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.

Most times.

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.

Bastian inhaled again, deep in thought.

“It’s sex,” she said flatly. Bastian’s startled gaze met hers. “He was like most other vampires—a voracious sexual appetite and little regard for who sated it.”

“But in here, he only brought one female.” Bastian’s gaze could have touched her, it was so tangible. “She must’ve meant something to him.”

“Does it matter?” she snapped. “We weren’t true mates, therefore we meant nothing.” Damn. There went her secret.

He just nodded once. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Enough of this. She wasn’t here to dissect her love life.

“That he let you down.”

“Did he? You know how he died?” Why was she even telling him? “By refusing to give me up to host hunters. Honorable, right? The trick is, I don’t know. Nadair didn’t have an honorable organ in his body. Not his brain, not his balls. So every day since he died, I’m trying to figure out his real reason.”

Bastian wandered around the room, running his fingertips over polished furniture and lifting drapes as he passed. His calm manner, which she was learning was his way, made this humiliating situation worse. “What if his death was in honor?”

“What if it wasn’t?”

“Does it matter that you know?”

“Nope.” Yes. To assume a lie, then learn the truth… It might be the raindrop that tipped a boulder over a cliff. It might be the one extra second she spent in the sun.

“Why are we here, Ophelia?” Not a demanding question. A gentle push. “You said Nadair had names and businesses I might find familiar?”

“He had a study.” And she was too raw to go to the scene of the crime. Nadair had died in that study. “Then he had the place where he kept the big secrets. I think we’ll find names there.”

“Then how do we find Gaston and uncover the one behind the attempt on Antonia?”

“It’ll all depend on who we find. I’ve made it my job to know where they frequent. It’s why Nadair was the perfect unwitting informant.”

He watched her for a heartbeat. Was he trying to figure her out? Good luck. She hadn’t done it yet, so why should he have better luck?

But his attention made her squirm. She’d thought she was immune to a male too handsome for anyone’s good. They were all alike underneath those unnatural good looks and carefully crafted smiles.

Bastian mounted a silent defense on the senses. At first sight, he didn’t inspire lust, more of a “yeah, he’s fine.” An easy-on-the-eyes-kind of thing. Until the eyes demanded another look. And another. Until his solid presence and easy manner seeped into the psyche and he became a craving.

He was unfailingly competent. No wonder the Gastons, reputedly difficult employers, had kept him on. Bastian was the eye in their storm of a life.

She shook her head. What would he do after Antonia was safe?

The answer was obvious. He’d dedicate his life to Antonia, salary or not. When she was officially an adult, she would either hire him for her household or he’d find his true mate and become the male of someone’s dreams and raise little babies who had his eyes.

Ophelia’s heart ached. For the lost dream, not the lost male. He’d never been hers to lose in the first place. And the dream of a family, well… Babies weren’t in her future. They haunted her past and present enough.

 

***

 

Bastian held her stony gaze. What was going on in that sharp, defensive mind?

The pulse of pure heartbreak vanished in an instant. She broke contact first, spun on a heel, and stalked toward a door at the end of the room. Was that where Nadair had hidden all his secrets? Bastian had assumed it was a bathroom. It could be. Primes had odd habits.

But Ophelia. He hadn’t pegged her as the type to share personal details, but it was like they had spilled out of her. Like she was stuffed to the brim with personal traumas that she hadn’t shared with anyone.

Why him?

He was grateful, honored even. From her rigid shoulders and clipped stride, she was obviously cursing herself for what Antonia called TMI.

She opened the door to another room just as large as the bedroom. A sitting room at one time?

Cherrywood built-in cabinets lined the upper half of three walls, with matching filing cabinets flanking the doorway. The space was elegantly constructed, but utilitarian, lacking half the thought or consideration of the rest of the house. The books lining the shelves were ledgers of all different sizes in dark, muted colors.

Bastian opened a drawer in the filing cabinet. Packed full. He tried another drawer and found the same. The other cabinet was identical. They probably weighed a ton apiece. Nadair Moiré had been meticulous and liked his proof on paper.

Or perhaps not. Two computers, one a desktop and one a laptop, sat on the corner desk while a tablet lay next to them.

So Nadair also liked his proof on electronics.

