Page 36 of The Firebrand
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Atthe bar in the Blood Shed, the blond leaned forward out of the shadows to watch the Firebrand leave with two females. One he had rescued from an impending striptease. The other was Braelyn James.
He punched a number into his cellphone, waiting for the male on the other end to answer. “I understand I’m late. I ran into a complication.—Let me explain.—I followed the target into an alley in Seattle. When she got there, a Scion Firebrand had a Kalli pinned to the wall. He sent the hairball solo through a portal. I thought he would wipe the human. Imagine my surprise when he carried her like baggage across to Scath.”
The blond raised an empty glass, signaling for a refill while he listened. When the bartender slid a dark-colored drink in front of him, he took a sip. “That’s right. She just left the Shed with the same Scion Firebrand.”
The male paused before he said, “Rein.”
He tipped his rum and cola, a big, smooth gulp rolling down his throat. “I don’t know where he’s stashing her. After I put out feelers, I heard from my snitch at the Ministry of Well Being, telling me a human was in Alarik’s office. I waited outside on the chance they might hoof it from there. They did. I tracked them here. I’ll call later with an update, Silas.” He slammed money on the counter, stood up, and swaggered out of the bar.
The trouble with vamps was they all walked a tightrope. Too little blood and they were weak. Too much and they fell to the bludfrenzy.
For Gahya’s sake, that white-haired sonofabitchin’ Silas must mainline the stuff to be so crazy.
ChapterEight
Braelynscanned the condo while Rein walked toward a closed door, shifting the weight of his sister, who was still flopped over his shoulder in a sleeping spell.
“Stay put.”
“Can I explore a bit?” she called out before he disappeared.
“Whatever. Just keep your hands to yourself.”
“I wouldn’t think of touching your stuff.”
Unless it looks interesting.
Braelyn dropped the duffle, wandered through the great room, and stopped at the floor-to-ceiling windows. Dizzy from the height, too many whiskeys, or Rein’s incubus woo-woo, she steadied a hand on the wall while gazing at the bright lights of Covenkirk. Like Seattle at night, the skyscrapers twinkled, stars in a serene sky.
Home.
Fighting sadness, she tore away from the view to continue the tour. Manly modern. From the style to the colors. Smooth walls, glass-top tables, metal trim. Black and mahogany leather furniture. On one side of the room was a low, linear fireplace with an industrial steel mantel. Opposite it, she dropped onto the plush cushions of a sofa that crackled under her weight. She kicked off her tennies, curling bare toes into the thick pile of a freshly vacuumed Oriental rug. Swiping a finger over the coffee table, Braelyn examined the tip.No dust. Pillows were neatly propped on chairs. Magazines were in even stacks. Rein’s place was meticulous.
Unfolding from the luxurious couch before she fell asleep, Braelyn meandered into the adjoining kitchen. Not a food-caked dish in sight. Clutter-free sparkling granite counters. She sniffed. Lemon-scented furniture polish. Some bachelor pad this was.
Where are the beer bottles, porn, dirty dishes?
In her apartment, magazines, books, newspapers, and mail littered the tables while plates or cups soaked in the sink. Dust bunnies rolled under the bed, and discarded pants or tops cluttered the floor, lying where they fell until joining her overflowing laundry basket.
But here. All was tidy minimalist.
A few pieces of artwork hung on the two-story-high walls. Paused in front of a painting in the hall, Braelyn jumped when Rein pulled alongside, flinging a casual arm over her shoulders. “You’re too quiet.”
“Breed trait. Like it?” He pointed at a small painting.
“Nice.” She tilted her head to look at it from another angle.
“I met the artist in Avignon. Around 1915. The guy was a dick.”
“Seems to be a common gender problem.” Braelyn’s gaze flipped from Rein to the artwork. She stepped close enough that her nose almost touched the canvas. The signature. Was that…? “Picasso?”
Rein nodded. “The guy’s dead now.”
“I know. What were you doing in France?” When she turned, her fingers brushed his chest.
“Firebrand policy. We spend time on Earth every forty years, a walkabout to stay current with shit. I planned to join in the Great War but took a detour before gearing up for the trenches.”
