapping her head against the wall. Her vision clouded and didn’t return. The room was nothing but a blur as her head spun, but she didn’t drop her shoe. It was her only weapon.

Finneus gritted his teeth. His lips were drawn back in pain and his fangs were smeared with red—he must have bitten himself at some point in the last minute.

“You always”—he puffed, bloody spittle spraying her face—“make it so fucking hard.”

He was straddling her. She bent her leg as hard as she could and kneed him.

His oomph was satisfying, but not enough to make him release her head.

The scraping of fabric sent a jolt of fear through her. She couldn’t see clearly yet. Was he going to undress her? All it would take was a tug on the worthless piece of fabric covering her body.

If she never wore one of these stupid things again, she wouldn’t miss it.

The shoes, though, they’d come in handy. Too bad they were shit for fieldwork.

Before he recovered from the weak knee to his groin, she jabbed him with the heel. It rebounded off his elbow.

She blinked and tried to clear her blurred sight. He was digging in his tux. When he withdrew his hand, she couldn’t make out the object, but the way he held it—it wasn’t a knife.

It was a syringe.

If he got that into her, she’d be powerless. Physically, mentally, completely helpless.

She exploded into a flurry of knees and elbows and fists, but by this point, she was too weak to affect him.

A sharp pain bloomed in her neck. Her eyelids drooped. Not until she heard the clatter of the plastic syringe on the floor did he release her head.

 

***

 

“I can’t get ahold of Ophelia,” Bastian growled.

He was gathered in the garage with Demetrius, Bishop, and Creed. Calli waited next to Demetrius, but she wasn’t dressed like she was going into the field with them.

Bastian had run and grabbed all his weapons, then cajoled more out of the other warriors. As many as he could fit onto his body.

He didn’t care about violence tonight. Beheading anyone or anything that stood in the way of the two children sounded like a fine plan.

Is this how Ophelia felt each time she took on a mission, her only concern for helping the innocent, and ashes to anyone who interfered?

He eyed the other three males. Why weren’t there more of them? Surely they’d find Antonia faster if they were all looking.

But Demetrius had ordered Rourke to stay behind and protect the compound with Fyra. Bringing Fyra into the field was like sending smoke signals to the enemy as to their location, the guys had said. Even Bishop had agreed.

Zoey and her mate Stryke were already out. Their main assignment was to flush out the places the kids weren’t so the rest of them didn’t waste the night gallivanting through town. Quution and Melody were hanging out in Spectre’s lair in hopes that when the demon was sent back to the underworld, they could gut and behead him upon arrival.

The underworld had no trial system, and this was probably the only time Bastian would appreciate any aspect about how they ruled themselves.

“Okay,” Calli got their attention. “Spectre can trance, but you have to make eye contact while he’s exhibiting control over Quentin.” She handed Demetrius a paper. “Here’s the spell to kick the demon out of Quentin. It’s the same that we used on Grace.”

“Will it hurt him?” Bastian asked.

Calli’s expression wasn’t reassuring. “It won’t leave him unaffected. But he will survive and thrive, though he may not ever be able to bond with his true mate.”

A significant scar, but one Quentin could live with.

“What about Antonia? If we find her too late and she’s possessed, we can use the spell, but what if she’s bonded?”

Demetrius answered. “We kill the monster she’s bonded to.”

He made it sound simple, but what if the demon was in a host? They could kill the host, but it could hide in its own realm and come and go as it pleased.

Calli shook her head. “We’re missing something. When Draken bonded me as a kid, he had to wait until I turned twenty-five before he could come and claim me.” A shudder shook her slender shoulders.

“I wish I could kill him all over again,” Demetrius said. “But Draken was controlled by one of the Circle. They probably didn’t want Draken to have that much power until they were ready to control him. It’s only recently they’ve been brave enough to step out of their constraints and get to this realm on their own.”

Bishop grunted. “That leaves all our young at risk. All of them.”

And Bastian had already recommended a first line of defense. Much like the Say No to Drugs campaign, they could hammer the parents with Say No to Demons campaigns. But now wasn’t the time to press the issue.

Demetrius’s gaze flicked his way. He must be thinking the same thing.

Creed sent them all a message. Bastian frowned at his phone as Creed explained. “These are the homes of the other kids in the same social circle. Stryke and Zoey have already eliminated several and I doubt we’ll find Quentin and Antonia there.”

Bastian nodded. This team was efficient. For once tonight, he wasn’t feeling hopeless.

“When my parents got one over on me,” Creed continued, “they took me to the middle of the woods. I think that’s likely. A cave would be ideal, but we don’t have a ton around Freemont, and I have a feeling we dusted Draken in their top choice of groundcover prisons.”

“Are Creed’s parents able to provide information?” Bishop asked.