“Don’t worry. These aren’t wired to explode.” She shrugged. “Pretty sure, anyway. I was the only one who knew about this room. He built it after his parents died and my team has been monitoring the property closely since he was killed.”

Her tone was back to the casual, laissez-faire female she’d been when she’d allowed them into the compound.

Only now he knew her better. He wanted to know her more. But every time his gaze brushed her trim hips, or the swells of her breasts under the soft fabric of her shirt, he forced his mind back to propriety.

Ophelia obviously didn’t adhere to strict class separations, but that didn’t mean he was going to put the needs of a sixteen-year-old behind his libido. As if a tough fighter like Ophelia would give him a second look.

He had no recollection of Nadair, but he had served the male’s father one time at a gathering. And his mother. The Gastons quit opening their house to parties after Antonia was born, as if they were afraid others would exploit her. Or worse—that others would think they’d become bores from the rigors of the parenting they didn’t do.

He suppressed a snort. The answer was made known last night. They’d wanted to exploit her themselves.

Ophelia booted up the computers. He pictured her with the son of the Moirés, a male with a blend of their refined appearances. The stereotypical tall, dark, and handsome prime, with all the elegance expected of him. Had to be if he manipulated the manipulators.

The image of her with another male wasn’t easy to conjure. He either lacked imagination or his mind purposely thwarted his efforts.

He touched his tongue to a fang. He didn’t anger easily, but his fangs throbbed, ready to tear into flesh.

“Perhaps I can help with the tablet,” he said to distract himself from the need to punch… something. He never wanted to punch anything. “Antonia has a similar one. She bought one for me so we could play games.”

Ophelia lifted a brow.

“Her friends weren’t always into the same games,” he explained. “Too uncouth, I imagine. I also suspect they all played them anyway and didn’t tell anyone.”

She snorted and hit the on button on the CPU. “I doubt we’ll have any luck. It’s fingerprint sensitive, but maybe Creed can— Wait.” The screen flashed as it turned on. “It took mine.”

Frowning, she bent over the laptop next and typed in a few options for the password. All failed.

“Try your name,” he suggested. He’d hate himself if he was correct, but Ophelia would have her answer about Nadair, in a way.

“Yeah, right.” She punched it in anyway.

It worked.

She stepped back, wringing her hands like she was afraid to touch the keys more than she had to.

“What the ever-loving hell was Nadair plotting?”

Bastian set the tablet down. “Antonia programmed my fingerprint into her phone as a backup. If Nadair was as deceptive as you’ve let on, then… In the case of his untimely death, what better revenge than turning all his notes over to his girlfriend?”

“The girlfriend who didn’t give a shit if any of them kept their power or money.” She chuckled with no humor. “You’ve nailed it, Bastian. Your time among primes has given you an astute understanding of how we function.”

“It doesn’t mean that he didn’t die protecting you.” She wouldn’t believe him, but he had to say it. Not all primes were evil. The bad ones were still trying to do right by their bloodlines, using despicable methods and hurting others, but the good ones had their honorable moments.

“Like we established earlier. It doesn’t matter. He was a con artist and his currency was empty promises.” She logged into the tablet and handed it to him. “See what you can find.”

Bastian accepted the device. What else could he do?

They searched for an hour, neither of them leaving the room or pausing for any reason other than to adjust their position.

Bastian combed through all the apps. He examined the male’s shopping history, social media, and in-game chats. Ophelia clicked away on both computers. Nadair must’ve been confident Ophelia would get to these first if he made it so easy. It was a risky move. His enemies could’ve figured it out. Despite how Nadair had treated Ophelia, they’d still been together. Her name would’ve been obvious.

Though Nadair hadn’t had enemies. Throughout all his emails, messages, and the little social media he was active in, there wasn’t an argument or bad word. He’d been used. A pawn. He’d thought he was orchestrating others into doing his deeds and they’d thought they were just as underhanded.

Had Nadair been clueless? As the third party with an eagle-eye view of Nadair’s operation, it was obvious to Bastian. Nadair had tracked primes’ habits and appealed to their baser appetites—sex, money. In turn, they’d made sure Nadair was witness to such activities, including recreational drug use. They’d lured him in, then they’d each bartered for what they wanted. More sex. More money. More drugs. But nothing linking Nadair to the Gastons.

Finally giving up, he turned to Ophelia. “There is nothing useful on here. Other than his appointments at a place called Sharpe’s Point.”

