Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
SEB
“You look ready for a fight.”
Remus can barely stand still. Dressed in fighting leathers and enough weapons to take on an army, he fidgets beside me outside the Santa Barbara mansion that contains our next target. Unlike our last job, there are signs of life inside and a few cars in the drive.
“If I’m ever in bed for that long again, I hope it’s because I’ve found a mate and not because I’m recovering from a run-in with the Order.”
I grin, thinking of Zoe. “Definitely a better reason to stay horizontal.”
“What’s it like?” Remus asks. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. We both know that we’re less than a week out from his alignment. He’s older than me, which means the symptoms of his appetency will be grueling. Almost unbearable. I pray to the creator that he finds a mate soon.
For a while, I just stop and think about how to explain it, and then it comes to me. “You know when you were little and you’d fall asleep on the couch, and your parents would carry you to bed and tuck you in?”
“I think I do.”
“And maybe you’d wake up a little. Not all the way awake, but enough to hear them talking or laughing. You didn’t know what they were talking about, but you felt warm and safe. You knew that you were loved.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what it feels like. She’s this soothing presence, this source of warmth and connection. When I’m with her, everything makes sense. All my fears, my stressors, fade into the background.”
“Shit. Sounds nice.” He rubs the back of his neck, scowling.
“You’ll find her, Remus. The perfect woman for you is out there somewhere.”
He snorts. “I don’t know, man. It’s harder for Geminis. We’re an air sign. We need change. I’m constantly second-guessing myself. If I’m at war with my own thoughts half the time, how will one woman ever be enough to keep me interested?”
“That’s not narcissistic or anything.” I laugh.
He shakes his head. “It’s not all about me. I know it’s not. But how will a woman ever put up with my moodiness? I have an intense need for freedom, Seb. It’s part of my star sign. I just don’t see how that meshes with a permanent relationship.”
I shrug. “The creator has a way of sending us just what we need when we need it.”
He groans. “So, this guy, Stanley Trainor, is some sort of film financier, eh?”
“Yep. He’s produced a few too.”
“How would you like to proceed?”
I scan the modern monstrosity in front of us.
The place is mostly windows and is lit up like a jack-o’-lantern, making it not difficult to see inside.
A small group of men appears to be meeting in the front room, but I can’t make out any of their faces from this angle.
I can only see from their knees to their necks. “What does Stanley look like?”
“He’s the one with the ring,” Remus says snarkily.
I level an annoyed look in his direction.
We’re too far away and at the wrong angle to gauge who has a ring and who doesn’t.
“Getting close enough to see the ring or rings without triggering them is the problem at hand.” A server dressed in a black dress shirt with a silver tray balanced on one hand passes from the front room into what appears to be the kitchen.
“I say we put on the camouflage and slide into the kitchen. Listen in on what the staff is saying about Stanley. See what we’re dealing with and what it would take to cut the ring off his finger. ”
“Best plan yet.”
“It’s our only plan,” I mutter.
Remus blinks out of sight and starts for the back door. He knocks, and we flatten ourselves against the side of the house. When someone opens the door to look around the side, we slip inside.
The kitchen is enormous. State-of-the-art. A chef arranges some type of appetizer on a tray, something that looks like meat but smells like mango. “Who was that?” the chef asks.
“No one’s there,” the server says.
“Fucking kids. Get these out to Mr. Trainor and his guests. The guests must always have food and drink readily available at these meetings. Never hide in the kitchen.”
“Understood,” the server says. Picking up the tray, he heads through the door toward the front room. Remus moves to follow, but I hold him back. Something in the way the chef looks at the second server tells me there’s some gossip coming we won’t want to miss.
The moment the door closes, he turns to the second server. “How is Mr. Trainor tonight?”
“Fastidious as usual,” the server says. “He gave the new guy hell for serving him wine in a stemless wineglass. I just poured it into one of the old ones and sent it back out to him.”
“Excellent. Make a round with the cigars in a few minutes, and make sure there’s always a tray within his reach. He’s in one of his moods.”
The server looks over her shoulder at the door and then back at the chef, her blond ponytail swaying. “Can’t say I blame him, all things considered. I overheard him tell one of the other guests that four of their friends were murdered recently. What exactly are these people into?”
