Succubus Unchained - Heather Long Page 0,74

useless.

“Remember the last time I had to find my own target, Rogue.” Cyril finished his cigarette, then flicked it away before he slid back in the car, and it glided along the street, leaving the headless corpse behind.

Rogue maintained his position for a little longer, letting the last sounds of the vehicle fade away before snapping out his wings and launching into the sky. He left Paris behind, turning east toward the mountains.

He would take the message to Alfred.

It was after dawn when he touched down at the keep. He could have traveled faster, but he paused twice on the way to investigate other sightings. If Dimitri had gone to Eamon, then there were a handful of bolt-holes the little coward might be stashed away in.

None of the vampires he’d found knew where the little shit was. Rogue made sure there were none left to tell the tale of who had been there. Particularly when they tried to snare him in a witch trap.

The bloodlines had to be growing weaker, because the progeny had become that much stupider.

The keep was quiet, the pre-dawn gray just giving way to the growing pink light on the horizon. He shed the feathers and wings for skin, cracking the vertebrae along his spine as he regained his height. The cold air wrapped around him like a familiar lover, but he strode to the entrance and let himself in, the locks giving at his grip as the wards recognized him.

Eleanor gave a jerk at his arrival, spinning to face the door as she pushed her hands into the pockets of her skirt. She half-stumbled into a curtsey, her eyes widening at his state of undress, but Rogue didn’t have time for her or her need to curry favor.

Cutting her off with a slice of his hand, he said, “Not now.” Then strode away. Her little strangled noise of objection followed him, but fortunately, she did not. He paused on the stairs to listen.

Fiona’s heart was upstairs.

He needed to speak to Alfred, but he wanted to check on his little sváss first. He ascended the stairs, then followed the steady cadence of her pulse not to her room—or his—but to Alfred’s. Had the two finally found some kind of accord?

Knocking once, he let himself in. Fiona lay on Alfred’s bed, red hair spilling everywhere, beautiful and perfect, with only a sheet pulled up to her waist.

“We had a visitor while you were away,” Alfred told him as he tossed him a robe. Rogue caught it one handed and then glanced from Fiona to where Alfred stood by the fire. One he’d apparently just started. Dressed only in a pair of slacks, he held a drink in his hand. “The shadow demon sent a proxy. Anton is dead.”

Fuck.

“We’ll have to modify the wards.” The shadow demon should not have been able to get inside, but if he’d managed to infect Anton, then he would have been a ticking time bomb, a Trojan Horse that allowed the shadow demon to piggy back inside on him.

Still, he took another step toward Fiona. Her chest rose and fell with the slow, deep evenness of her breaths.

“She’s fine,” Alfred informed him, and poured another drink before he held out the tumbler to him. Rogue dragged on the robe before he took the glass and then moved over to the fire. “She fought him off, but he still managed to get a piece of himself into her.”

“You got it out?” It wasn’t really a question, yet he asked it anyway.

A single nod.

“And you’ve repaired things with her?”

The baleful look Alfred gave him only made Rogue shrug.

“You were the one who said you needed to find an accord with her.”

“And you helped her run away.”

The corners of Rogue’s mouth curved. “She needed to run. We all do. She took far less time than any of us—especially me—if she is already finding it in her to forgive you.”

They were both silent. Alfred stared at her. “She is remarkable.”

“We knew she would have to be,” Rogue reminded him. “Cyril wants to see you.”

Alfred grimaced.

“He also wants you to bring her with you.”

“Not happening.” Inflexible. Immovable. Intent.

“Agreed, but they are all looking for her.”

“She marks a change,” Alfred said.

“It’s going to mean war.” He’d had this conversation with himself. “The seven do not want change.”

“No, we don’t. But if we do not change, we will die out. Already, we had grown complacent, fading in our interest in this world.”

Not always a bad thing. “Brandt has asked