A muscle ticked in Ophelia’s jaw. “He was a frequent flyer.”

“I don’t recall the Gastons mentioning it. Is it a gentlemen’s club?”

“Nope. It’s a ladies’ and gentlemen’s club.”

“Ah.” Whatever that meant. Primes sitting around, negotiating deals with their former government councilors?

“Here.” Ophelia brought up a spreadsheet and he forced all his questions down. “A file labeled ‘potential hosts.’ How convenient.”

Bastian skimmed the document. Tables of primes and their habits. Another column with insights into their vulnerabilities. Nadair had also come up with a ranking for their likelihood to agree to become a host. Among the various reasons listed was their age; the more advanced the vampire, the higher the rank.

“Why old age?” Bastian asked. “How does that make a vampire more likely to let a demon enter their body?”

“Power. You haven’t met Betty. She’s ancient, and she’s still in full control of her wits and ambition. But she couldn’t arm wrestle Antonia.”

“Physical power. But there are a lot of political associations listed.”

Ophelia pointed at a few names. “When primes are otherwise equal in wealth and prestige, the deciding factor is physical power. Even in a host, the demon can access some of their powers. Only the vampires duped into hosting think they won’t be shut out of…well, themselves.”

Despicable. “Don’t they remember and spread the word?”

“Demons are tricky. They give enough to gain the prime’s trust. And gaining followers never looks bad to other primes.”

Ophelia opened another spreadsheet titled bonding potential.

Antonia’s name was listed. Young, strong bloodline, with greedy and insecure parents. So many other children he recognized from Antonia’s social circle were included in the same category.

He clenched his fists. “What’s the difference between bonding and hosting?”

“Hosting means a vampire is possessed by another. The demon’s powers are limited, but they can’t be killed. If the host dies, the demon is sucked back to the underworld. Bonding means forging a link between a vampire and a demon, but no possession. The demon can then walk freely between realms, but we can kill the demon. That’s what happened to Calli. Draken wanted to use her for breeding. A child is like a free pass; no mate required to cross realms.”

Sickening. “And how long has this been going on?” A slow boil of fury began in his gut. How long had his girl been watched, studied? How often had he let her go out when her life was in danger?

“Probably since there have been demons and vampires. But our power dynamics are changing, and theirs are as well.” Ophelia didn’t look at him. If she detected his rage, it didn’t bother her. Or like everything else, she didn’t show that it bothered her.

“How long?” he snapped. “How long were perverts studying Antonia, waiting for her to pass through puberty so they could use her for breeding?” Uncaring bastards like Ophelia’s boyfriend.

She straightened and crossed her arms. Because they’d been bent over the same screen she was toe to toe with him, but over a head shorter. The steel glint in her eyes nullified the height difference.

“How long has it been going on? I don’t know. How long have we known about it? Mmm, maybe six months. It wasn’t until Calli came to us for help that pieces started clicking into place and we realized we might be working with demons.”

She held his gaze, challenging him to challenge her.

“And when was our new government going to tell us?”

She drew back. “A lot sooner than the old government would’ve.” She snapped her finger. “Oh, wait. They were working with the underworld to try and enslave all the other species in this realm.”

“What?” And his people hadn’t heard about this? Sure, there’d been rumors, grumblings about weird occurrences in the prime circles. But nothing like this.

“When they have a thorough understanding of what’s going on, they’ll spread the word. They aren’t going to rush out, declare that the sky is falling, and send primes and commoners alike into a panic that would undo all the good they’ve done.”

“Six months. Truly?” Somehow that tempered him. Until he thought about Antonia and all the times she’d gone into the world alone.

“Calli came to us in the early fall. Demetrius didn’t even tell the Synod and almost got kicked off. Then Rourke met Grace not long after, and during their issues, Bishop got himself enslaved to Fyra. Before we could breathe, a nasty demon targeted Stryke because he’d bonded with Zoey, who did get kicked off the council.”

“We only heard she stepped down.” It’d been a hot topic whenever he’d run across another servant in the grocery store.

“And don’t you think it’s better that way? How much trust do you think the public would have in the new government if we informed them of the target on our realm, then said ‘oh by the way, those demons we just warned you about? A couple of them mated the ones sworn to protect you.’”

