Chapter 14 Asher
ASHER
Shit.
I've never seen a vamp drain someone that fast. I fucked up by not bringing anything to take on an out-of-control, bloodthirsty thrall—and I can only summon Arati's protective blessing every few hours before I need some serious rest.
But Ian isn't lunging toward me. He's just watching me with dilated pupils, looking disoriented but a hell of a lot better now that he's fed.
His nostrils flare slightly. He looks first at his bloodied, dismembered previous master, and then at the caster whose head is still bleeding out into a pool on the wood floor. The freed thrall swallows hard, stark hunger eclipsing his features.
I've been around enough vampires that I'm the furthest thing from squeamish about their diet. I nod at the dead caster, trying to ignore the throbbing that intensifies in the right side of my head.
"Open bar, on the house. It's not like a dead man has any use for blood, anyway."
Ian still doesn't move, aside from wiping the blood off his chin with a trembling hand. His brown hair is mussed, and he looks unhinged, but he's trying to stay in control.
Weird. Thralls that have just been freed usually have absolutely no impulse control around blood.
"You've been missing for over a year," I tell him. "You missed a lot. Shit's pretty different out there now. Everett Frost sent me to look for you a long time ago."
At the mention of Everett, Ian Boone's blue gaze moves back to me. When he finally speaks, his voice is so hoarse it hurts my ears. Pretty sure he hasn't talked in a long fucking time.
“H—his…is she…” Ian Boone scrapes out, struggling like what he's trying to ask hurts more than his voice. "Still alive?"
"Is who alive?" I clarify.
Gotta admit, his ability to reign it in even this much and think for himself so soon after being freed from his vampyrish master is a good sign. Still, I note where my knife is embedded nearby in case this thrall goes off the rails, which could happen at any second.
I can't understand why Ian looks so tortured as he's trying to string words together.
But when the first caster I tackled begins to rouse, the thrall reacts in the blink of an eye, fleeing so quickly out of this hallway that I don't even see what direction he goes.
I hear the front doors of the estate slam open and grimace.
Damn it. His control was impressive, but he looked weak as hell, so I didn't think he had the strength to run.
The caster has barely started to sit up when I use the last reserves of my magic to cast a paralysis spell on him.
Dragging him over to prop him up beside the heavily drugged necromancer, I snap a picture of the two of them and send it and these coordinates to the RLHNA.
That's all they'll need to finish wrapping shit up here, and the bounty should be transferred to one of my accounts in a few days.
Eyeing the grandiose mansion as I walk through it, I step out the front doors to scan the extensive exterior landscaping and surrounding woods further away. No surprise, there's no trace of Boone. That fucker is fast.
Great. Now there's a starving, unstable thrall on the loose. I wouldn't be surprised if the RLHNA put a bounty on his head soon, too.
Again, probably something I should mention to Frost.
As if my thoughts summoned him, my phone starts buzzing in my hand, Everett's name flashing across the screen. Lifting the phone to my left ear, I lean against the outside of the mansion, trying not to grimace when piercing pain starts somewhere in the right half of my head.
Yep. Fucking migraine, and I'm sure this conversation is not about to help.
"Fuck off," I answer. "I'm done for the day and about to head home—"
"Too bad. This is urgent."
He's not always in the worst fucking mood in the world anymore, now that he has his keeper and quintet back, but it sounds like he's ready to kill someone right now.
I scratch at the faint scrying brand on one of my forearms. It's still fading from when I got it during the Upheaval. No one really uses it to communicate anymore. "If this is about a job, I'm not interested."
"Yes, you are."
"No, I'm really not."
"Yes, you fucking are. I'll triple what I paid during the Upheaval."
Triple?
Fucking Frosts and their diamond-lined pockets.
I know Everett's business acumen has made him a pretty penny even just since the Legacy Curse was lifted, most of which goes toward the nonprofit that's helping Nether humans adjust in the world—but still, I'm far from a cheap hire.
It was already ludicrous what he was paying me during the Upheaval.
Curiosity almost has me asking what this is about, until I remember Dev's fangs buried in that charred backyard and change my mind. Hellhounds have a higher chance of respawning around midnight, and I don't want to miss it, if it ever fucking happens.
"Call me in a couple of days.”
"No good. The job starts tomorrow.”
