Styx snorted. “There are unofficial demons?”
Troy shrugged. “The humans have their Big Foot and Loch Ness Monster, we have our Nebule.”
Roke hissed in disgust, realizing he’d had the answer all along.
Shit. Why hadn’t he put this together sooner?
“That’s it,” he snarled.
Styx turned to eye him in confusion. “What?”
“On the box. The glyphs mentioned mist people,” he said, shoving his fingers through his hair. “It struck a memory at the time, but I couldn’t pinpoint it.”
“Explain,” Styx commanded in clipped tones.
It was Troy who answered.
“The fey have a folktale that there were a species of demons who are capable of taking any physical shape they want.”
Styx didn’t look impressed. “There are a few rare vampires who can alter their shape. They can even mist walk.”
Troy shook his head. “These aren’t vampires. They’re an entire race of people who are made of nothing but mist until they can drain a fey and use their magic to take a physical form.”
“That’s why they kill fey?” Styx asked.
Troy gave a nod of agreement. “They have no magic of their own. They must steal ours.”
Roke had run across a description of the “mist people” when he was doing research on extinct races of demons. There had been little more than a vague reference to a species who were made of mist and hunted the fey.
“What else can they do?” he asked.
Troy grimaced. “It was said that they have a strange power to vibrate the air.”
“Shit.” Roke glanced toward his king. “That’s exactly how he attacked us. Those vibrations nearly turned our insides to mush.”
Styx considered a long minute. “That wouldn’t be fatal to a vampire.”
“No, but it’s debilitating,” Roke said. “It weakened me to the point that I didn’t realize the bastard had shot me full of blood thinner and silver.” A muscle in his jaw tightened until he could barely speak. “And it might easily be fatal to Sally.”
The Anasso was grim as he returned his attention to Troy. “Where can we find these Nebule?”
“Our stories claim that the Chatri drove the last of them from our world before they returned to their homelands.” Troy smiled without humor. “But of course, there are always rumors that a few survived, and that they lurk among us just waiting for an opportunity to strike. I always assumed they were boogeyman tales used to frighten our young.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Styx growled.
“Because I have no answer.” Troy glanced toward Roke. “Do you know why he was attacking you specifically?”
“He wanted Sally’s box.”
Troy furrowed his brow. “The box? I don’t . . . oh, wait.”
Roke stepped toward the imp, desperate for any information that might help him locate his mate.
He needed her next to him . . . in his arms.
And she was never leaving his side again.
Period.
“What is it?” he snapped.
The emerald eyes were sparkling with a barely suppressed excitement.
“Tell me, does the box glow?”
Roke balled his hands into fists. It was that or grabbing the imp and shaking him for answers.
“Yes.”
“Oh, my God.” Something that looked like wonderment settled on Troy’s pale face. “It’s the magic.”
Roke growled deep in his throat. He should have destroyed the damned thing the minute they realized it was more than just a trinket.
“You said the box didn’t have magic.”
“It doesn’t contain a magical spell. Or the ability to create magic on its own,” Troy clarified, appearing far too eager. “But if it’s still bound to a Chatri, then a Nebule would be able to suck the magic from the connection.”
Fear exploded through Roke. Goddammit. He had to get to his mate. The need was clawing through him with a relentless agony.
“You’re saying this box might still be under the control of a Chatri?”
“Yes.” Troy tried and failed to disguise his rising anticipation. “My collection has the glyphs that were created by my forefathers, but now they’re just scratches in the wood. They no longer channel any magic.”
Roke cursed, indifferent to the distant fountain that crumbled to dust as his power spread through the area.
“Why would some Chatri be screwing with Sally?”
Troy’s lips parted, then with a startled gasp he was jerking around to stare at the precise spot where Roke had been tossed out of the portal.
“I think we’re about to find out.”
His words had barely left his lips when there was an odd tingle in the air and Sally tumbled out of midair.
Roke was charging forward and had her in his arms before she could hit the ground.
Chapter Nineteen
Sally felt as if she’d tumbled out of Wonderland, only to be caught up in the tornado from The Wizard of Oz.
Only this tornado was named Roke.
She didn’t know how he happened to be waiting at the precise spot where she would smack into a barrier and be ripped out of the portal. Or why he was standing there with an imp and the King of Vampires.
And it didn’t really matter as she found herself held tightly in his arms while he rushed her into Styx’s mansion, growling at anyone who dared to try to help.
She wanted nothing more than a hot shower and an equally hot meal before she collapsed in the first available bed she could find.
As always, Roke was able to sense her need and with minimum fuss he had her in the private room she’d used when she was last in Chicago.
At the time she’d been overwhelmed by the elegance of the suite that was decorated in shades of sea-foam green and silver.
She’d never seen a marble fireplace that consumed an entire wall or walked across a Parisian carpet that she was fairly certain was a priceless antique. Certainly she’d never seen a bedroom that had a coved ceiling with a painting of angels dancing among the clouds.
In the center of the room was a canopy bed with a pale green comforter that was perfectly matched to the chaise lounge set beside the windows. And along a far wall were a hand-carved armoire and a mirrored dressing table.
It all combined to make her feel like an intruder.
But tonight . . . no wait, it had to be nearly morning . . . she didn’t give a crap.
So long as it wasn’t a freaky illusion or an abandoned gold mine, or a dungeon, she was satisfied.