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Yeah. I suspect it's either the butler or the chef. I know Daskill employs both.
Lazy bastard.
Amusement played around his mouth. The mega-rich do like their little treats. And he probably won't live long enough for them to get old.
There was no probably about that.
Okay, he added, the guard is down. Rhoan is moving to the back of the house. Time for you to go.
I blew him a kiss, then ran across the carefully manicured garden, my steps so fast and light I didn't disturb any of the rocks.
The security box near the front door sat in the alarmed position, and I hesitated fractionally before grabbing the handle and opening the door. No alarms sounded. Sal had done her job well.
I closed the door and looked around to get my bearings. The entrance hall looked bigger in life than it had on the plans, the ceiling double height and dominated by a massive gold chandelier. Four doors led off the entrance and a glass staircase complete with a gold banister curved its way up to the first floor. The scent of unknown werewolf was coming from the living area, which was the door on my immediate right, and from the back of the house came Rhoan's familiar tang as well as the soft hint of roses. Given that it was accompanied by the mouthwatering aroma of freshly baked bread, I was betting it belong to the chef.
I headed for the stairs. Rhoan reappeared as I reached for the banister, and I raised an eyebrow in question. He raised a finger, then folded it half down. Meaning the chef was out for the count.
And if the crumbs on his shirt were anything to go by, so was whatever he was baking.
We climbed the stairs swiftly but silently. There were six doors leading off the overly large hallway, one of which was the bathroom, one a study, and the others were bedrooms. Daskill's was the last one on the left.
We crept forward, every step swallowed by the lush thickness of the carpet. Obviously, no one had told him shag pile had gone out of fashion with the Dark Ages.
There wasn't a whole lot of noise coming out of the bedroom. Daskill and his wife were obviously quiet types. Either that, or they'd finished - although the scent of lust and desire riding the air was increasing, not fading.
I glanced over my to brother and motioned to the other side of the double door frame. He nodded and moved past me, his movements a blur as he raced across the open space.
There was still no indication that Daskill and his missus had any idea something was wrong.
Rhoan raised three fingers and began counting them down. I got my laser out but didn't fire it up. The damn things were noisy and, in the hush surrounding us, would have been too obvious.
The last finger went down. We moved as one into the room, Rhoan going to the right and me to the left. Like everything else in the house, the bedroom was white and gold. The only spot of color was Daskill's ass, and the black and silver of the guns sitting on either bedside table.
Daskill really didn't like to take chances.
She saw us first, and her eyes went wide. As she opened her mouth to scream, I fired up the laser and heard its echo from the other side of the room.
"Bobby Daskill," I said, slipping my free hand into my pocket and withdrawing my ID. "You're under arrest on suspicion of murder. Please move away from your wife and stand with your hands up."
For the barest of moments, he froze. Then he did the stupidest thing possible and lunged for his weapon. I fired, as did Rhoan. The twin beams of light cut across the room, hitting Daskill's reaching hand. The smell of burning flesh stung the air as the lasers severed then cauterized the first three fingers on his left hand.
His screams joined his wife's. Rhoan glanced at me, his expression one of disgust as he shook his head and walked forward. That's when the wife moved. One minute she was screaming like a banshee, and the next she had a gun in her hand and was aiming it at Rhoan's head. There was no time for finesse. I simply shot.
I meant to get her hand, but she was moving too fast, and the beam took off her arm instead. Her severed limb plopped inelegantly to the bed, and the weapon - thanks to the fact that her finger was still curled around the trigger - fired. The bullet skimmed past Rhoan's nose and thudded into the wall behind him.
The wife went back to screaming. High-pitched, wailing sounds of horror, but I wasn't feeling any sympathy. Not when the bitch had just tried to kill my brother.
He glanced at me, blinking, the tip of his nose somewhat blackened. "Damn, that was close."
"Totally." I strode forward, grabbed Daskill by the scruff of his neck, and dragged his wobbly pink butt off the bed. "Bobby Daskill, consider yourself under arrest. Now get your scrawny ass down those stairs."
"But I'm naked - "
"Like I care." I pushed him toward the door, my finger still on the trigger and the laser whining ominously at his back.
Rhoan hauled the still-screaming woman up by her good arm, grabbed the sheet, and threw it roughly around her body. Then, with his hand still clamped around hers, he forced her to march forward.
We headed down the stairs, then outside. I couldn't sense Quinn near, but almost before I could form a question, his thoughts were flowing through my mind. I'm in the car. Things were getting a little warm, even with the protection of the sunscreen and the shade of the wall.
