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I used the time to calculate the distance between the guards, the angles at which they held their weapons, and their proximity to Lyric. They were no match for Hawke, Benedict, or even a one-handed Lachlan, but they weren’t my problem.
Moorehouse was.
“You think I want you? I’d sooner let every soldier in my army fuck you raw until you bled out on this floor than let you near this family again! You’re as good as dead to me, you stupid bitch, and as soon as your brother sees the security footage, you’ll actually be dead.”
Valor gasped.
Lachlan growled.
“Every bullet in their guns is loaded with Night Thistle,” Valor said softly, her voice breaking. “They increased the concentration when Lachlan didn’t die that night.”
Lachlan’s head snapped sideways, pinning Valor with an accusing glare for the length of a heartbeat before turning back to the enemy.
I couldn’t blame the woman for keeping us in the dark about that little bit of information. She thought she’d been protecting her family. But damn if that didn’t make our situation a fuck-load more dangerous. In high enough doses, Night Thistle would drive a vampire into instant, irreversible, fixated bloodlust that would require an assassin’s bullet to put down.
“Why would you betray us like that? You had everything!” he shouted, his gun-hand shaking slightly and drawing every ounce of my attention. “You were destined to take over Moorehouse! You would have been the first woman with a seat on the Board of the Sons!”
Sons...The Sons of Honor.
No. Fucking. Way.
The pieces clicked in rapid succession. Moorehouse. Sons. Night Thistle. Why the hell hadn’t I seen it?
“Every Moorehouse was killed after the 1802 massacre.” My statement shut them all up. Lachlan tensed at my side.
Moorehouse’s gaze snapped back to meet mine. “You mean the systematic slaughter of a hundred and three patriots?” he asked softly. “Is that what you call it? The massacre?”
“No,” Lachlan answered for me. “That’s what we call the night the Sons of Honor lost all their integrity by breaking the Covenant they’d begged us for, and massacring the noble bloodlines of witches, wolves, and demons, to include my grandfather and the Markovs!” His voice shook the glass in the panels of the doors that lined the halls.
“The covenant never should have existed!” Moorhouse shouted. “We could have won the revolution without you! But the original thirteen families were so weak that they put the fate of this country in the hands of…abominations. They’d made a deal with the devil and finally started to set things right by beginning your extermination. They were patriots who died defending the human race, and we will finish their fight!”
The guards all nodded, the same crazed zeal in their eyes that shone in Moorehouse’s.
Lyric’s heart slowed even further, and it took everything in my body to keep my gaze locked on Moorehouse. If I could just keep him talking, he’d slip and give me the split-second advantage I needed to get Lyric out of here alive.
“They were cowards who murdered children in their beds,” Lachlan countered.
“My ancestor, Zebulon Moorehouse, was no coward! He ran from the house as a horde of you undead fucks set it on fire! He lived, and we live on! Descendants of the twelve honorable families who wouldn’t live under the reign of evil!”
Twelve. Because the O’Flanneries had been the thirteenth and never wavered from their support of the Covenant.
I felt an ice-kissed breeze along the back of my neck and smiled. It was time.
“What the fuck are you smiling about? I have your queen! I have the upper hand!” His voice pitched higher with every word.
“Zebulon Moorehouse didn’t escape the fire. I let him go.” I shrugged.
Moorehouse’s jaw dropped.
Good.
Prickles of heat danced over my forearm, and my grin widened.
“He was the nephew of Abigail and Ephraim, if I remember correctly, and I do.” That night was crystal clear in my memory. I could still smell the wood as it caught fire. “After all, he was the one who’d led us to that meetinghouse where all the families were celebrating the death of our loved ones.”
“You lie!” He shuffled Lyric forward, and her heartbeat picked back up. “It was his son Isaac, my great-great-great-grandfather, who wrote The Liberated Sons’ Manifesto! Isaac wrote it all down and raised us up! Zebulon was a hero!”
I cocked my head to the side. “You’re telling me that you’re not just a Moorehouse, but you’re a direct descendant of Zebulon?” Fascinating.
“I am honored to be his progeny!” He yanked Lyric even higher against his chest, and her toes dangled off the floor before she found the ground again.
My stomach churned, and my vision flipped back to thermal for two blinks. Then it was back, and I couldn’t stop myself from glancing at my mate’s eyes.
They were locked on mine, wide, but steady.
