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Crace arrived next to his forge.
“Yeah, follow me, ass**le,” he cried.
But no one came.
Adrenaline pumped like fire through his body. He paced and shouted at the enormous ceiling, a vaulted space of heavy carved rock. His voice bounced back. He shouted again. He’d failed on both counts. No Havily and no dead Parisa. Fuck.
But if Havily hadn’t dematerialized, then where the hell had she gone? Where the hell had the mortal gone? And who had taken her away? What kind of power had been in that room that could have made the women disappear without leaving behind the signature of even one trace?
He cursed and stomped around for a good loud minute until he saw what would calm his nerves. The latest mortal he’d apprehended stood shivering in white gauze against the walls, her arms manacled overhead. She was still fresh, not even drooping yet. Good. She’d probably put up a fight.
He approached her, ripped the gauze, pushed her head to one side, and buried his fangs.
The screams and fists only made it better.
God, he loved being a vampire.
* * *
Marcus stood beside Medichi in the small turreted room. No Havily. No Parisa. Where the hell were they?
Medichi ducked beneath the canopy and smoothed a hand over the black-and-red quilt covering the bed. “Parisa was here. Her scent is near the bed. Do you think somehow Crace got her?”
His dark eyes were wild as he met Marcus’s gaze.
“I don’t know. I’m trying to figure out what happened.” Havily had definitely been here as well. He could smell honeysuckle thick in the space. He took a deep breath and calmed his racing heart. He folded his sword to Bainbridge since the space was so confined. Medichi followed suit, his sword disappearing as well. Identified swords were dangerous.
He searched for folding traces but found, thank God, only one faint telltale stream of light, which meant Crace had dematerialized alone.
“I’m only seeing one trace,” Marcus said. “Not even two, never mind three.”
He saw the small door off to the side. He opened it and found one helluva small bathroom, a shower in the corner, toilet, a sink the size of a tortoiseshell. But no one was in there.
He turned back into the bedroom and met Medichi’s tortured gaze.
“Where are the women?” Medichi asked. Sweat from the recent battle flooded his face and dripped down his neck.
In that instant, Marcus knew exactly what had happened to them. “Havily,” he said in a strong voice. “You can come out now.”
Medichi frowned, turned toward the bed, and dropped to his knees. He peered under. “They’re not here.”
“If it’s where I think they are, they’re safe. Really safe.”
“Well, where the hell do you think they are?”
“The darkening.”
Medichi rose up and stared at him. “You’re shitting me.”
Marcus shook his head. “Nope.” He even smiled.
Medichi glanced around the room once more. “I won’t believe it until they’re standing right next to me.”
And then there they were, both women, standing right next to him. Havily had her arms around Parisa, who in turn was weeping against Havily’s neck.
The sight broke his heart. His smile dimmed.
“My fault. My fault,” Parisa sobbed.
“Hey,” Marcus called softly. He met Havily’s gaze, but she shook her head.
“I’m not sure what to do,” she said softly. “She blames herself.”
Marcus glanced at Medichi, whose gaze was fixed to Parisa. Medichi paled as he stared at her. He blinked a couple of times then started backing out of the room. The next moment he disappeared through the doorway. Medichi’s heavy boots could be heard thumping down the spiral staircase.
Marcus turned his attention back to the ascendiate. “This was not your fault, Parisa,” he said. “You are never to be blamed if an attack comes.”
Suddenly he was angry. He hated that this innocent woman had been attacked, he hated the war, he hated death vampires, he hated that Endelle’s administration was so ineffectual, she’d lost ground in the past decade. “goddammit, Parisa, it’s not your fault!”
“Marcus,” Havily said, her eyes wide. “I don’t think you’re helping.” But Parisa turned in her arms, her eyes wet and puffy, and looked at him.
Marcus couldn’t contain his rage and he cried once more, “It’s not your f**king fault!”
Parisa hiccuped and a new wave of tears slid down her face.
He was out of control and he knew it. He wanted to hit something. He swiped the back of his hand over his forehead. Sweat flowed.
Havily was right, he wasn’t helping. So he turned on his heel and hurried down the narrow staircase, just as Medichi had and maybe for the same reason. One shoulder or the other jostled the plastered walls as he moved. He cursed the entire distance.
When he reached the hallway, he punched the air several times then saw a flash of light outside where the battle had taken place. Central had just done cleanup on Medichi’s front yard. He drew a deep breath. For some reason that settled him down. Twelve pretty-boys out of the picture permanently. Go f**king team.
He made his way through the kitchen, dining room, and receiving room to the foyer. The massive front door was wide open; hot June air assaulted the cooler interior.
He followed the sound of male voices.
When he reached the threshold, he paused.
There they were. The Warriors of the Blood, all of them, with the exception of Kerrick. Even Luken had arrived in the interim, bearing his sword and wearing flight gear. Flight gear. Holy shit. Was he really ready to start battling again? Even flying?
Something gentled within Marcus at the sight of him. Luken was healed up and ready to make war again. To a man, the warriors had gathered around him.
Luken held his arms akimbo and flexed his biceps and pecs, all the while smiling as he struck a bodybuilder pose. The next moment his wings flew with preternatural speed through his wing-locks and a fully restored pair emerged, popping high into full-mount. He had elegant, powerful wings in a light blue. How the hell had he healed so fast? Well, wasn’t that ascension for you?
Slowly, Marcus made his way across the lawn. His heart swelled at the sight of the men who had come so fast to take care of business.
Zach shoved Luken’s shoulder. “Who the hell could keep you down for long?”
Luken grinned. The warrior was happy to be back. Yep, ready for battle.
Jean-Pierre lifted his hand. Luken gripped it hard, then dragged the Frenchman against him for a hug, his wings shimmying with the movement.
