Blood Assassin (The Sentinels #2)(31)

Fane climbed out of the car, turning to help her crawl out before slamming shut the door and leading her toward the wide steps of the back terrace.

“And you call me stubborn?” she muttered.

“The bracelet wasn’t just a panic button, it held a tracking device,” he said, the tension in his body revealing the effort it cost him to allow her to walk into the brothel. Together they climbed the stairs, then as Serra reached to pull open the door, he laid a hand on her arm. “You concentrate on trying to connect with the girl. I’ll deal with getting us in and out.”

Chapter Eight

Fane slid easily into his role of guardian Sentinel.

It was more than what he was trained to do.

It was who he was.

But for once he wasn’t able to detach his emotions as Fane angled himself in front of Serra, his hand resting at his lower back where Fane could grab the handgun tucked into the waistband of his camo pants.

This wasn’t a job.

This was Serra.

And his world would end if anything happened to her.

Still, no one would be able to detect anything but grim purpose as they entered the lobby that looked like a Victorian sitting room.

There were low sofas with red velvet cushions and curlicue designs on the arms arranged around a floral rug. The walls were covered by a damask paper with a pattern of white flowers edged with gold and framed with crown molding. There were several small tables that held freshly cut flowers and tiny Dresden figurines.

Exactly what you would expect in a local B&B if you wandered in off the street.

Or if you worked in Vice and were searching for a whorehouse.

A clever disguise.

They’d reached the middle of the room when a door was opened and a young woman stepped inside dressed in a black skirt and white top, her blond hair pulled into a smooth bun at her nape.

She was either the receptionist or she serviced those men who had a schoolmarm fetish.

Probably both.

“Welcome.” Her practiced smile faltered as she caught sight of Fane, her eyes widening in appreciation as she took in his hard body revealed by his muscle shirt. A blush of arousal stained her cheeks, her tongue peeking out to wet her too-puffy lips. “Do you have a reservation?”

Fane ignored Serra’s sound of disgust at the female’s reaction. His only interest in her blatant flirtation was the realization that she didn’t recognize him as a Sentinel despite his tattoos. A pain in the ass.

Usually his reputation opened doors without him having to play the heavy.

“Call for your manager,” he said, his voice flat.

“I’m afraid she’s unavailable.” Another lick of the chemically enhanced lips, her hand skimming down her skirt in invitation. “Perhaps, I can help?”

“The Mave sent us.” He pulled out the figurative big guns. No need for real guns. Yet. “Stand in our path and you’ll feel the wrath of Valhalla.”

The blue eyes widened, her brain at last putting together his larger-than-normal size and the intricate markings that covered him from head to toe.

“Oh.” She held up a hand as she hastily backed out of the lobby. “Wait here.”

There was the sound of her scurrying footsteps, before Serra turned to send him a mocking smile.

“The wrath of Valhalla?”

“It’s what the norms expect.” He studied her distracted expression, knowing she was using her psychic powers to try to connect with the child. “Do you sense anything?”

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Keep your thoughts open,” he murmured, picking his words carefully in case the assassin had wired the place. They might be forced to play by Bas’s rules for now, but Fane had every intention of gaining the upper hand. But to do that, he needed information. “Who knows what you might pick up while we’re here.”

Serra arched a brow, easily deciphering his hint to search the minds of the whores. Someone had to have some connection to Bas for them to seek his help.

“I know how to do my job, thank you very much,” she said, the tart edge in her voice making him smile.

There was no one else in the world who could stand toe to toe with him. Except Wolfe. And the Tagos didn’t count.

Not when his renegade thoughts were turning toward hot, erotic nights tangled in ivory arms and the scent of chamomile filling his senses.

The painfully vivid fantasy was abruptly interrupted as a tall, middle-aged woman with short brunette hair and shrewd brown eyes stepped into the lobby. She was wearing a tailored pantsuit in a slate gray that should have made her appear businesslike, but instead made him think of whips and chains and men on their knees in submission.

“I’m Madame Wagner,” she said, her smile not quite hiding her unease as her gaze flitted toward Serra before returning to Fane. “Lily said you’re here from Valhalla?”

Fane gave a dip of his head. “We are.”

“How can I help?”

“We’re searching for a missing high-blood.”

Fane didn’t have to be a psychic to read the woman’s genuine confusion. “What does that have to do with me?”

“We received word that she was working here.”

The madam was shaking her head before he finished speaking. “Impossible.”

“How can you be so certain?”