“You said Marek was the target,” Jono told him.
Patrick downed the rest of the whiskey, needing the burn to steady himself. He wished he could enjoy it, but it felt like acid in his mouth. “Marek might not be the only one.”
“I don’t have a clean soul. Why would they want me?”
Patrick couldn’t answer that, and even if he knew something, he wouldn’t talk about it in Tempest. Too many ears and eyes that didn’t need to know the inner workings of his mind, or the details of this case.
“You want another?” Marek asked.
Patrick shook his head. “No.”
Marek served him a glass of water instead. Patrick pulled it closer and ignored the conversation around him in favor of his phone. Still no missed calls or messages. He accessed his email but didn’t see any new ones that mattered.
All the while Jono’s hand stayed on his thigh, and Patrick was acutely aware of the heat in the touch.
Tempest didn’t get much busier than when they arrived, which was odd for a Saturday night. Patrick didn’t know if it was because of gossip about the attack or if the doorman had orders to keep anyone human out. Still, he didn’t leave his spot except to use the restroom, even if Jono left him to take over for Marek behind the bar. Patrick told himself he didn’t miss Jono’s touch.
It was close to 2130 when the first of Setsuna’s promised backup finally arrived.
Patrick was nursing his second glass of water when a commotion at the front door had him jerking his head around. One hand automatically strayed to his sidearm without even thinking about it, magic flickering against the palm of his other hand. When he saw who walked inside, Patrick stopped reaching for both.
Fuck my life, he thought resignedly.
The newcomer was undead, the sucking emptiness where a soul once resided in human flesh a familiar recognition that pulled at Patrick’s magic, even through his shields. The vampire was as tall as Jono, who was at least three inches over six feet. Blond hair was cut short, the icy blue of his eyes standing out against too-pale skin. The vampire’s gaze swept the room, taking in everything with a quick glance, before finally settling on Patrick. Thin lips lifted in a slight snarl, revealing jagged teeth that always reminded Patrick of a piranha.
Emma was on her feet in an instant, Leon right by her side. They planted themselves between the vampire and those in the bar, refusing to give ground. Everyone else had gone still and quiet, the music the only noise in the place for several tense seconds.
“This is pack territory. We have treaties with Tremaine’s Night Court and the other master vampires in this city that require your kind to stay the hell away,” Leon growled.
The vampire didn’t move, gaze still riveted on Patrick like a predator ready to pounce. “Not my Night Court.”
His answer didn’t seem to sit well with Emma and Leon. Patrick slid off the stool and approached where they stood. He managed to get a step past the two when a strong hand gripped his arm, holding him back. Patrick rocked back on his heels as he looked over his shoulder at Jono.
“Remember how I said I needed to make myself available?” Patrick asked.
Jono’s eyes weren’t on him, but on the vampire. “Didn’t think you meant like this.”
Patrick didn’t try to get free of Jono’s grip, merely faced forward again, meeting the vampire’s piercing gaze. “Einar. Were you the only one he sent?”
The vampire didn’t say a word.
Someone else answered for him.
“No,” a sultry voice said. “Our master sent me.”
High heels clacked sharply against the floor as someone else walked inside the bar. She brought with her a sexual energy that made Patrick’s dick twitch in his jeans, despite not being attracted to women at all.
Carmen always did have that effect on people and monsters alike.
She sauntered forward on five-inch stiletto heels, wearing a burgundy corset minidress that clung to every curve of her body. The neckline plunged indecently low between her full breasts while the hemline was scandalously short. Gold and pearl necklaces hung from her throat at varying lengths, swaying with every step she took. The outfit as a whole was a modern-day look that teased her Venetian courtesan roots.
The color of Carmen’s dress brought out the bronzed undertone to her tanned olive skin, giving her a sun-kissed look Einar would forever lack. Her long black hair fell to her waist in a riot of curls. She looked human, but between one step and the next, the glamour she wore like a second skin sloughed off, revealing her true form.
Curled horns twisted away from her hairline over her skull, her hair parting around them. Gold and diamond hoops were pierced through each ear from lobe to pointed tip. The pupils of her dark brown eyes weren’t black, but a deep, dark red. The sexual energy emanating from her grew stronger, thickening the air with people’s arousal. Her heart-shaped face hadn’t changed at all since the last time Patrick had seen her, and neither had the icy crimson smile she bestowed upon him, her eyes locked with his.
Patrick did himself a favor and adjusted his shields, blocking out the sexual aggression Carmen thrived in.
“Ciao, bastardo,” Carmen said, the succubus’ voice tinged with her native Italian accent even these hundreds of years later.
