Blood Assassin (The Sentinels #2)(30)

Not that she was successful.

Fane might look stoic, but his smoldering temper was choking the air with heat and Bas wasn’t helping with his mocking glances in the rearview mirror. She wanted to leap out of the car and find the nearest bar to drown her sorrows.

“Where is this brothel?” she at last demanded, needing a distraction.

“It’s not far,” Bas murmured.

Serra rolled her eyes. Could the assassin ever give a straight answer?

Fane appeared equally annoyed by the lack of specifics. “Tell me about the security,” he commanded.

Bas arched a brow, turning down a narrow side street. “Why? You don’t have to sneak in.”

Fane leaned forward, meeting Bas’s gaze in the mirror. “I’m not letting Serra walk into a situation I can’t get her out of. That’s nonnegotiable.”

Bas, visibly annoyed at being given an ultimatum, tightened his hands on the steering wheel. But clearly accustomed to dealing with Sentinels, he wasn’t stupid enough to think that Fane was bluffing.

If Fane didn’t think he could keep Serra safe, she wasn’t going into the brothel.

End of story.

“There are guards on the front and back entrances,” Bas grudgingly offered.

“Norms?”

“Yes, but they’re armed.”

Serra frowned. Armed guards at a brothel? Were they protecting the girls, or keeping them prisoner?

Fane remained laser-focused on the potential danger. “Video?”

“Yes, but it’s controlled by Madame Wagner not the guards.”

“The locks?”

“Garden variety.”

Which meant that Fane could bust through them with his bare hands.

“A basement?” the Sentinel continued his interrogation.

Bas shook his head. “No, but I know there are secret passages and hidden rooms.”

Fane leaned back, processing the information and formulating a plan of action. Serra, on the other hand, peered out the window, growing confused as they entered a gracefully aging neighborhood with well-tended homes surrounded by yards and picket fences.

Her confusion only deepened as Bas turned the car into a drive that circled a three-storied Victorian house with a covered porch complete with potted plants and rocking chairs. On the large pane-glass window was gold lettering:

LEWIS AND CLARK BED-AND-BREAKFAST

“Here?” she muttered, as they reached the back of the house and pulled to a halt in a parking lot surrounded by a high hedge.

“What did you expect?” Bas asked.

She studied the structure that was painted white with cheery yellow shutters and matching trim. There was a small cupola on top of the slanted roof that overlooked the nearby river and lacy curtains in the window.

“Not a bed-and-breakfast,” she admitted.

Bas turned so he could study her dubious expression. “It’s within easy driving distance of the business district, it’s isolated from its neighbors, and the parking lot offers privacy for the guests.”

“It also looks like my aunt Edith should be crocheting doilies on the front porch.” She wrinkled her nose. She loved her aunt Edith, but the thought of the softly rounded, gray-haired woman being paid for sex was enough to turn her stomach. “Not very sexy.”

A mysterious smile curved Bas’s lips. “You’d be surprised what some men find sexy.”

She grimaced. “Ew.”

Fane was not amused. “Shut the f*ck up.”

Bas sent Fane a taunting glance. “Ah. That’s one thing I don’t miss. Sentinels and their sour temperament.”

Violence prickled in the air and Serra heaved a sigh.

These pissing matches were going to get real old, real quick.

“I’ll need an object connected to Molly,” she said, interrupting the male glare-a-thon.

The mockery was instantly wiped from Bas’s face as he screwed down his emotions so tight it was a wonder he didn’t crack beneath the strain.

Reaching into the glove compartment, he pulled out a tattered stuffed animal, shoving it over the seat.

“Here.”

Serra took the small hippo that was a faded green with flowers painted on the fur. One eye was missing and the tail was unraveled, but it was soft and squishy and just right for a young child to cuddle beneath the covers.

Instinctively she lifted it to her nose, breathing deep of the sweet scent of little girl. She couldn’t use her sense of smell like a Sentinel to track, but it helped her to connect with the mind she was searching for.

Bas watched her with a gaze that held the soul-deep pain that burned deep inside him.

“Do you need to keep it with you?” he asked, his voice thick.

Serra carefully pulled the fragile ribbon from around the neck of the animal, tucking it in her pocket with the photo.

“This should do.”

Bas reached beneath the jacket of his uniform and pulled out a gold bracelet with a small charm.

“Here.”

Serra took the piece of jewelry with a lift of her brows. “What’s this?”

“A panic button,” he said. “If you need help just touch the charm—”

Fane plucked the bracelet from her fingers, shoving open the door to toss it into the nearby hedge.

“She won’t.”