It’s like looking at twenty identical statues.
My nails dig into Remus’s hand hard enough that I’m probably drawing blood, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.
Indeed, when I glance over at him, he’s smiling. That wild, slightly unhinged smile that I’m starting to recognize means he’s enjoying himself.
Oh god.
Layden immediately walks up the aisle and down the ramp before it’s all the way lowered, easily hopping off to the ground while it’s still a few feet up. He lands lightly, like gravity barely affects him.
The rest of us stand up more slowly. Abaddon takes the lead, his large body blocking the exit as he pushes Hannah—who’s holding little Raven—behind his bulk. Even disguised as human, he’s still massive and intimidating. Easily six and a half feet tall, shoulders like a linebacker. The permanent scowl plastered to his face as he watches Layden only makes him more forbidding.
Layden walks right up to the group of identical men without hesitation.
And instead of holding out a hand for a handshake, he reaches up and tugs down his collar.
Baring his neck.
I hear a little growl rumble from Remus in front of me—low and threatening, vibrating through his chest—and I immediately know with absolute certainty that there’s no way in hell he’ll be offering the same greeting.
The man at the front of the pack tilts his head slightly in acknowledgment—the first movement I’ve seen from any of them. He’s taller than the others, with sharper features. More angular. His eyes are the darkest of all, like chips of obsidian.
He and Layden begin to speak, their voices too low for me to hear from inside the helicopter. I’m too far away to catchthe words, though I suspect Remus and his brothers, with their supernatural hearing, are catching every syllable.
The suspicion is reinforced when Remus, Kharon, and Abaddon all tense simultaneously—bodies going rigid, leaning forward like predators ready to spring. Ready to attack.
The air crackles with sudden tension.
Ksenia must sense it too because she places a warning hand on Kharon’s shoulder from behind, fingers gripping. “We need a place to rest,” she reminds him quietly, her Russian accent thicker with exhaustion. “For the baby.”
He only lets out a small, growled murmur in response—reluctant acknowledgment. His eyes stay locked tensely on the exchange happening between Layden and the apparent leader of the vampires.
But then all three brothers’ heads swing sharply to the right in perfect unison.
It takes several more moments before I hear what they obviously already did—a loud motor of some kind, getting closer. Fast.
I frown, wanting to bend over and look through the helicopter’s side window but not wanting to draw any attention from the men—vampires?—below. They’re looking in the same direction now too, but they don’t seem perturbed by whatever they’re hearing. Don’t seem concerned at all.
Layden looks that way and actually smiles—genuine relief washing over his face.
What on earth?
And then the motorcycle comes roaring into view, impossibly loud in the enclosed courtyard. The sound echoes off stone walls I can now see surrounding us—high walls topped with what might be broken glass or razor wire.
The bike is sleek and black, matching everything else here. The rider circles dramatically right behind the gathered men, engine revving, then stops with a spray of gravel.
The figure pulls off her helmet to reveal a shock of curly dirty blonde hair that tumbles past her shoulders—wild and windblown. A heart-shaped face with high cheekbones, full lips painted dark red, and bright green eyes that sparkle with mischief.
She’s stunning. And young—maybe my age, maybe younger.
“Grandpa,” the woman sing-songs toward the scowling leader, her voice carrying a teasing lilt. “I’m ho-oooome.”
Then she kicks out the bike’s stand, leans it over, and hops off in one fluid motion—movements so graceful they’re almost inhuman. She saunters up to where Layden and the scowling man are standing, hips swaying in tight black jeans, leather jacket creaking.
She kisses the scowling man on both cheeks—casual, affectionate.
I frown, confused. Grandpa? The guy looks like he’s in his early thirties at most. Couldn’t be more than thirty-five.
Then I remember.
