located at the address on that card.”
Alastor laughed. “Right away, your bleeding lordship.”
Dagan shot him a look and affected a mock British
accent. “I ain’t the one who’s bleeding, mate.”
With a pained grimace, Alastor shook his head.
“Don’t. Even. Try. So what exactly will you be doing
while I bimble off to obey your every command?”
What would he be doing? His fingers clamped
tightly on the pendant.
Turning away, he mastered his emotions, fighting
the sudden surge of black rage that boiled up and
threatened to steal his voice, his thoughts, his sanity.
Before Lokan’s death, he had never known the like, but
since, his frustration at his failure to find his brother’s
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remains, to find his killer—hell, to have stopped the
killing from happening in the first place—meant he’d
not been able to lock it down completely. Part of his
rage was directed at himself. And part of his rage was
directed at his father. For being what he was. For making Lokan a target. For not using his vast power to
protect his son.
He wasn’t being fair. He knew that. Sutekh couldn’t
be everywhere at once, couldn’t know everything. But
when the red tide of his fury swamped him, rationality
didn’t seem to matter.
“Tell me where you’re off to, Dae.” Alastor’s tone
took on a harder edge.
An ugly laugh escaped him as he opened his fist and
glanced at the necklace but saw the girl’s face in his
