Page 7 of Pursued
“Here.” He shoved the phone at Ceci and waited, arms crossed, while she told Rafe thank you—three times—and then with a flirty wave at me, continued on her way with Connor.
When he sent a last scowl over his shoulder, I showed him my fangs. I understood why he was pissed, but I didn’t take shit from humans. He gulped and sped up, dragging Ceci with him.
I smiled and turned for the brownstone. “Oh, Rafael,” I said in a high falsetto as I jogged up its three steps. “You are justtooirresistible.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Rafe suggested in a pleasant voice. “Besides, she was just as interested in you. You didn’t see those looks she was giving you. That whole dark-and-brooding thing you’ve got going on really sucks them in.”
I snorted. “Should’ve staked you when you were a baby.”
The doorman was a wiry, world-weary New Yorker. “Good evening, sirs,” he said as he opened the steel-and-silver reinforced door with exquisite timing.
“Evening, Dino.” I strode into the stately marble-and-bronze lobby, Rafe at my heels.
My brother glanced around. “No Zaq,” he observed as one of the Syndicate soldiers on guard duty pushed the button for Father’s private elevator.
“Late,” I returned. “As always.”
We exchanged a wry look. Like our mom, a New Orleanian down to her scarlet toenails, our middle brother ran on his own relaxed time. According to Mom, he’d even been late to his own birth.
The elevator descended three floors to a secure area carved out of New York bedrock. We passed through another two layers of security before reaching Father’s inner sanctum.
Tomas Mraz, his lieutenant and righthand man, waited in the outer room to let us in. A big blond Slovak, Tomas had grown up with my dad in the Carpathian Mountains, and had been turned at the same time. When I was a kid, the blunt, ever-smiling Tomas had reminded me of a Teddy bear, until I was brought into the Syndicate and saw him slice a man’s throat without losing the grin.
The lieutenant wasn’t smiling now. “Gabriel. Rafe. Go in. He’s been waiting for you.” He jerked his head at the study.
Inside, Father was pacing the antique red-and-gold carpet, his lean frame clad in one of his usual hand-tailored suits. At three centuries, he was still young for a vampire. His face was unlined, his dark eyes clear. But his short black hair was ruffled as if he’d been dragging his hands through it.
Rafe and I exchanged a glance. Karoly Michal Kral was never ruffled.
Father turned to us, his relief palpable. “You’re here.”
I frowned. “What’s wrong?”
He scraped a hand over his face. “It’s Zaquiel. He’s missing.”
My stomach tightened. “You’re sure? It’s not the first time he’s gone A.W.O.L.” Zaq hated the Syndicate, would resign in a heartbeat if Father allowed.
“I’m sure,” Father said grimly. “He hasn’t been seen since Monday.”
“Hell.” Rafe’s black brows lowered. “Could the Syrians have him?”
“No. We’ve traced him to Paris. He disappeared sometime after landing at de Gaulle.”
“I can vouch for that,” I inserted. “He texted me from the airport. At least, that’s where he said he was.”
“He was. The surveillance cameras recorded him talking to a middle-aged female with big sunglasses and brown hair, and then—nothing.” Father spread his long, elegant hands.
“Fuck.” I squeezed the back of my neck, tried to think beyond the fear gripping my gut. “Okay. Dark glasses. Could she be a vampire?”
“Or a dhampir?” Rafe added. “Or it could just be part of her disguise.”
“If she’s even ashe,” I muttered.
“I haven’t ruled anything out,” was my father’s reply. “But if she’s a vampire or dhampir, she’s not in our database.”
I frowned. “So not a member of one of the larger covens.” We kept extensive files on the major covens and syndicates, but there were always small nests of vampires who preferred to fly under the radar.
“Could be a rogue,” Rafe pointed out.