He's a stubborn motherfucker, but that makes two of us.
I yawn. "That's nice. I won't be there, so find some other sap to—"
"I can't trust anyone else with this, Asher."
His voice breaks somewhere in there. I pause, realizing the icy asshole that I now consider a friend by some sick twist of fate is…emotional. Maybe even on the verge of a breakdown.
What the fresh hell is this?
When I'm too taken aback to say anything, he goes on being bossy like usual, clearing his throat.
"Your transportation magic is shit, so Silas will be there soon."
I snort. "Oh, yeah? There, where? You guys don't even know where I—"
The overbearing, searing magical signature of Silas fucking Crane fills the night air just before the blood fae turned necromancer appears beside me with a bright flash. I stare at him for a moment before rubbing the bridge of my nose, still talking to Everett.
"Damn ravens."
Silas smirks like the smug dick he is. "She finds them endlessly useful. All we did was ask if she could locate you. Ready?"
"What part of no don't you Amato guys get?"
"Ask our keeper. She might even empathize with you there."
Fat chance of that. They say Amato's daughter got her heart back, but I'll believe that when she starts acting human.
"Whatever," I grumble, hanging up on Everett.
Taking a deep breath, I let a slight amount of my slowly recovering magic fill me—just enough healing that the migraine starting to form in my head finally takes a backseat. Then I glower at Silas.
"Let's get this over with."
The prodigy caster apparently has no trouble with back-to-back transportation spells, because mere seconds later, I find myself in Everett's office. In their house.
In the Nether.
"I fucking hate you guys," I tell them. "You know I don't like coming back here."
Silas Crane ignores me completely, glancing at Everett with a slight frown.
Nothing is said, but I've seen these kinds of silent interactions before.
Unlike some strong quintets, they don't bother trying to hide the fact that their quintet communicates telepathically all the time—something I'm sure plenty of legacies are jealous of.
Legacies treasure a strong, gods-bound quintet like what the Amatos have above everything else. Finding the people who complete your soul, platonic or not. Getting more powerful together over time.
Me? I gave up on chasing that dream sometime before I got to my fourth Seeking. I skipped the last couple, because there's only so many times I can handle getting a metaphorical "stay single, buddy,” from the gods.
Now, whenever people grow a pair, they ask if I'm secretly a saint. Celibate for the sake of some heavenly mission, or some shit like that.
So fuck it. If the gods want me to be with anyone in particular, they're going to have to drop those matches right on my doorstep.
I've been fine with random, sporadic one-night stands, the occasional orgy, and a handful of casual first dates for years.
Romance is for suckers, and no one's ever caught my eye in any way that counts.
Dev is the only one I'm missing. As soon as this dumbass accepts that I'm not doing whatever this job is, I'm going to go to bed and hope I wake up with that big oaf drooling all over me.
"If you're done with your silent conversation, I have places to be," I grumble at them.
Silas leaves without another word, and the scarred ice elemental finally leans against his desk, facing me. I was right about him being on the brink of a breakdown. He looks more exhausted and stressed than I've seen him for a while—and hang on…is his shirt buttoned wrong?
His white hair is unusually messy, too.
Okay, something's seriously wrong. Frost is usually such an OCD perfectionist.
"What's the job?" I demand, getting more impatient the longer he seems to carefully consider his words.
Finally, Everett meets my eye, his voice quiet. "I want to hire you as a bodyguard for my sister."
Whoa.
Back up.
"Your what now?"
"My sister. The one I sent you out looking for during the Upheaval, with her scent on a coat for your hellhound to track. Elise Murley?" he finally reminds me, dropping that vaguely familiar name like it should have been obvious.
I continue to stare at him, dumbfounded. "Murley, not Frost. You never mentioned she was your sister—or that you had a sister at all."
"Does that matter now? You'll start as her bodyguard tomorrow.”
All it takes is picturing Everett with makeup, tits, and long white hair, and revulsion has me pulling a face.
“Oh, hell, no. The last thing I need is another Frost in my life. Don't forget, I've met your family—you're all fucking insane."
"My parents and I, yes. My sister, no," he says, his voice softening slightly as he rubs his tired eyes. "Heidi's nothing like me."
"So what, she's a decent person?" I can't resist snarking.