For 341 years he had stood as guardian to the Phoenix. Not willingly, and not without a simmering fury at his fate, but with absolute dedication. It was not as if he had a choice. Those witches had seen to that.
But now, when the danger was at its greatest, he discovered himself barely capable of concentrating upon the threat very much at hand.
He impatiently shoved back his tangled hair. Bloody hell, there was little wonder he was distracted. In the past few hours, he had endured more shocks than he had in centuries. The death of the immortal Selena. The fierce, intoxicating joy as he felt the chains begin to loosen. And the horror of watching the Phoenix being branded into Abby.
Abby.
Double bloody hell. He glared down at her slender form. The woman had been a plague and pestilence since she arrived at Selena's estate. With her skin as soft as satin. Her honey curls that haloed her gamine face. Her vulnerable eyes. And the hot passions that smoldered just beneath her screw-the-world attitude. It called to him like the song of a Siren. A tasty morsel that he had had every intention of consuming at his leisure.
But now everything had changed. Now she was no longer a lovely diversion. No longer a bit of sport. She was his to protect. And he would do so until his very death.
"Gome," he commanded in soft tones, summoning his ancient instincts. "Something approaches."
Struggling to her feet, she eyed him warily. "What?"
He grasped her arm in a firm grip. "Demons." He reached out with his senses, touching the approaching darkness. "And more than one."
Her face paled, but with that inner strength he had always admired, she didn't faint or scream or do all those annoying things that mortals were so prone to do when faced with the mystic.
"But they surely won't trouble us. We don't have anything they could want."
His lips twisted. "You're wrong, lover. We possess a treasure beyond all dreams."
"What—"
"I'm afraid the twenty questions will have to wait until later, Abby."
Pulling her close to his side, he silently crossed toward the nearly hidden door next to the bed. Reaching out, he turned the knob and thrust it open. Wood splintered as the dead bolt was ripped from the frame. Still holding Abby close, he tugged her through the shadows of the adjoining room, barely giving a glance toward the drunk who snored in vodka oblivion upon his bed.
Dante moved directly to the narrow window. Forcing it open, he turned to lean close to Abby's ear. "Stay close to me and don't make a sound," he whispered. "If we are attacked, I want you to stay behind me and don't run. They will be attempting to frighten you into a trap."
"But I want to know why—"
"Not now, Abby," he growled impatiently. "If we're going to get out of here alive, I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
There was a moment of silence. In the gloom, Dante could sense the fragility of her control. She was near shattering, and he could only hope that her impending collapse could be held off long enough to get to safety.
At last she swallowed heavily and gave a grudging nod of her head. "Yes."
He gazed deep into her eyes, startled by the stir of something that might have been warmth.
'Then let's go."
Taking her hand, he helped her climb through the narrow window, waiting until she was standing upon the metal fire escape before following her into the darkness. He paused just a moment, peering down at the littered alley below. His instincts warned that demons lurked nearby. Unfortunately, to remain would mean being trapped and surrounded. They had no choice but to go forward.
Or in this case, down.
Grimly Dante gave a tilt of his head toward the nearby ladder. With reluctant steps, Abby moved across the platform and forced herself to climb down the rungs. He waited until she had reached the bottom before stepping off the edge and landing next to her shivering form.
As she opened her lips to speak, he reached out to press a finger to her mouth, giving a sharp shake of his head. Danger prickled over his skin. Something was near. Very near. Turning toward a large Dumpster, he took a slow step forward.
"Show yourself," he commanded.
There was a rustle in the shadows followed by a sharp scrape of claws upon the pavement before a large, hulking form slowly appeared. At first glance, it would be simple to dismiss the intruder as an awkward, brainless beast. With thick, leathery skin, seeping boils, and a misshapen head that sported three eyes, he was the poster child for the monster beneath the bed. But Dante was all too familiar with this particular demon and knew that beneath all the ugly was a cunning intelligence that was more deadly than any muscle.
"Halford." Dante offered a mocking bow.
"Ah, Dante." The deep, rumbling voice possessed a polished, elegant accent that would have been right at home in a posh boarding school. A ludicrous contrast to his brutish appearance. "I just knew you would be dropping in once you caught whiff of those hellhounds. I've tried for centuries to train them with a bit of discretion, but they must always rush in when stealth would serve best."