“Not from their piles of ashes,” Creed said flatly. “The Synod tried to get info from them. They wouldn’t talk, so they were useless to us.” He lifted a shoulder.

Were the Segals the only primes worthy of being parents?

“My mam and pap weren’t pieces of shit,” Bishop said, interpreting Bastian’s expression. He gestured to Demetrius. “And his are even still alive.”

“Nice people,” Creed filled in.

Nothing was said about Zoey’s parents. Or Rourke’s. It was like morally vacant parents were a cruel form of natural selection for their kind.

But at least some children grew into adults who refused to let others suffer what they had.

So vampires had that going for them.

A honk sounded from outside the building. Bastian was the only one who jumped. Calli’s head flew up, but the others were intent on planning their search.

“Master Devereux,” a female called. Was that Madame Segal?

Demetrius swore and started for the door.

“I want to see my son. I just…need to see him.” The engine of a car idled. Had she driven here herself, or was Master Segal here also?

He followed Demetrius. The others stayed in place, for which he was grateful. For this type of bad news, the Segals didn’t need a bevy of strangers eying them.

Now the female was pounding on the exterior door. Demetrius flung it open, Bastian at his heels. Outside, clouds covered the moon, but the bite of the cold chapped the female’s face as she backed up, allowing Demetrius and Bastian to follow. The master was just getting out of the car. It was as if his mate had jumped out before he’d put it in park. The motherly anguish in her eyes staggered him. Bastian dreaded the next few moments.

“Madame Segal,” Demetrius said, his tone grave.

“Master Dev—” She gave her head a shake. “You said I could probably see Quentin tonight, but you haven’t called yet. Why haven’t you rung us yet?”

Her gaze sought Bastian’s. He couldn’t keep his sympathy from seeping into his eyes. Her hand flew to her heart.

“Quentin wasn’t rescued as unscathed as we’d hoped,” Bastian said.

The master rushed to his mate’s side. “Is he dead?”

Demetrius shook his head. “I’m afraid he was possessed. With the demon inside of him, he was able to pass through our security and escape.”

“He’s…he’s gone?” Madame Segal shook her head. “But you said that—”

“I said that we wanted to hold him for observation, yes,” Demetrius said.

Madame Segal’s gaze narrowed. “You suspected.” When Demetrius didn’t say anything, she crossed to him and poked him in the chest. “Didn’t you?”

“No, he couldn’t have…” Master Segal couldn’t finish once Demetrius inclined his head.

“It was a gut feeling.” Demetrius’s stance was rigid. This was probably akin to informing a family of the death of a loved one, but how often did the male have to do that?

As a Synod member, Demetrius was likely more isolated than Bastian had imagined.

“Do you have kids, Master Devereux?” she asked.

“No.”

Madame Segal pinned Bastian with a hard stare full of betrayal. “I know you do not, Bastian Dean. But how can you claim Antonia as your own and keep this information from us?”

“I’m sorry” was all he could say.

“All of it!” Both he and Demetrius flinched at her outbreak. “You kept all of it from us,” she hissed. “We don’t hear about all the new drugs our peers are peddling on the streets and in our homes—homes we’ve sent our children to for visits! We don’t hear about parents who’d sell their own children to the highest bidder. Instead we walk a path of ignorance while they’re stolen from under our nose.” Tears streaked her face. Their salty tang laced the night air around them with her distress. “And you still don’t tell me he has a monster controlling him until we come here and grovel.”

“Madame Se—”

“Enough,” Master Segal barked. “We want no more of your platitudes. We want you to find our son. You will keep us informed every step of the way while my mate and I discuss places he may be.”

“He took Antonia with him,” Bastian said.

Demetrius cut a glare at him, but Bastian met it with equal vitriol. Yes, he did dare. The time for secrets was long over.

“Oh my…” Madame Segal paled. “That’s not Quentin. He’d never hurt her.”

“I know, Madame. We’ll find them both.” Or die trying.

Demetrius dragged in an audible breath. “Rourke, let them in.” The exterior door clicked. “You’re welcome to wait here. I…” His brow creased as if he were struggling with his next words. “I don’t want anyone behind this coming after you to hurt your son.”

The madam’s gasp echoed in the night, but she nodded. She and her mate rushed inside. Bastian watched as Grace greeted them with a reassuring smile. The couple visibly relaxed at the sight of one of their own. Hopefully, Fyra stayed out of their path or Demetrius would be forced to reveal more than he’d intended.

As the door slammed shut, Demetrius exhaled. “Fuck.”

“Yep.” All kinds of guilt and scenarios of what he should’ve done plagued him.

They went back into the garage. The rest wore expressions full of empathy, but they all went back to frowning at their phones.

Calli tapped her screen and her next words chilled him to the marrow. “We can’t reach Ophelia.”