“You’re stuck here for now,” the king pointed out. “You can snap and snarl like a rabid hellhound or you can accept your fate with a little grace.”
Grace?
Roke hadn’t wanted to come to Chicago in the first place, but the Anasso had insisted they needed his rare talent for reading prophecies. Then, just when he was preparing to return to his clan in Nevada, the prophet, Cassandra, had claimed to have seen him in one of her visions.
Now he was stuck in this godforsaken palace of marble and gilt, so bored out of his mind that he was beginning to imagine he could be attracted to a pint-sized witch.
“Just because that damned prophet—”
“Careful, Roke,” Styx interrupted, his power edged with pinpricks of warning. “That ‘damned prophet’ is part of my family.”
Cassandra was the sister to Styx’s mate, Darcy. Both pure-blooded Weres, but well-deserving of respect.
“I, like everyone, revere the prophet. But, just because she saw me in one of her visions, the gods only know how long ago, doesn’t mean I have to be trapped in Chicago,” he clarified.
“Trapped?”
His fangs ached. He needed to bite something.
Or someone.
Perhaps a tiny female with hair the color of autumn, rich brown eyes, and the sweet scent of peaches . . .
No, dammit.
He turned to glare at the Mary Cassatt painting framed on the wall. Not that he could disguise his unease from Styx. The ancient vampire wasn’t the Anasso just because he had the biggest sword.
“I need to be with my clan.”
“Cassandra doesn’t have random visions,” Styx reminded him with a growing impatience. “It has to be important.”
Roke shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Your lair isn’t the center of the universe. Something important could just as easily happen in Nevada.”
There was a long pause and Roke could physically feel the weight of Styx’s searching gaze.
“Roke, is there something going on I should know about?” he asked. “Some reason you’re so eager to leave?”
“I’ve wanted to leave since the day I got here,” he reminded his companion, there was enough truth in his words to divert the persistent vampire. “Besides, the prophet hasn’t had another vision. Maybe whatever is supposed to happen is years away.”
“Until we know what the danger is, I won’t allow you to be without our protection.”
“I’ve been taking care of myself for a very long time,” he muttered.
“Now you have us.”
“Lucky me.”
Styx slammed a hand on his shoulder. “Damn straight.”
Nefri ignored Santiago as she moved with blinding speed out of the kitchen and up the narrow stairs.
No, that was not entirely true.
Who could ignore a six-foot-plus male who was only a step behind her as she made her way down the narrow hall? Especially when he was nearly quivering with the need to pull her behind him and take the lead. A typical male with a big sword and bigger ego who always wanted to be in charge.
Or maybe he merely wanted to protect her, a renegade voice whispered in the back of her mind.
A voice that she easily crushed as the stench of rotting flesh became nearly overwhelming.
“Dios,” Santiago muttered. “What has that gargoyle done?” Levet abruptly stepped around a corner, his gray skin an ashen shade in the moonlight. “I did nothing beyond locate a room hidden behind a spell of illusion,” he said, defending himself.
Santiago made a sound of disgust. “That’s why we didn’t catch the stench miles away.”
Nefri muttered an ancient curse, infuriated by the knowledge she’d allowed Santiago’s arrival to distract her. She’d been too long behind the Veil. The constant peace and sense of security had dulled her senses and made her sloppy. “I should have searched for illusions the moment I arrived,” she chastised herself.
“Ah yes, I forgot that little talent,” Santiago drawled, referring to her rare ability to break through lesser spells.
“I wish I had left the illusion in place.” Levet shifted uneasily, his wings drooping. “I do not believe you want to see what has been done, ma chérie.”
Nefri was certain he was right. The smell alone was enough to make her stomach clench. And there was something else. Something as dark and ancient as time.
But she’d been sent by the Oracles for a reason. She couldn’t turn her back on her duty.
“Merci, Levet, but I must know what’s happened.”
“A massacre,” the tiny gargoyle breathed, reluctantly stepping aside as Nefri rounded the corner and moved toward the open door.
She’d barely reached the edge of the threshold when Santiago was angling to put his body between her and whatever was waiting inside, his sword drawn and his fangs exposed.
She rolled her eyes at his protective manner. She was one of the most powerful demons ever to walk the earth. The last thing she needed was a knight in shining armor. But even as the clan chief in her warned she needed to nip his Neanderthal behavior in the bud, another part was wryly accepting that Santiago was far too stubborn to be properly trained.
A knowledge that should have annoyed her, not sent a tiny thrill of excitement shooting through her heart.
The inane thought was swiftly forgotten as Santiago came to a sharp halt, his broad back tensing. “What the . . .” He made a sound of disgust. “Cristo. It looks like the set of Saw.”
She frowned in confusion. “What?”
“A horror flick.”
Nefri shuddered. Her time behind the Veil meant that she wasn’t always up to date with human entertainment, but she did know that the current trend in films included a lot of blood and violence.
Steeling her nerves, she forced herself to step past Santiago’s large body and studied the carnage spread across the room.
Levet had been right.
It was bad.
Even by demon standards.
The victims were all human, some male and some female, although it was nearly impossible to tell in the hideous mix of body parts, some of which were still shackled to the walls while others were piled in the middle of the blood-soaked floor.
“Were they tortured?” she asked, pointing to the knives and even an ax that were nearly hidden beneath the gore.
Santiago returned his sword to its scabbard, his expression grim. “Worse.”
“What could be worse?”
“They were forced to torture themselves trying to escape. The room reeks of . . .”