“What the fuck did you say?”

Chris snapped. “I said, where the fuck is Isobel?”

Click.

Evangeline hung up on him without replying. Then ignored his repeated calls, sending Chris to voicemail. Personalized messages just for him. “Fuck off, asshole. Beep.” “Go suck on some hairy satyr balls, twat waffle.” And the worst one… “You are not good enough for my sister.”

Probably accurate, but that didn’t mean Chris listened. He kept calling because he was an annoying prick and didn’t know what else to do. To his surprise, she answered his thirteenth call.

“You are never going to stop, are you?” she said without preamble.

“Nope.”

“Nobody likes a desperate man.”

“Don’t fucking lecture me. It’s been a trying day.”

“I don’t know what you think you’ll accomplish seeing Isobel.”

He didn’t either, but he found hope in the fact that Evangeline wasn’t freaking about her sister disappearing. “You know where she is.”

“Maybe.”

“Tell me.”

“Why should I tell you? You’re nothing but a lowlife working a dead-end job.” Said with the disdain of royalty. “My sister is so much better than you.”

“She is. And if she wants nothing to do with me, then she can tell me herself.”

“Okay.”

“You can’t—what?”

“I’ll be by to grab you in ten minutes.”

Evangeline hung up before Chris could give her an address, which was the corner of who-fucking-cared. Not that it mattered. The witch had no idea where he was.

Damn it, people sucked. Calling back led to dead air.

Tucking his phone into his pocket, Chris grumbled as he walked, partially slouched over. “Stupid fucking magic shit pissing me off.”

He stumbled and recovered as something big landed in front of him. Not a bird, or a piano, but a woman.

On a broom.

Chris glanced at the sky and then Evangeline. “Oh, hell no. You did not just fulfill every cliché known to man about witches.”

“Actually, most of the lazy cows stylizing themselves as witches these days prefer to enchant carpets because they’re more comfortable. Pussies.” She sneered, a red lip pulling over perfectly white teeth. “Magic shouldn’t be easy. Or comfortable.” She leaned the broom so that her ass sat on the wide pole. “Coming?”

“On that?” He pointed and shook his head. “Like fuck am I trusting you to fly me on that death stick.”

“Then I guess you don’t want to find Isobel as badly as you claimed. Or is it because you’re afraid?” She clucked like a chicken.

Suffice it to say, a moment later, he was holding on to her waist, the wind streaming through his hair while the crazy bitch did loop de loops. He didn’t scream like a girl. Or piss his pants. He did, however, make a mental note to abolish brooms the moment he came into power. Let the people use vacuums in the future.

Getting off the broom, hoping no one snapped a pic of him riding bitch-style, he rubbed his ass. His poor abused ass.

“Did it ever occur to you to add a seat cushion?” he grumbled.

Evangeline’s lips curved into a smirk as she replied, “Never. I like the feel of something long and hard between my legs.” She winked.

Any other time, he might have winked back, and yet, for this woman, he felt nothing. Not entirely true. He felt annoyance. But at the same time, the witch had come through for him, bringing him to where he could find Isobel.

A giant fucking mansion.

“Where the hell are we?” he asked.

“Home. Not for me anymore. I moved out. But Isobel still lives here with Mother and Grandfather.”

This massive mansion was Isobel’s home.

Shit.

“How rich are you?” he muttered, looking up at the sprawling home that screamed of a wealth he’d never known. But I will one day when I fulfill my destiny. And when I do acquire all that wealth, my house will be bigger than this.

Much bigger. And probably a castle. With turrets, because nothing screamed ruler of the world than a shit-ton of fucking turrets.

He tried to let his fantasy of the future quell any intimidation the house tried to impart. He could feel the weight of it pushing against him. As if a subtle force whispered, “Bow and obey.”

The Son of Perdition bowed for no one.

“Are you going to stand there all day staring like a slack-jawed bumpkin, or knock? I thought you wanted to see Isobel,” Evangeline sassed.

“I do. But…” The realization that Isobel’s own family had abducted her gave him pause. Add to that he’d not expected her to be filthy rich…

None of that should matter.

