trembling, whether from exhaustion or fear, he had no idea.
At her side, Rose gripped the hell dagger, the hilt’s rubies winking like blood drops in the glow of the chandelier.
“He’ll have the hostage with him,” Rose said, sure of herself. “That’s where he can guard him the closest.”
Lance nodded. They’d peeked in a few bedrooms upstairs on their way, and found all of them empty. There would be only one surefire way to ensure a hostage stayed carefully-watched.
He faced forward–
“Hey!” someone shouted behind them.
A moment later a thud registered as Morgan collapsed the body, but the shout had been loud. It would have been heard – and had been, if the sudden silence from deeper in the house was any indication.
Lance took off at a run.
A short hallway led into a massive dining room dominated by a long, gleaming table. Candlesticks marched down its center – for ambiance, rather than practicality, a chandelier burning overhead. Lance registered guards – reaching for sidearms, barking into radios, lunging toward the door, and him. His attention skipped over a skinny-necked, big-eyed teen who could only be Logan, the Prime Minister’s son, but his attention snagged on the man sitting at the head of the table, the stem of a shattered wine glass held negligently in one hand.
There was a reason Timothy Shubert was the head of his criminal organization, and not merely a hired thug: he had the looks for it. Tall, elegant, his short, ash-blond hair combed neatly to one side, in a style reminiscent of a century ago. He wore a suit, and a blue silk tie that matched his eyes – his white-blue, glowing eyes. That glow was unmistakable, as was the way the back of Lance’s neck burned now that he was in the conduit’s presence.
Too late – Lance cursed himself for the lapse – he lifted his weapons as the guards closed in.
But Shubert said, “Stop.”
The guards halted.
Shubert grinned, head cocking to the side, gaze fixed on Lance. “How cute. A rescue mission.” Then his expression flickered, and smoothed, and in an entirely different voice – the flat, toneless voice of Morgan, and every other conduit he’d ever faced, said, “That was foolish.”
Two voices. Two expressions. Two entities controlling the body. Sharing.
The burn on his neck shivered all down his back, leaving painful gooseflesh in its wake.
The wineglass stem snapped neatly in two between Shubert’s fingers, and he stood, graceful and human, without any of a conduit’s usual blank efficiency of movement; it was showy, the way he unfolded himself, and buttoned his suit jacket, and stepped around the corner of the table to rest a hand on Logan’s shoulder. “What’s your name, soldier?” he asked Lance, pleasant and warm.
Lance felt the rest of his company crowd in behind him; heard a few muffled curses as they assessed the situation.
“Feeling shy?” Shubert asked, putting on an overdramatic pout.
Then his expression veered again, and the conduit’s voice rang out from his mouth: “He has an angel with him.”
“Does he really?” Shubert again. He smiled. “This should be fun.”
The guards’ eyes rolled back and they dropped.
“Logan, duck!” Lance shouted, just before a blue glow exploded through the room, and an invisible force shoved him back.
He toppled backward through his own company, all of them scattering like bowling pins. He twisted, got his feet under him fast, coming up with his gun aimed down the length of the table, to the place where Shubert had been – sites falling on the back of Morgan’s helmeted head.
“Shit! Morgan!”
She ignored him. Shubert stared down at her, his gaze flickering between human delight and conduit impassivity, changing second by second, and back again.
Logan was out of sight, at least. Under the table, Lance figured.
“Morgan!” he tried again.
A stirring on the floor caught his attention; then a groan: the guards snapping out of their fugue.
Movement beneath his elbow: Rose flashing past him, ducking low, keeping beneath the table as she raced down the long length of it.
Lance had never felt so helpless and stupid.
Morgan’s hand flew out, a fast, white flash like a bird winging up from the reeds. Straight toward Shubert’s chest. He caught her wrist – but bared his teeth, hissing, blue eyes flaring. Steam boiled up in the air between them.
Rose reared up behind him, unseen, and stabbed him with her hell dagger.
The blow hit him from behind. Had to slide between ribs and muscle and she wasn’t used to aiming for the heart in reverse like that.
It didn’t kill him, not