Come on, then, Alexander mused darkly. Let’s see what you can do without your commander.
Lucian and Nicholas took off in opposite directions, while Alexander aimed and fired directly at the large black-haired Impure who was descending upon him, a sword in each fist, slashing at the air. But just seconds after Alexander’s finger touched the trigger, the Impure vanished. Flash. Gone. Just like at the restaurant.
A growl ripped from Alexander’s throat, but it died there. Someone was breathing near his shoulder. He whirled around. A fist slammed into his nose and he jerked back. The Impure had reappeared! How the hell were they doing this? And inside the fucking house!
Quick, intent rage took Alexander’s mind and, completely unconcerned with the racket he was about to make, he reached out for the Impure, who had his sword pulled back over his shoulder, ready to plunge the blade into Alexander’s heart. In less than a second, Alexander’s hands were around the male’s throat, snapping his neck. He let the body fall where it had stood and glanced over at Lucian. The fierce albino had an Impure guard in a headlock, knife drawn, ready to slash his throat.
Flash. Gone. The Impure disappeared.
“They’re flashing!” Alexander shouted. “Quick kills!”
Circling around behind his brothers, Alexander covered them, ready to spring when the next Impure surfaced. A moment later, Lucian’s Impure reappeared just behind Nicholas. Alexander shoved the head of his Glock into the Impure’s back, firing. Heartbeat extinguished, the Impure dropped to the floor like a bag of rocks, joining his comrade in death.
“Thanks, Duro,” Nicholas said, his black eyes flashing with bloodlust.
Alexander grinned. “Anytime.”
The brothers turned and saw Lucian slash the wrists and throat of the third Impure, then haul him to the ground, conveniently forgetting the orders to provide a quick kill.
Grabbing the male’s throat, Lucian stuck his palm over the deadly slash, managing to slow the thick ooze of blood as he said, “Where’s your boss, Impure?”
The male blinked up at him. He was clearly in deep pain, but his eyes remained defiant just as his tongue stayed mute.
Lucian sneered. “Not going to tell me? Big mistake.”
The Impure spoke through a bloody gurgle. “You’ll . . . never get him, Pureblood witte.”
“We will get him, Impure. Unfortunately, you will not be around to watch.” Lucian pushed the male away and stood, watched as the blood flowed thickly from his neck, watched as in seconds, the light died in his eyes.
“Upstairs,” Alexander ordered. “Search every room for Dare.”
Music, soft and seductive, met them as they reached the top floor of the house. To Alexander the music seemed to be coming from every closed door, filtering out of every crack and crevice, into the hallway as though it were a solid, living being. No Impures blocked their way this time, and the brothers moved with pantherlike quickness down the hallway, stopping at every room, checking every corner for Dare. But there was no sign of the half-breed.
At the last door, Alexander paused. He scented both human and Impure and something else that felt druglike in its powerfulness. Weapons drawn, he nodded at each brother. With a grunt, Lucian kicked open the door, then crouched, ready for action. But what the brothers found on the other side of the wall made them stop and stare.
“Holy shit,” Nicholas muttered under his breath, lowering his weapon. “What kind of party is this?”
Lucian snorted. “Fuck party. This is an orgy.”
“Is Dare in there?”
Alexander shook his head, his cock stirring at the scene before him. Males and females—easily twenty or so, Impure, Pureblood, and human alike—were naked and coiled together, some asleep, some moving together in a rhythm as timeless as the dance of sun and stars, and all completely unaware of the Roman brothers’ presence. In fact, Alexander thought, studying the lack of movement in their eyes, they seemed to be in some kind of trance.
Alexander’s gaze shifted to several females sleeping alone on beds off to one side. Their bellies were in different stages of swell. “He’s making more Impures ...”
“What?” Nicholas asked, his eyes lust-filled as he watched the show.
“He’s raising an army, just as the Order said.”
“To fight for control over the credentis? Or to completely destroy the Pureblood breed?”
Alexander shrugged. “Perhaps both.”
Lucian sneered. “Well, whatever he’s doing, at this rate, it’ll be a century before he succeeds.”
“The question is what do we do now?”
“Find and kill Dare,” Lucian stated flatly. “That is all we are contracted to do.”
True. And yet . . . Alexander lifted his chin toward the crowd and the pregnant females asleep on their beds. “What about them?”
“They’re having a hell of a lot more fun than we are,” Lucian muttered.
“They’re barely coherent, Lucian,” Nicholas said, his tone one of disgust.
Alexander nodded. “Some of them have been torn from their credentis and brought here to be either pestle or mortar.”
Lucian shrugged. “Not my problem.”
Alexander and Nicholas said nothing.
They didn’t have to. Lucian’s gaze was traversing the room, resting on the females and their bellies. His lips thinned. “Dammit! I don’t do rescue ...”
Alexander knew that Lucian hated the idea of further assisting not only the Order, but members of the credenti, but he also understood firsthand what deep pain a forced swell and an unwanted balas wrought. With a grumble of annoyance, he pushed past Nicholas, who was now staring unblinking at the orgy in front of him, and tried to get to the females on the other side of the room. Not even halfway there, he froze, cursed. “I can’t get to them,” he called back. “There’s something blocking the air around them.”
Alexander closed his eyes and attempted to take down the invisible shield with the power of morpho, but he could sense nothing there, nothing in Lucian’s way. His lips curled back as he opened his eyes. This wasn’t the mission he’d agreed to, the mission he’d been forced into. He rubbed a hand over his face, felt his brands grow hot. No matter how much he despised his species and the Order who ruled them, he could not turn his back on those innocent females and the balas they carried.
“Fall back,” he ordered, pushing away from the door and heading down the hall and toward the stairs. His mind jumped and devised. He knew what had to be done. Tonight, he would dive deep into his mind, and though it made his skin twitch with revulsion—though Cruen had warned him against it—he would attempt to connect with the Order once again.
The study had been on rats, but what the hell, Sara reasoned, curled up in a chair on the second floor of the Roman brothers’ library, there was always a jumping-off point. Shock treatments to induce fear, followed by a drug to bring about temporary amnesia, followed by a new, gentle memory to take its place. A little thrill ran through her. What if this was the answer? Or at least got her infinitely closer to it? Sara glanced at the clock on the wall. It was close to midnight. Tomorrow she would run the idea by Pete, get his thoughts. Gray’s memory of the fire would need to be reinforced somehow, simulated, which would be pretty hellish, but then again, so was the life he was living now. The amnesia, she thought—would she have to go with hard drugs? She didn’t want to go the drug route again, not yet. She could use hypnosis or sodium Amytal, but would either be strong enough to calm the fear center of the brain? Her gaze scanned a row of books on the wall in front of her, not really seeing anything but ancient cloth spines. Hypnosis was a thought, but then again, Gray always fought the relaxed state—hell, he was fighting everything these days. He still refused to get inside the MRI machine . . .