Shoulders back, head held high, he approached the front door, a massive affair carved of the darkest wood he’d ever seen, almost a pure ebony so deep the grain was hard to see. It held a slight gloss, a thin veneer coating protecting intricate patterns covering the panels, whorls, and squiggles that almost looked like writing. The more he stared, the more he could almost read it.

…beware thy entry.

…death to trespassers.

…salesmen not welcome.

He shook his head to clear it of the whispers. His imagination ran rampant these days.

“Still waiting,” Evangeline sassed. “I haven’t got all day.”

“Stop rushing me. I’ll knock when I’m good and ready.”

“I’ve seen snails move faster.”

While he wouldn’t admit she had a point, he did need to do something.

In the center of the massive panels, a ring of heavy brass hung from a square metal plate. He lifted it and rapped.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Six times.

He’d always liked the number six.

He stood back and waited for an answer.

“Some Antichrist you are,” mumbled Evangeline as she approached behind him. She pushed past him and grabbed the handle to swing open the door. “A real King of Babylon, the one they call the Lawless One, would just walk in.”

Jaw dropped, he gaped at her, mostly because he hated to admit it. She raised a valid point. Since when did he have manners or respect for other people’s property? It would all belong to him in the end. Then again… “What would Isobel say if I just came barging in, making demands?”

“She’d probably cream her panties and throw herself at you.”

“I would not!” The hot exclamation drew him forward and into the house, where he saw Isobel. Safe. Unharmed. Because her own family had kidnapped her.

With ghosts.

The evidence of the rift separating them widened. Unlike him, she knew her roots. She came from a powerful family, a wealthy one. The evidence of it lay all around.

Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, intricate molding everywhere he looked. But none of it as fascinating as the woman coming down the stairs. A woman he’d worried about.

The horror.

A woman he’d rushed to save.

Who didn’t need rescue.

A girl from a ridiculously rich family.

Why did she keep it secret?

His frustration and relief and joy boiled out. “Would it have killed you to call and let me know you were all right?” For some reason, he yelled. The panic of before had subsided. Rising in its place, anger. Anger over the fact that she didn’t actually need him. She had everything she could ever want. Why would she want him?

A bastard no one wanted to claim.

Not true. His demonic, body-possessing mother wanted him, but he didn’t think it was to give him a maternal hug. I think she wants my body. Which sounded disturbing, no matter which way he said it.

Isobel crossed her arms, and he noticed she’d showered and changed since their excursion in the library, unlike him. “Exactly how was I supposed to call? You never gave me your number.”

Good point. He just refused to recognize it. A man never admitted to erring. “You know where I live and where I work.”

“I don’t answer to you.”

“Ooh. You tell him, little sister.” Evangeline watched them, her gaze bouncing between them as if she were at a tennis match.

“Shut up, Eva. This is between me and Captain Caveman.”

“I am more than a captain. I am the Son of Perdition, the future King of Fierce Countenance.”

“Not yet you aren’t, and even if you were, that still wouldn’t give you the right to dictate to me.”

“I thought we were something more.” The weak admission spilled from him.

For a moment, her face softened.

About time. She shouldn’t be mad at him. He was the one who worried about her. She owed him reparation. He could think of a quick way to earn his forgiveness. He wondered if there was something softer for her knees than the cold marble floor.

“You thought wrong. We are friends. Nothing more.”

The fact that she pushed him away triggered something in him. Pain. Desperation. A need for her to admit that he was more than nothing. “I’d say we’re more than friends.”

She shook her head. “We can’t be more than that.”

“Why not?” Begging, a new thing for him, and it tasted as bitter as it sounded.

“I am a daughter of the Rasputin family.”

“And?” He continued to torture himself by trying to understand why she kept pushing him away.

“Don’t you recognize the name?” Isobel asked.

“Wasn’t Rasputin the name of that guy in that song?”

“What song?” Isobel asked.

Evangeline snickered. “Holy shit, he’s referring to that song by Boney M. That is hilarious. Keep digging, douche nozzle.”

He frowned.

