Wicked Bite (Night Rebel #2)(58)

We left the wealthy group with a lower red blood cell count and a memory of loaning the company jet to “friends.” That would buy us a day or two before the mogul snapped out of Ian’s compulsion and went after his plane. We made it easy to find by leaving it at the White Plains Airport in New York, then took an Uber to Manhasset.

One glance showed why Ian had described this as his “favorite” home. It was as large as Yonah’s sprawling mansion, but Ian’s three balconies were adorned with various carved creations instead of flowing plants. It didn’t surprise me that Ian’s taste ran the gamut from the fantastical to the erotic. I caught a glimpse of stone gargoyles cavorting with women, men, and satyrs—or were those centaurs?—before Ian hustled me, Silver, and Ereshki inside. Night had just fallen, making it safe for demons to roam again. How quickly could Dagon track Ereshki? Or Ian, if Dagon was tracing his power in Ian the same way the spell embedded in Ian now traced others? We’d soon find out. I only hoped we would be ready.

I’d barely had time to admire the ornate woodworking on the walls of the grand foyer when we heard a car pull up. I stiffened even though I knew Dagon would have another demon teleport him here if he’d found us and intended to ambush us. Dagon wouldn’t drive up and slam the car door when he got out. When I heard a second car door close more softly, I relaxed.

“Cat and Crispin,” Ian said. “Prompt, for once. Take her,” he added to one of the two vampires who came into the hall, then pushed Ereshki toward them. “Keep her secured and don’t underestimate her. She’s not a normal human.”

With that, Ian flung open the double doors before the couple walking up to them could knock. “Have a demon problem, so you’ll understand why I won’t invite you in,” he greeted them.

Bones—whose birth name was Crispin, but only Ian called him that—gave Ian a pointed look as both he and his wife, Cat, strode inside. Cat’s red locks were still dyed that hideously drab shade of brown and Bones’s hair was still so long, it hid half his face, but their auras made the air crackle. When they walked over the threshold without hesitation, another knot in me eased. No demon could walk inside a private residence without being invited first, so this wasn’t Dagon and another demon wearing glamour in an attempt to fool us.

In the next moment, I realized I’d relaxed too soon. Something large and dark thudded onto the front grounds with such force, the stone fountain next to it sloshed water over its sides. Perimeter alarms began to blare, but over their loud din, I caught Ian’s curse . . . and understood when that large, dark form was instantly illuminated by multiple spotlights from the roof.

Mencheres.

“Don’t worry, I won’t wait for an invitation, either,” Ian’s sire said as he strode up to the house.

Ian gave Bones an evil look. “Low of you, Crispin.”

Bones’s brow went up. “As you would say, paybacks, Ian.”



I followed Ian into the drawing room, fighting flashbacks of the last time I’d met with his closest friends. We had presented ourselves to them as besotted newlyweds. They hadn’t bought it then, but they’d been more restrained in their disbelief, and I was including their death threats to me in that descriptor. Now, the gloves were clearly off.

“I know why you sold your soul,” Mencheres said as soon as Ian shut the smoked glass drawing room doors behind him.

“Of all the times to be out of heroin,” Ian muttered. Then he went to the crystal decanters on the shelf and poured himself a large glass of whatever the dark amber liquid was.

Mencheres stared at him before his obsidian gaze landed on me. The weight of it made me feel like I was being restrained with layer upon layer of thick chains. Then he looked at Silver, who flew over and began to sniff the former pharaoh’s legs.

“Silver,” I said in reprimand.

“He smells my mastiffs on me,” Mencheres replied, his look turning sardonic. “Though none of my pets have wings.”

“Who else wants whisky?” Ian said, ignoring that. “I know you’re a yes, Crispin. Cat? Veritas?”

“I’ll have some,” I said, thinking, And I wish you had some demon blood to spike it with.

He handed me a glass as full as his own, then gave a half-filled one to Bones before taking the chair next to mine.

“So, Vlad or Leila finally let my secret spill,” Ian said in a conversational tone.

“Incorrect,” Mencheres replied with the same faux pleasantness. “Both she and Vlad refused to tell me, but Vlad did say to watch my fake execution video more closely. I did. You’re almost out of the camera’s range, but after Vlad supposedly blows my head off, you come toward him with a knife. Vlad says, ‘Don’t,’ and you say, ‘Oh, I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to let Mencheres do that.’ Then the video ends.”

I hadn’t been there that day, but I knew what happened next: Ian had cut off the warding tattoo that had been blocking Dagon from finding him. And Dagon had come running.

“Now, I finally understand what you meant.” Mencheres’s voice lost its amiability and became a harsh rasp. “You were vowing to bring me back so I could avenge my own death, and there’s only one way you could do that—by selling your soul.”

“Except you weren’t dead.” Ian’s tone was light, as if he hadn’t paid in misery, death, and worse for his selfless act. “Gave Dagon a right good belly laugh, telling me that after our bargain was struck.”