Page 7 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

Dread coiled in my gut. The sinking sensation had me breaking into a full sprint toward my mother’s office at the end of the hall just as the fire alarm shrieked, splitting the night in two.

Carr, get the fucking fire out, I snapped mind-to-mind, yanking the lower half of my mask into place—partially for the smoke, but mostly because instinct warned I didn’t want this intruder seeing my face.

Trying, he gritted back.

Sprinklers burst to life, water striking my skin a beat before I crashed into Ma’s office—or what was left of it. The room was a goddamned inferno, flames hissing against the weak spray overhead.

Perched casually in the window was a figure dressed head to toe in black—an ancient Paladin uniform to rival my own. A mask covered both the upper and lower half of a pale face, hidden further by a dark hood.

Female, judging by the frame.

Bright green eyes locked onto mine as I raised my gun. A smirk flickered in them a heartbeat before she fucking winked, waggling a folder in her grip before she vaulted through the second-story window like a bird, cloak fanning out behind her.

I didn’t shoot.

I could have.

Had the opportunity, and fucking froze.

Too stunned to move.

Shield flaring over my skin, I lunged through the fire, nearly throwing myself out the window to chase her into the shadows—only for blinding light to swallow the alleyway.

My escape route vanished as a helicopter swiveled into position, its spotlight trained on my window in eerie, predatory grace.

Holy shit.

I recoiled just as the thudding roar of the rotor blades filled the air.

Burnt.

The whole warehouse was about to go up, and the best move I had left was making sure the flames erased every last trace before the humans in that chopper—law enforcement, no doubt—found anything they shouldn’t.

We might not need much from the mortal world, but replacing aliases for thousands of souls? I wasn’t equipped for that level of bullshit tonight.

I pulled the air with me, stoking the blaze as I bolted down the hall.

Dad? Mortal police—helicopter out front, which means SWAT is right behind them. What’s the order?

I already knew the answer before it came, my chest tightening with grim certainty as my father’s voice echoed back.

Burn everything.

“Two dead. Countless documents lost.”

“Two burn victims with the healers.” My parents rattled off statistics as I paced behind the billiards table. Calypso had her face buried in her hands, elbows braced against the old wooden bar top. Named after Louisiana's favorite childhood nightmare, The Rougarou had started as a laundering front but had grown into our hierarchy's favorite haunt. Dimly lit, an abundance of booze, souls behind the bar with watchful eyes, billiards, darts, disruptively loud live music—it all amassed into the best kind of chaos. The perfect place to go unnoticed when needed.

Now, it was empty, save for our coven. Dad’s jaw was clenched so tightly he might crack a molar. He was the genetic bestower of my bizarrely long frame, like a mirroring carnival freak. But where my hair echoed Ma’s bright blonde, Dad and Calypso had raven black. An entangled twin dance of yin and yang.

The master of immortal stillness, Dad perched in an armchair and, tone steady, demanded, “Can anyone offer me an explanation?”

I sucked in a long breath, bracing for the recoil. “No.”

“You are the head of our entire fleet of security personnel, Cyrus,” he gritted out, “and you’re telling me we have nothing? No explanation for why two souls are now recirculating? Why a ninety-year-old building is now a skeleton with ash for innards?”

“No, sir,” I said, eyes flicking to my mother, who stared daggers through the countertop. The very same countertop my father nearly eviscerated as he abruptly rose, slamming his broad hands down atop it. Unflinching, I supplied, “But we will. Carr is working on the video feed.”

“And you honestly expect me to believe one soul demolished a guarded safe house on her own, and nobody heard a damn thing?”