Wicked Bite (Night Rebel #2)(35)

Is that what he thought Ian was to me? An escape from boredom? If I cared, I’d correct his misassumption, but I didn’t, so all I did was laugh. “As the kids say, whatever.”

“I wasn’t talking about you.” Ashael’s tone sharpened. “I was talking about your father.”

Now he had my attention. “What about my father?”

His smile said he knew he’d scored a hit. “Did you never wonder how the embodiment of the river between life and death found himself acting as a lowly doorman by assuming the role of Warden of the Gateway to the Netherworld? Or did you truly believe your mother was the first to rouse his interest enough for him to stray where it was forbidden?”

The embodiment of the river between life and death . . .

Was that what my father was? Ancient Sumerians had worshipped him as Enki, the god of water. Egyptians had revered him as Aken, custodian of the boat that carried the souls of the dead to the underworld. Greeks had called him Charon, the boatman of the river Styx, and every time I’d seen my father, he’d helmed a boat on a river made of pure darkness.

But if that’s what my father was, what did that make me? The supernatural equivalent of a Netherworld side creek?

I gave Ashael a measuring look. “How do you know so much about my father?”

Ashael flicked that knife across his wrist, filling the empty glass I’d ignored with his blood. When it was full, he filled another crystal glass with his blood. And another.

“I told you: I’m not drinking that.”

“I thought you’d want to check in on Ian,” he replied. “He isn’t wearing a body camera, so this is the next best thing.”

With that, Ashael’s power blasted out and his blood rose into the air. It stretched into impossible quantities that took up half the room before forming into a red-coated image of Ian walking down a narrow hallway. From his movements, Ian wasn’t underwater, so this part of the monolith’s interior must be dry. Unlike with Yonah, Ian didn’t seem aware that we were watching him. With his every stride, the blood changed, showing a real-time image of Ian and his immediate surroundings. It was breathtaking—and frightening.

Ashael could spy on anyone this way. Or was he limited in what he could see? Either way, it explained how Ashael knew the location of the relic and how many vampires were guarding it.

Two blood-coated figures suddenly formed and jumped Ian. “Eh, more of you?” Ian said in annoyance before he conjured up a tactile spell. Flung backward, his attackers twitched when they hit the ground as if severely electrocuted.

Ian stepped over them, pausing to kick one that reached out weakly for his ankle before he continued on.

“He didn’t kill them.” Ashael sounded surprised.

“Why would he?” I asked without looking away.

“They attacked him,” Ashael pointed out, as if I hadn’t noticed.

Did I really need to explain? Of course I did, mercy was an unfamiliar concept to demons. “They’re defending their vault. Ian wouldn’t take that personally. He also wouldn’t kill people who’ve done him no wrong if he can defeat them by other means.”

Even now, Ian’s fingers were moving, forming another tactile spell. When he rounded a corner, another duo of guards lunged at him. This time, he knocked them unconscious before they even touched him, whistling as he hopped over them, too.

I’d worried for nothing. Ian wasn’t being hampered by a new memory or overwhelmed by greater-than-expected opposition. He hadn’t even bothered to draw his borrowed weapons yet.

He went through another five guards using magic before he entered a sacramental chamber. I’d been murdered on enough altars to know one when I saw it. This was on a raised stone dais, with a mummified-looking body on top of it. A black horn as long as a broadsword rested on top of the remains. Its tip was sharp while its hilt was as wide as my forearm. African bull kudu, I guessed, judging by the horn’s double-curves in the middle. In ancient cultures, they’d often been used as weapons.

A quartet of new guards sprang out from the back of the altar. They circled Ian with the precision of hardened soldiers. Ian raised his hand, fingers weaving another spell. They must have realized what he was doing, because they abandoned their formation to lunge at him.

Ian flung the spell, then stopped, knocking only three of the four guards down. He stared at the fourth with his hand still raised.

“Timothy?” he asked in disbelief.

All I saw was a muscled male form coated entirely in Ashael’s blood, but when he spoke, he also sounded stunned. And British.

“Ian? That you, mate?”

“A better question,” Ian said, sounding angry now, “is why you’ve let me and the rest of your mates believe you’re dead!”





Chapter 20


Ian and Timothy’s forms suddenly disintegrated as the blood Ashael had used to form them splashed onto the condo’s floor.

“Wait!” I cried out.

Ashael gave a diffident wave. “I’m not going to weaken myself by holding that up any longer. Besides, if this is Ian’s friend, then he’s in no danger, although if he tells Ian what they’re guarding, you’ll really never see him again.”

“Is irritating me your version of masturbating?” I snapped. “Or are you this much of a bastard to everyone?”