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It was not, however, a problem that he could address now, so he put it out of his mind, focusing instead on sliding the car into the garage, and then stepping inside. He almost called for Melton, only to remember that he’d sent his butler to the Beverly Hills mansion after Doyle’s intrusive visit. The butler much preferred the kitchen in that location, and he tended to bake when he was worried. Apparently, it calmed him.
No lights burned in the house, yet the moment Luke opened the door, he knew that someone had been there. Not Tasha, though. Sergius.
Luke tensed, nostrils flaring, shoulders rolling into a fighting stance as his temper reached the boiling point.
Back it up. Back it up and keep the serpent at bay.
This wasn’t the time, he told himself. Not the time to lose control. Not when so much was riding on him remaining calm. On him thinking rather than acting.
“Serge!” he called. “Where the hell are you?”
No answer.
“Dammit, Serge. We do this now or we do it later. Choose.”
Silence echoed in return. The house was empty.
The ocean.
The moment the thought entered his head, Luke knew that was where Sergius would be. Like himself, Serge had always had a fondness for the sea. For the sting of salt in the mist, the tug of the currents, and the mystery of black, unplumbed depths.
He stepped onto the back deck, then climbed down the steps to the beach, the sand glowing in the moonlight.
At first, he thought that he was mistaken, for he saw no sign of Serge. Then he looked closer and saw the faint outline of a body prone in the sand, the surf crashing over it. He stalked to the water, then stood over his friend, who lay sprawled in the surf.
“Get up,” Luke said, extending his left hand to his friend to draw him up, the slow burn of rage and disgust growing within.
“Fuck you. Fuck me. We’re all fucked anyway, aren’t we?”
He pulled Serge to his feet. And when the other man had steadied himself, Luke reached back with his right arm and punched his closest friend and fellow kyne hard in the face, knocking him back down into the sand. He fell upon him then, his hand splayed wide over Serge’s heart.
“Do you remember?” he whispered. “Do you remember what we did? In the village outside of Prague? How we took over the town? How we killed our competition? How we cut the hearts out one by one, lining them up so that the next victims would know what was coming? And then how we cut off the heads and left them on pikes?”
His eyes met Luke’s, the pain evident behind the serpent’s steely gaze. “I would die rather than be that monster again.”
“I would not give you the satisfaction,” Lucius spat as the serpent rose up in fury, preening and roaring and ready for a fight. “You lost her,” he hissed, as his fists rained down on his friend. “I trusted you, and you lost her. You touched her. Did you fuck her, Serge? Did you fuck my ward?”
The answer was immaterial. It was only the wrath that mattered. As hot as molten steel, as sharp as any blade, and his serpent fed on it. Tasted it. Sucked it in. And, yes, grew strong.
With clawed fingers, he reached down, his hand over Sergius’s heart as he clutched, hard, wanting to rip through flesh, wanting to dig through muscle. Deep within, a voice yelled for him to stop, to wait, but he was too far gone, and soon the man he had once called friend would be gone, too, the serpent having taken action, having gotten rid of traitors and fools.
Hot hands clutched his wrist, and Lucius met Sergius’s eyes. Serge may have wanted to die, but the same could not be said of the darkness that raged inside him, and Lucius gave a roar of satisfaction as the beast met him, challenged him in combat. A pretty fight it would be, he thought, as Serge rose up, slamming his forehead into Luke’s and knocking him backward.
Sergius did not waste the advantage, springing up and attacking, the serpent not hesitating, not planning or considering.
They’d been changed on the same day, and both men andAzagwere equally matched. This night, however, Serge held the advantage, as his serpent writhed free. Lucius knew the cost, and held back, determined even within the throes of the rising darkness to cling to the shred of both humanity and sanity.
Serge’s heel intersected with Luke’s jaw, rattling his teeth, and Lucius considered that sanity was overrated. He rushed, sideswiping Serge’s steadying leg before the kick came back to center. Serge lost balance and Luke pressed his advantage, falling hard upon his friend, his enemy, his brother.
He had no stake, but that seemed hardly important at the moment. He crushed his hands against the sides of Serge’s skull. Beheading killed a vampire just as well, and right then, Lucius could rip the bastard’s head off.
Deep within, Luke pressed back, trying for control. Trying to surface.
On the beach, Lucius held fast, eyes on Serge’s face, relishing the moment when the fiend was ripped apart.
“I didn’t,” Serge said, his eyes flashing red, but his body going limp.
Lucius hesitated, the serpent wary, looking for some trick. “Speak,” Lucius demanded.
