Cole dropped the spoon into his mug with a clatter. “You know, one day I’m gonna show up here for a nice family breakfast, and you Redthornes are gonna be talkin’ about—oh, I don’t know. Regular family bullshit. The kind that don’t end with a demon setting the world on fire or a vampire chained up in a dungeon.”
“Not likely, mate.” Aiden appeared in the kitchen entryway, his face as pale and gray as the layer of ash covering his clothes. “Hate to be the bearer of more irregular, non-family bullshit, but Renault Duchanes is dead.”
Chapter Ten
Ash and brimstone hung heavy in the air, stinging the back of Jaci’s throat and making her eyes itch.
The alcove in the crypts was empty, save for the IV rack dangling from the ceiling, the chains bolted to the wall, and an impressive pile of ash formerly known as Renault Duchanes.
“How thefuckdid this happen?” Gabriel demanded.
“Suicide,” Colin said.
Gabriel toed the pile of ash. “By what means? He would’ve needed a stake, or hellfire, or—”
“Decapitation. Look at the chains,” Colin said, pointing out the one that’d bound Renault’s wrists, the iron links coated in so much ash it was nearly white. Colin looped it around his neck, mimicking a noose. “It would’ve been the only way.”
“You’re telling me the vampire Jacinda and I beat and tortured—the vampire we left bleeding to death and barely conscious—had the strength to wrap an iron chain around his neck so tightly he cut off his own head?” Gabriel let out a bitter laugh. “Forgive me for questioning your professional assessment, Dr. Redthorne, but that’s just not possible.”
“Fucking coward.” Dorian paced the small space of the alcove. Then, whirling on Colin and Aiden, “You two were supposed to be monitoring him. How could he have done something like this without your knowledge?”
“We were in Father’s laboratory on the other side of the crypts,” Colin said. “I’d only just changed his IV bags moments earlier. He must’ve done it right after I left. I’m sorry, Dorian. If I’d known it was possible for him to—”
“Itwasn’tpossible.” Jaci ran her fingers along the cold stone wall, trying not to lose the last of her dwindling hope. Renault was a piece of utter garbage, but he was also the vampire with the magic heart—the heart that was supposed to bind Viansa, help break the Redthorne curse, and stop a dastardly demonic plot from destroying the entire world. “You don’t smell the brimstone? This wasn’t a suicide. It was a demon attack.”
“Viansa,” Gabriel gritted out. “Is she here?”
“Not physically, no. I think she just… got into his head.”
“And convinced him to chop it off?”
“She must’ve figured out we’d taken him hostage,” Jaci said. “Maybe he even told her as much, hoping she could bust him out. Stupid asshole. He was no good to her as a Redthorne prisoner.”
“Now he’s no good to us either.Fuck!” Gabriel grabbed the chains, tore them right from the stone. Chunks of rock and metal hit the ground, a crack splitting the wall.
“Gabriel,” Jaci said.
No response.
“Gabriel.”
He spun around to face her, frustration and anger drawing his face tight. “Duchanes was our best shot at—”
His words fell away, and in an instant, all that rage turned into pure, uncut pain. She saw it slice through his eyes, heard it in the sharp and sudden gasp he sucked through his teeth.
“Jacinda!” he hissed. “Get… out of here.Go!”
Without warning, Dorian grabbed her and shoved her against the stone wall, shielding her with his body as Gabriel barreled into him from behind. Fangs bared, his irises a deadly shade of red, he shoved past Dorian’s arm and wrapped a hand around Jaci’s throat.
Not in the sexy way.
“It’s… Viansa,” Gabriel ground out, shaking with the effort of holding the succubus at bay. “In my… head. You… danger. I can’t…”
His face twisted, lips drawing back over his fangs, eyes full of so much malice she hardly recognized him as the man who claimed to love her.
Dorian finally managed to loosen Gabriel’s grip, then tore him away from her, slamming him into the opposite wall and shouting for Jaci to get the fuck out of there.
But she wouldn’t leave him. Not like this.