Isobel let out a sigh. “Stop teasing him, Eva. He obviously doesn’t know who we are.” She turned to him. “My grandfather is the Rasputin, the renowned Russian sorcerer.”

He shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

At this, Evangeline took exception. “Fuck off. How could you not have heard of him? He ruled Russia behind the scenes for years. The tsar didn’t do a thing unless our grandfather advised it.”

He shrugged. “Lots of folks have influenced leaders. That doesn’t make them famous.”

“He’s almost a hundred and fifty years old.”

“Says you.”

“Says his birth records.”

“And? It’s not unusual for folks to live past the century mark. If he’s only your grandfather, though, then how old was he when he had your mother? Or is your mother an old bat?” Many women now waited later in life to start their families.

“Old bat!” Snorts erupted from Evangeline, who held herself up with the aid of a wall. “Oh, I can’t wait until Mother meets him. I don’t think we have a container small enough to contain his remains when she’s done with him.”

“Mother is not going to kill him.” Stated by Isobel, and yet she gnawed her lower lip.

“I am not easy to kill,” he interjected. Or the forces against the Antichrist would have found and killed him long ago.

“Maybe she won’t murder him, but she will probably scar or maim him for calling her old.” Eva still smirked. “References to her age are not well received.”

“She can bite me if she doesn’t like it. Maybe if you hadn’t kept so many secrets, we wouldn’t be in this predicament.” He glared at Isobel.

She remained undaunted. “Don’t blame me. Exactly when did we have time to exchange life stories?”

“I told you about my mother and the cult. Maybe somewhere in there you could have said, ‘hey, I’m a ridiculously loaded chick with really old family members who are tottering around on walkers thinking they’re the shit.’”

“Maybe you would be better off as a puddle.” Isobel took a step toward him.

“Maybe you should shut up and give me head like you were supposed to.”

“Excuse me?” She blinked, and even Evangeline uttered a shocked, “Did he seriously just say that?”

Chris threw up his hands and finally gave in to the rant bubbling inside. “You have totally ruined this day. You were supposed to be grateful when I appeared to rescue you. Throw yourself into my arms, declare me your hero—with excellent hair—and then proceed to beg to give me oral pleasure in thanks.”

“That is the most delusional thing I’ve ever heard,” Isobel sputtered.

“Is it?” He put his hands on his hips. “Because I watch a lot of movies. I know how this shit works.”

“Porn doesn’t count,” muttered Evangeline.

“Would you shut up?” he snapped, turning to face her. “I wasn’t talking to you, and I am tired of hearing it. Shut. Up.”

The witch’s eyes widened, her mouth opened and closed, yet not a sound emerged.

“What did you do to my sister?” Isobel ran at him and began to pummel his chest.

Chris glared down at her, noting the golden wheat of her hair and inhaling the fresh, clean scent of her shampoo. Vanilla.

Delicious.

Mine.

His to take. Screw asking. Asking got him nowhere.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her on tiptoe. Her hands became trapped between them. Her lips parted. Clear invitation.

A gasp left her, captured by his mouth as it descended. He kissed her. And surely the ground moved because a tremble went through him, through them both.

Deny it all she wanted, something existed between them, something powerful and right.

Something perfect.

So why the fuck did people keep trying to interrupt?

“Unhand my granddaughter at once!”

Chris reluctantly pulled his mouth from his duckie’s to confront the newest cock blocker.

He beheld a tall man, probably in his late fifties or early sixties. His head bald as a cue ball, but his beard long and pointed, a deep black mixed with gray. Dark and piercing eyes were set under one mighty unibrow. A straight and thin nose perched above thin lips pulled tightly in disapproval. But the most interesting aspect of the man’s appearance was the robe threaded with silver filigree that glinted when he moved.

“Who the fuck are you?” growled Chris.

“I am her grandfather. Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin, and who am I going to have the distinct pleasure of killing?”

No more playing Mr. Nice Guy. Time to let these cock blockers know who they dealt with.

“I am Christopher Lucius Baphomet, the Son of Perdition, the Abomination of Desolation, the Destroyer of Nations, more commonly called the Antichrist, and your fucking superior, asshole, so show some goddamned respect!”