Blood Assassin (The Sentinels #2)(89)

He’d never realized just how ready she was to ignore the needs of her body when she was concentrating on her work. Probably a good thing since it would have made him nuts not to be able to care for her.

Now he wasn’t going to tolerate her indifference. If she wouldn’t take care of herself, he damned well would.

Period.

She wasn’t happy with his insistence, but she did manage to clear an entire plate of chicken parmesan and half a loaf of bread.

A bottle of wine later and she’d mellowed enough to allow him to lead her to the elevator without kicking him in the ass.

He was taking that as a win.

Entering the elevator, Fane went rigid, catching the unmistakable scent of a high-blood. On the point of shoving Serra out of the small cubicle, he abruptly recognized the scent.

Pressing the doors closed, he used his powers to disable the cameras and stood back as the elevator smoothly headed upward. Within seconds a panel in the roof was tugged aside and Marco was dropping through the opening to land lightly on the carpeted floor.

He was dressed in black jeans and a black tee that revealed the dragon tattoo around his neck. His lean face was grim as he turned to study Serra with his ice blue eyes.

Unprepared for his abrupt arrival, Serra gave a small gasp of shock. “Good God, Marco,” she rasped, pressing a hand to her heart. “You scared me.”

The Sentinel gave a lift of his dark brows. As a hunter, Marco didn’t have the same magical protection as Fane. Serra should have picked up his presence the minute she stepped into the elevator.

“You didn’t sense me?” the older man chided. “Sloppy, Serra. Very sloppy.”

Serra sent him a sour glare, even as a hint of affection softened her pale green eyes.

Fane might have been jealous if he hadn’t known Marco had trained Serra in self-defense.

All high-bloods were taught to protect themselves, not only with weapons, but also with their bodies. A witch or psychic, no matter how powerful, could have their talents disabled. They needed to know they could do basic hand to hand combat.

The bond between a Sentinel and his pupil often lasted the rest of their lives.

“I’m a little distracted,” she informed her former trainer.

Marco reached to place his fingers against her throat, his expression fierce.

“I know, little one.”

Fane reached to knock aside his fellow Sentinel’s hand. He was willing to accept a familiarity between the two, but he had his limits.

“There’s no need to touch.”

Marco flashed him a mocking smile. “Feeling possessive, amigo?”

Fane didn’t bother answering the ridiculous question.

“I assume you risked being discovered because you have information for me?” he demanded.

“Some.” Marco reached to hit the STOP button on the elevator. There was a tiny jerk as the elevator halted on floor ten. “First I traced the weapons.”

Reaching behind his back, Marco pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket.

Fane unfolded it, his brows drawing together at the familiar name.

“Girard. Shit,” he muttered. They had discovered Jacques Girard and his band of idiots during their battle with the necromancer. Supposedly they were an ancient society determined to rid the world of high-bloods. “The Brotherhood?”

“That was my thought as well,” Marco growled.

“Have you contacted Wolfe?”

Marco shook his head. “Not yet.”

Fane glanced up in surprise. Marco was nothing if not ruthlessly efficient.

“Why not?”

“My contact said that there’s . . .” He searched for the right word. “Chatter.”

“Within the Brotherhood?”

“Yes,” Marco said. “It seems that several weeks ago they lost a cache of weapons.”

“Lost?” Serra asked the obvious question.

“It was in transit from Mexico to Kansas City.” Marco shrugged. “It simply disappeared.”

“So anyone could have stolen it,” Fane ground out, his hands clenched in frustration.

He’d hoped the illegal weapons would lead them to the location of the kidnapper.

Now it was just another dead end in a long line of dead ends.

“Yep,” Marco agreed, his own expression bleak.

“Shit. What about the Dark Side?”

Marco shook his head. “You’re not going to be any happier.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s a fight club.”

Fane paused, wondering why the hell the name wasn’t triggering an alarm. Wolfe had zero tolerance for his Sentinels making a little extra cash in unsanctioned fights. Perhaps because he’d been forced to fight when he was young. He kept close track of fight clubs and often sent one of his men to check them out. Any Sentinel caught in a club was looking at some face time with the Tagos. Something no one wanted.

That meant the club was new or so underground that it hadn’t hit Wolfe’s radar.

“Where?” he asked.

“That’s the problem,” Marco admitted. “It changes location every night.”

“Like a rave?” Serra asked.

“Something like that.” Marco sent her a rueful grimace. “Only with a lot more blood and broken bones.”