17. Chance #3
“This is why mated Vampires don’t go on missions,” I said in frustration.
“You just worry about you, okay?” she asked, climbing off the bed. “I’ll be safe and cozy and watching movies with the girls. Charlie and Gary and Rosemary’s cousin, Ian, will all be here.”
“I know.”
“Nothing I say is going to make you worry less, is it?”
“Not even a little.” I turned to grab my holster off the dresser.
“Hey, Chauncey,” she called, making me turn back around. “I love you.”
“You tell me this now?” I sputtered as she grinned.
“What better time than now?” she asked innocently.
“Literally any time but now,” I shot back. I glanced at the clock. “I don’t even have time to eat you!”
Rena laughed from deep in her belly.
“You’re paying for this when I get back,” I threatened, making her laugh harder as I threaded my arms through the holster straps.
I crossed the room and stopped her laughter with a thorough kiss. I pulled back just far enough to look into her eyes. They were brighter than they’d been in days.
“I love you too.”
“I know,” she replied easily. “Now go, or they’re going to leave without you.”
I kissed her again, inhaling the smell of her skin, memorizing the feel of her hands on my face.
“I’ll be home soon, muffin.”
“They’re getting worse and worse,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’ll be here. Be careful.”
I met up with my father and brothers at the landing strip, and we left for San Diego.
Baudelaire was reported to be in the country for some symposium and staying at his house on the beach.
The plane was silent as we flew through the night, and I wondered if Danny was having the same feeling of déjà vu that I was.
The last time we’d flown to the coast, we’d been in a helicopter, on our way to confront the Vampire generals who’d sold out their own kind.
What was it with these assholes and the ocean?
We landed at a small airstrip belonging to a Vampire that had helped us at the labs and used a borrowed car to drive to La Jolla, where Baudelaire lived while he was in the country.
The human had more money than the Gods, and his neighborhood was a slew of mansions, each of them having better views than the last.
Knowing that we couldn’t drive the perfectly serviceable but out-of-place car into the neighborhood without being noticed, we parked at a small overlook and went in on foot.
The thing about getting into a man’s home covertly was that if no one expected you, it was very easy to make your way through the holes in his security.
The fence around his property was stone and easily scaled, his guards were nothing if not punctual on their rounds, and his cameras were in plain view of anyone who cared to look.
We only had to put one guard to sleep with strategic pressure to his carotid artery before we made our way inside the house, and from there, it was like following a fucking beacon.
All the lights were off downstairs, but the living space upstairs was well lit, with music playing over the speakers. A man with a French accent sang along.
I looked over at Danny, grinning—Gods, I loved when shit was this easy—but he was staring emotionlessly ahead.
Ah, well, I was going to enjoy myself.
We entered the living space near a large seating area of couches that were shaped like writhing worms, and since Baudelaire was standing at the stove with his back to us, we walked right up to the motherfucker.
“Fran?ois Baudelaire?” Ambrose asked, making the human jump in surprise and spin around.
“Oui,” he replied, his eyes so wide I could see the whites all the way around.
Ambrose looked at my father.
“Have you heard of a scientist called Hermann?” my father asked, his voice almost conversational.
Baudelaire tried to hide any sign of recognition, but he’d schooled his features too late.
“Non,” he replied, swallowing hard.
“My son, Ezekiel Boucher—” Baudelaire’s eyes widened in seriously overdue panic. “Sends his regards,” my father finished.
It was over before it began. Two thumps were the only sound in the kitchen as Baudelaire’s head and body landed separately on the expensive tile.
“Well, that was anti-climactic,” I said, kicking at the human’s bare foot.
“There’s something seriously wrong with you,” Beau said, staring at me in disgust as we headed back toward the stairs.
“I just mean, we could’ve fucked with him a little,” I said, jogging behind Danny. “It’s okay, Dad. You’re just out of practice.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Ambrose said before opening the exit door we’d come in.
Moving back through the property and over the fence was as easy as a Sunday stroll.
Walking back to the car was boring. Driving back to the airstrip was irritating as hell because now I had the French pop song that Baudelaire liked so much stuck in my head, and no one would let me turn on the radio.
But as I sat down in the cockpit to keep Danny company and watched as the ground grew further and further away, reminding me of how it felt when Rena kissed me, all I could feel was overwhelming relief.
It was finally over.