Darkness Everlasting (Guardians of Eternity #3)(3)

They were as much a part of him as his own shadow.

The silver-haired vampire was still not satisfied. "And where will you take her?"

"To my lair."

"Good God." Viper gave a sharp laugh. "You can't take that poor woman to those damp, disgusting caves."

Styx frowned. In truth he hadn't really considered the less than welcoming atmosphere of the caves he inhabited.

To him they were simply a place to remain safely out of the sun.

"Most of the caves are quite comfortable."

"It's bad enough that you're taking the woman hostage. At least take her someplace that has a decent bed and a few amenities."

"What does it matter? She is nothing more than a human."

"It matters because she is a human. Christ, they are more fragile than dew fairies." With swift, gliding steps, Viper moved toward the desk that consumed a large part of his office behind the balcony. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper. After scribbling a few lines, he dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small key. Returning to Styx, he placed both in his hands. "Here."

"What is this?" Styx demanded.

"A key to my estate north of the city. It's quiet and isolated enough for your purpose, but far more pleasant than your lair." He pointed to the paper. Those are the directions. I'll alert Santiago and the rest of my staff to expect you."

Styx opened his mouth to protest. Perhaps his lair was not the most elegant or luxurious of places, but it was well protected and, more importantly, he was familiar with the surrounding landscape.

Still, he supposed there was something to be said for providing a bit of comfort for the woman.

As Viper had pointed out, humans were tediously fragile, and Styx knew that they were prone to a puzzling array of illnesses and injury. He needed her alive if she were to be of any worth.

Besides, it would keep him in a position to keep an eye on Salvatore.

"Perhaps it would be best to remain close enough to the city to negotiate with the Weres," he admitted.

"And close enough to call for assistance if you need it." Viper insisted.

"Yes." Styx pocketed the key. "Now I must go."

"Take care, old friend."

Styx gave a somber nod of his head. "That I can promise."

Gina, a redheaded, freckle-faced waitress was leaning negligently against the bar when the three men stepped into the Goth nightclub.

"Yowser, stud alert!" she shouted over the head-throbbing bang of the nearby band. "Now that is some grade A prime beef."

Lifting her head from the drink she was mixing, Darcy Smith glanced toward the latest patrons. Her brows lifted in surprise.

As a rule Gina was not overly particular. She considered anything remotely male and standing on two legs as grade A.

But on this occasion, well . . . even grading on a curve they reached A status.

Darcy whistled beneath her breath as she studied the two closest to her. Definitely poster boys for the steroid generation, she acknowledged, eyeing the bulging muscles that looked chiseled from marble beneath their tight T-shirts and Fitted jeans. Oddly both had shaved their heads. Maybe to set off the dangerous scowls that marked their handsome faces, or to emphasize the air of coiled violence they carried with them.

It worked.

In contrast, the man standing behind them was built along far slighter lines. Of course, the elegant silk suit couldn't entirely hide the smooth muscles. Nor did the long black curls that brushed his shoulders soften the dark, aquiline features.

With absolute certainty Darcy knew that it was the smaller man who was the most dangerous of the trio.

There was a fierce intensity that crackled about him as he led his henchmen toward the thick crowd.

"The one in the suit looks like a mobster," she observed in critical tones.

"A mobster in an Armani suit." Gina flashed a smile. " I've always had a weakness for Armani."

Darcy rolled her eyes. She had never had an interest in designer clothes, or the sort of men who felt it necessary to wear them.

A good thing considering men in Armani suits were hardly a dime a dozen in her world.

More like once in a blue moon.

"What's he doing here?" she muttered.

The crowd at the underground bar was the usual mixture. Goths, metalheads, stonies, and the truly bizarre.

Most came to enjoy the heavy-rock bands, and to throw themselves around the cramped dance floor in wild abandon. A few preferred the back rooms that offered a wide variety of illegal pursuits.

Hardly the sort of place to attract a more sophisticated clientele.

CIA gave her hair a good fluff before reaching for her tray. "Probably here to stare at the natives. People with money always enjoy nibbing elbows with the riffraff." The woman grimaced, her expression older than her years. "As long as they don't get too dirty in the process."

Darcy watched the waitress efficiently sashay her way through the rowdy crowd with a small smile. She couldn't entirely blame CIA for her cynical nature. Like herself, the waitress was alone in the world, and without the education or resources to hope for a brilliant career.

Darcy, however, refused to allow bitterness to touch her heart. What did it matter if she was forced to take whatever job might come along?

Bartender, pizza delivery, yoga instructor, and occasionally a nude model for the local art school. Nothing was beneath her. Pride was highly overrated when a girl had to put food on the table.