Shadow's Claim (Immortals After Dark #13)(131)

“Sleep if you want.” Again, he covered my hands with one of his own. “I’ve got you.”

I loved it when he said that to me. “Are you sure?”

“I’m goan to find us a bonne place tonight. We’ll have us a grand ole time.”

Though I was curious what Jackson would consider a “grand ole time,” sleep overtook me. . . .



When I woke, a full moon was high in the sky and Jackson was only now slowing.

“We haven’t stopped for the night!” I darted my glance around. We looked to be in a rich subdivision. “What about Bagmen?”

“There weren’t any,” he said. “The night’s so bright, maybe they think the sun is out. Who knows?” He sounded drunk as he eased the bike to a stop. But he didn’t smell like whiskey—at least not more than normal. “In any case, the road was clear.”

“The road to where?”

He booted the kickstand down in front of an intimidating driveway gate, with lit gas lamps on each side. “I guess to here,” he said, scratching his head with a bemused grin. “Hey, check out the security on this place, Evie, the fences. They’ll be secure against brainless Bagmen.” Then he murmured, “Just not against us.”

When he climbed off the bike, he left me feeling cold and out of sorts. “Why would these lights be on, Jackson? This feels like a baited trap. How about we pass this one by?”

“Bet there’s loads of food inside.” He was already wedging his crossbow between the two gates, using it as a lever to pry them apart. “Watch and learn, peek?n.” With a click, the flourishing crest in the center parted, the gates swinging free.

He turned back to clasp me around the waist and set me on my feet. “We’ll walk the bike from here.” Once he’d pushed it past the fence, he shoved the gates back together behind us. Another click sounded as they sealed shut.

When the house—a gargantuan brick mansion—came into view, he whistled low. “Damn, Evie, you ought to feel right at home here.”

I narrowed my eyes at the landscaping lights. “Those are electric.”

“They’ve probably got a gas generator.”

“One that would’ve had to be filled up recently, right? This place must be occupied.”

He hadn’t even slowed. “Or maybe we’ll get lucky. What if the owner left to go source supplies and ran into trouble? He might’ve gotten attacked by roaming Bagmen. Like the rider of this bike.”

I rubbed my arms. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“The last time you had a good one, we lost everything we owned, nearly got enslaved, and spent the night in Bagman Swamp. I’m goan to take my chances here,” he said. “It’s too late to find another place to stay, anyway. If there’s someone here and he’s decent, we’ll barter jewelry. If he’s not decent, we’ll take it. Kick him out.”

“You’re going to steal a house from its owner?”

“This house?” He smirked. “J’pourrais.” I might.

After we’d parked the bike near the side entrance, he cased the house with his crossbow in hand, taking in every detail before he approached the double doors. “Hasn’t been rolled yet. Still locked tight.”

With the end of his bow, he hit one of the glass sidelights that flanked the door, busting out a pane. The noise seemed startlingly loud.

Instead of entering, he stood motionless, cocking his head. After long moments, he reached in and opened the door, inhaling deeply. The air smelled fresh. No Bagmen around?

Weapon raised, Jackson finally entered the house, with me close behind.

“This is a mistake,” I whispered, trying to recall something Matthew had repeated in all his mutterings and ramblings. It was tickling at my brain. “Why is staying here so important to you?”

“ ’Cause you’ll like it here. Soft girl like you belongs in a place like this.”

“I’d prefer the shrimp boat.”

“I’ll make a note.”

Lamps burned low, lighting the interior enough for us to search the lavishly decorated house. It looked like a movie producer’s Hollywood pad. Even I was impressed by the wealth.

Every room was even more luxe than the one before. “This feels like a trap,” I repeated.

“Trust me, Evie, this place is goan to be a beauty. Remember? I got a sense for these things. And just think, if there’s power and a well, there’ll be a hot shower.”

I nearly moaned at the idea of piping-hot water. But when a breeze wafted from overhead fans, I still said, “Why is the occupant so wasteful? Eventually, the gas will run out.”

“Heh.”

“Why heh?”

“The gas was already running out before the Flash. But I bet every room in your big ole mansion was cold as an icebox all summer long.”

“This situation is more acute.”

“If you think you could die tomorrow, why not go all-out? Part of me admires the owner for this.”

Sometimes when he said things like that, I was reminded of how different we were. Like fundamentally different. “We’ll have to agree to disagree. . . .”

We searched both wings upstairs and down, finding even more delights. The bedrooms had closets full of designer clothing and shoes. The garage housed camping supplies, hi-tech survival gear—and a colossal storage tank of gas.