The chef raises one eyebrow. “You don’t want to know.” He nudges the tray toward her. “Go. And don’t spill anything on that cream suit of his, or we’ll never hear the end of it.”
The door opens and we move, silently drifting through the door after the server and following close behind her into the main room. We skim along the back wall and settle into a shady corner.
The blond server offers her tray to a man with a mustache in a cream-colored suit who takes one of the canapés with a hand sporting a ring. This must be Stanley. I silently thank the creator that this room is big enough that our presence doesn’t cause that ring to glow blue. I consider that a win.
Still, we are close enough that my dragon vision detects an inscription on the face. This is one of the originals. I nudge Remus. He taps my hand twice, acknowledging he saw it too.
Beside him, a familiar-looking young man with sandy brown hair takes a canapé. No ring, but I can’t get a read on his opposite hand, which he leaves in the pocket of his jacket. Why does he look so familiar? Maybe an actor?
The third man stands from his chair and waves the server off.
“We’re wasting time,” he says. “Let’s get down to brass tacks.
Are you going to sponsor my son or not?” As he moves toward the windows, an Order ring catches the light.
Is the familiar-looking man his son? If so, there is no family resemblance in the man’s silver hair and bulbous nose.
But no, the fourth man who sits with his back to me stiffens in his seat. I’m guessing that’s the son.
“Leave us,” Stanley orders, and the two servers hustle back toward the kitchen. Once they’re gone, he says, “It’s not a yes or no question, Alex. It’s a question of timing.”
“I’ve contributed handsomely to the Order. You owe me this,” Alex says.
The familiar man takes a bite of the puff in his hand. “It’s not a matter of denying him a place. We need more blood, or we can’t make more rings.”
“Exactly.” Stanley crosses his legs. “I have Scott on the list. It’s just a matter of time—”
“If you need dragon’s blood, hunt a dragon.” Alex throws up his hands. “This is why the Order was founded in the first place. It shouldn’t be that hard.”
My spine tingles with the desire to attack, but the information we’re suddenly privy to is too important.
I grab Remus’s wrist. He seems to understand.
“Unfortunately, things in that regard are harder than you might think. The dragons have gone into hiding. And the only time they seem to appear these days is when one of us ends up dead.”
“So now we’re being hunted?” Alex scoffs. “Fuck this. I’ve seen an influx of rings all over LA.”
“Made with the blood of the last dragon we had in our possession,” Maybe-actor says. “That blood is now gone, and all the rings made are accounted for.”
Alex charges toward the man and points a finger at his chest. “How much would it cost to find Scott one that was already created? Kick someone else to the curb.”
“Dad,” the boy blurts. “No. I can wait.”
Alex whirls on the boy, who has now leaned forward in his chair, showing his dark mop of hair. “You will never make it through an Ivy League school without that ring, Scott. You’re not good enough.”
“So, I’ll go to a state school.”
His father crosses the room and grabs him by the face. I really hate this guy. “Shut the fuck up. You will do no such thing.”
Stanley raises a hand. “Release the boy, Alex. We’ll find another dragon. We might even get permission to drain some blood from one of our members’ beasts. A few remain in captivity.”
Alex releases the boy and takes a long drink of some amber liquid. “Fine.”
Stanley sits back in his chair and rests his hand on the armrest, his ring flashing in the overhead lights. This is my chance. I draw my dagger. Silently, I communicate that I’ll take Stanley, and Remus moves toward Alex.
I creep across the room as the men move on to a discussion about a young actress appearing in Stanley’s latest project. I lift my dagger and strike.
Stanley’s fingers drop to the floor along with his ring, and Alex’s hand drops along with the glass he’s holding. The boy screams first, followed by the two men who are clutching their hands and wailing in agony.
The maybe-actor looks right at me, seeming to see me despite my camouflage, his ring glowing blue on his finger.
“Jeremy, stop him!” Stanley yells as I move toward the blue glow.
“Jeremy?” My thoughts slow as Jeremy’s hands do an odd dance, and the light from his ring grows brighter, not into the form of a weapon, but something else, something far more dangerous. It closes around me and squeezes me like a fist.
I hear shattering glass. And then I’m falling into a soundless black sea.