She had a point, but he shook his head. “No, there should be more transparency. We should know what to watch for so your government doesn’t have to scramble so hard to catch up.”

“Suddenly it’s not your government?”

“Is it?” They seemed to be taking care of Demetrius and his team, not so much the rest of them. Their protection was more a byproduct of their internal battles. But he didn’t care to argue further about it. Her loyalty was obvious. “Who’s replacing Zohana Chevalier?” Zoey, but he couldn’t bring himself to call one of their leaders—former—so familiarly.

“They’re discussing options. I said no fucking way.”

Of course she had. She wouldn’t be able to suppress all her feelings otherwise.

She closed back down. The flash of fire he’d seen as they were arguing had been extinguished.

He almost said something when a name on a spreadsheet caught his eye. “Wait. That name.”

“Susanna?”

“I heard the Gastons arguing about a Susanna last year. I’d never seen Madame Gaston in such a rage. There was a lot of fine china to clean up afterward.”

“A mistress?”

“A dalliance at the very least.”

“I need to get these back to the compound. Then Sharpe’s Point is my next stop.”

He tilted his head. “Why there?”

Luckily she could give him a reason if not the whole reason. She tapped the column next to Susanna’s name. “It’s listed as one of her vulnerabilities.”

“I’m going with.”

She laughed. “Uh, no. That place is too much for you. I can’t pretend to work the crowd and find a partner with you all wide-eyed and slack-jawed behind me.”

“A partner for what?” Did she need to feed? He hadn’t healed fully yet, but he’d spare some for her. Though she’d just replenished him, he was young and healthy. He could spare some. For her he would.

She clicked off the laptop, then the tablet. Same with the desktop. He didn’t think she was going to answer him as she unplugged the CPU, but then she paused. “Sharpe’s Point is a sex club. Fill in the blanks.”

The tidal wave of fury crashed quickly. He inhaled and let it pass. If anyone else had made the statement, he would’ve just nodded. To each their own.

Ophelia was different. Work the crowd and find a partner…

After being with her the last several hours, nothing she said was living up to her sexual bravado. The way she hurried through the manor, haunted by Nadair’s memories. The flat tone she used to disassociate herself from the Ophelia that had been under Nadair’s spell. She didn’t flirt, and he only knew her “on duty,” but she didn’t dress for anything but utility. “But you don’t want to have sex with anyone.”

“It’ll be pleasurable enough.”

He gathered the computers and tablet. “Let me go with. You can pretend with me.”

She blinked once. Slowly. Had he said something absurd? But she hadn’t rejected his idea immediately. Was she considering it?

“I can’t,” she said finally. “We can’t. I mean, we just met.”

“Versus picking up someone there you just met?”

“It’d be a conflict of interest.”

“And demons mating with your team isn’t? We just have to put on an act.” He had no clue. Sex clubs? A comedy club was more his speed.

“What if we have to do more? This place caters to the wealthy. You’re already going to stand out. And how can I mingle when the candy I’m looking for showed up with me? It’d look shady as fuck.”

“Then I’ll go alone and you can pick me up. I’m not one of them, but I’ve worked around them most of my life. I know how to act like a rich prick.” He snapped his mouth shut. He’d just insulted everyone like her, and therefore, her.

She chuckled, a sincere laugh. He almost pumped his fist in victory.

He pushed his case. “I know Master Gaston. I can do my own investigation and look for the host from last night.”

“I doubt the host would be there if he wasn’t a prime, but his employers might be there, lamenting about lost help. I doubt he went back to business as usual. He’s on the run.” She worried her lower lip with a fang.

His gaze stuck on the action. Another display of vulnerability around him. She shouldn’t have to go off and have sex with a stranger for the sake of the job if she didn’t want to. She’d gone through enough with Nadair in the name of her work.

He wanted to reassure her that he’d take care of her, but that’d shut her down faster than anything.

“Fine,” she relented. “I have some clothing here and we can find something of Nadair’s to fit you. You’ll have to take his car, but I’ll flash there and get started working the crowd. But Bastian”—she speared him with a hard look—“I’m going to describe exactly what you’re going to see, hear, and smell. If you can’t handle it, don’t go, because this is our best chance to track down Gaston and the other male.”

He grinned, relieved beyond comprehension. “You’d be surprised how quickly I can adjust to the lifestyles of the rich and infamous.”