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Although murdering Lassiter’s chippy, as always, was in her back pocket.
“Do you want to come inside?” the realtor prompted as she stood to the side and motioned with her French-manicured, old lady hand.
Lash waltzed by the woman like he already owned the place.
And two could play that game.
* * *
As Lash crossed the threshold of the mansion, he thought of all those human horror movies about vampires. The Lost Boys. Blade. Dracula, the one from the seventies, and then the Francis Ford Coppola update with Gary Oldman.
What was that one with Colin Firth—no, Farrell. Fright Night.
Where the hell had the rats without tails gotten the invitation-into-a-house-first thing?
Same place garlic came from, he supposed.
As he looked around the foyer, the woman he’d called from the listing he’d found online prattled on about various architectural features, historic whatevers, and handcrafted thises and thats. It was as easy to tune her out now as it had been in her car, and for a moment, he was tempted to break some glass with her head just to get some peace and quiet. He refrained—because he liked the antique window panes with their bubbles, and the chandeliers and mirrors that had been placed with care.
If the woman only knew how narrowly her life had been saved. And by what.
Walking where he chose, he approved of the simple and elegant layout, multiple parlors offering different areas for entertaining, the dining room generous, the study a masculine haven, the kitchen kitted out for a professional staff.
Everything was in fine condition, the old molding freshly painted, the Zuber wallpaper applied with expertise, the floors varnished and covered with fine carpets from the Middle East. He even liked the drapes, the pops of coral, red, and blue silk damask elevating the restrained colors of the furniture.
It was all just what he was looking for—at least until the future he envisioned for himself on the property fell apart as he got to the base of the stairs. Staring up at the second floor, he was reminded that this was not a vampire house, one fortified with shutters that would come down for the day or living quarters underground that were something so much more than a bomb shelter built in the forties. Likewise, he was forced to confront the fact that he was no longer an aristocrat, with a cohort of social equals swanning around in finery while dissecting all manner of discourse in search of slights and misappropriations of status.
He was the son of evil.
Here to conquer Caldwell.
With an army of streetwise killers who wouldn’t know a salad fork from a pair of sterling tongs.
Exactly what did he think he would use a place like this for? It wasn’t as if he could desert his subordinates. They were too shocked to act independently right now, but they were aggressive enough to start to get creative when they felt more at ease. Besides, there were plans to be made, weapons to buy and store, perishable skills to develop.
“Don’t you want to go upstairs?” the realtor asked.
Looking over at the woman, he—
The sensation tackled him from behind, and his body arched like someone had shot him in the back, right between the shoulder blades. As he barked a curse and contorted, the realtor put her hands forward.
“Mr. LeRoi? Are you—”
He cried out and went down to his knees, the black-and-white marble floor cracking his caps as a rocketing pain sliced through the center of his chest. With fumbling hands, he undid his suit jacket, and when he couldn’t see the exit wound of a bullet on his fine white shirt, he yanked the goddamn thing apart, little pearlized disks flying free.
His sternum was intact, the hairless skin unmarred over his pecs.
“Should I call nine-one-one?” The realtor leaned down. “Mr. LeRoi? Are you all right?”
Absently, he noted that her fake posh accent had been ditched in favor of a much more appropriate, lower-class twang.
Opening his mouth, he intended to answer her, but a sudden weakness overcame him, his eyes rolling back in his head. As he went limp, he thought about his sire. The fucking Omega and his self-interest was legion. Was this an attempt for the father to come forward from the abyss?
Was Lash’s presence up here on the earth all just some kind of stepping-stone out of oblivion, a loophole in the Dhestroyer Prophecy—
“I’ll take it from here,” a familiar female voice said.
Oh… great. Just what he needed.
The demon in charge of him when he was like this. And how the hell had she found him?
Unless she’d followed his ass.
Shit.
“You can go now, sweetheart,” Devina said to the realtor. “Unless you want to make friends with me?”
Lash’s last thought, before he lost consciousness, was a piece of advice for a human woman he couldn’t have given less of a shit about: Do yourself a favor, lady. Don’t make friends with the bitch, she’ll eat you alive.
