Nefri.
No, not Nefri, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. Her face was more angular and the approaching female was lacking the regal aloofness that shrouded the real Nefri.
Not to mention a lack of kick-ass power that would have all of them reeling beneath the impact of her presence.
But she was close enough to make his gut twist into painful knots.
“Will she do?” Tonya murmured.
“Get rid of her,” he commanded, his voice thick.
Tonya frowned in confusion. “What?”
“Get rid of her. Now!”
Spinning on his heel, he headed toward the stairs leading out of the lower levels.
He had to get out.
“Santiago,” Tonya called behind him. “Goddammit.”
The crowd parted beneath the force of his icy power, most of them scrambling out of his way with a gratifying haste as he climbed the stairs and entered the lobby.
Not that he noticed.
He was way too busy convincing himself that his retreat was nothing more than anger at Tonya’s interference.
As if he needed the fey prying into his sex life. She was supposed to be his assistant, not his pimp. If he wanted a damned female he could get one himself. Hell, he could get a dozen.
And not one of them would be some pitiful substitute for the aggravating, infuriating, impossible female who had simply abandoned him to return behind the Veil....
“Trouble in paradise, mi amigo?”
It was a testament to just how distracted he was that he was nearly across the marble floor of the lobby and he hadn’t noticed the vampire standing near the door to his office.
Dios.
If he could miss the current Anasso (the ultimate King of All Vampires), then his head was truly up his ass.
Styx was a six-foot-five Aztec warrior dressed in black leather with a sword strapped to his back big enough to carve through a full-blooded troll. And of course, there was his massive power that pulsed through the air like sonic waves.
It would be easier, and certainly less dangerous, to overlook an erupting volcano.
“Perfect,” he muttered, regarding his unexpected guest’s bronzed face. His visage had been carved on lean, arrogant lines emphasized by his dark hair, which was pulled into a tight braid that fell nearly to the back of his knees. He didn’t look like he was there to party. Which meant he wanted something from Santiago. Never a good thing. “Could this night get any better?” he muttered.
Styx arched a dark brow. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Share the fact he was no better than a eunuch with his Anasso? He’d rather be gutted.
And, speaking as someone who actually had been gutted, that was saying something.
“I most emphatically do not,” he rasped, shoving open the door to his office and leading his companion inside.
“Thank the gods.” Styx crossed the slate gray carpet, perching on the corner of Santiago’s heavy walnut desk. “When I took the gig of Anasso I didn’t know I had to become the Vampire Whisperer. I just wanted to poke things with my big sword.”
Santiago veered past the wooden shelves that held the sort of high-tech surveillance equipment that only Homeland Security was supposed to know about, unlocking the door of the sidebar that was set beneath the French Impressionist paintings hung on the paneled walls.
“I hope you didn’t come here to poke anything with your sword,” he said, pulling out a bottle of Comisario tequila.