When Temptation Burns: A Shadow Keepers Novel (Shadow Keepers 6) (7 page)

“We believe there are four potential victims?”

“Don’t assume,” Doyle said. “But yeah, that’s our intelligence.”

“On it.”

“Wait.” Cort paused and looked back over his shoulder. “He’ll have cut tunnels.”

“Already on it, sir.”

Doyle caught Tucker’s eye, saw the glint of approval there.

“What’s your plan for finding the victims?” Doyle continued.

“Assuming Rhys is on the premises, he won’t be emerging during the daylight.”

“There’s not much daylight left,” Doyle pointed out.

“Another reason we have to move fast,” Cort said. At Doyle’s nod of approval, he continued. “We can’t locate him with heat-seeking equipment because, well, as a vampire—”

“There’s no heat,” Doyle finished. “Go on.”

“So we search for the females. Find them and go in—a risk because Rhys will be trapped inside and undoubtedly dangerous. But we’ll blast the place with hematite dust first.”

It was a solid plan, and Doyle said as much. The metal hematite was anathema to vampires. Like Superman’s kryptonite, it weakened the fang gang, sapping their strength and stripping them of their ability to transform into animal or mist.

“The team’s already putting the equipment in place.” Across the parking lot, Doyle saw the other RAC members setting equipment up at the ventilation system.

“Odds are he knows we’re here,” Tucker said.

“Agreed,” Cort said. “He’ll undoubtedly assume our first priority is to get to his victims.”

“And he’s right,” Doyle said.

“How do you expect him to react?” Cort asked, training that firm, military stare on Doyle. “Will he seek to conceal himself? Hole up so that he can engage when we locate him? Will he attempt to harm the females before we can get to them?”

“He’s a survivor,” Doyle said. He clenched his fists tight at his sides, the pain of his nails cutting into his palms helping him stave off the waves of hunger. “There will always be other girls. Other fights. He’ll hole up and hide if he has to. Pride isn’t something he’s worried about.” He paused. “But that doesn’t mean he’ll give up easy. The place will be rigged. You guys ready for that?”

“Hell yes we are.” The voice came from behind Doyle, and he turned to face a hulking werewolf with skin the color of coffee. “Agent Doyle. It’s been awhile.”

“Rand,” Doyle said, with a curt nod. The last time he saw Rand had been at Orlando’s. Rand’s wife, Lissa, was the succubus who owned the club. The fact that Rand was aware of how often Doyle needed to feed—of the very nature of what he fed on—didn’t make him warm to the weren. “Status?”

“We’ve located Rhys’s entry point,” Rand said.

Beside him, Cort tapped his earpiece, then caught Doyle’s attention. “And we’ve found a heat signature.”

“Only one?” Tucker asked, echoing Doyle’s thoughts.

“I’m afraid so.”

“I’m taking the team in now.” Rand lifted his hand, signaling to the other six men on the team.

“I’m a part of that team,” Doyle said, keeping pace as Rand strode toward the entrance Rhys had concealed in the closet of one of the building’s moldy, abandoned rooms. As they walked, Doyle checked his weapons, confirming that he had a full load of wooden bullets, along with a Taser that shot hematite wire.

“This is going to push you over the edge,” Tucker said from beside him.

Doyle ignored him.

In front of them, Rand paused, his eyes searching
Doyle’s face. “Call Lissa,” he said to Tucker. “She’ll have a room waiting for him when this is over.”

Crimson fury burst out of him, and even though Doyle knew it was the hunger, he couldn’t pull it back. He was in Rand’s face in a second, hands on his collar, nose pressed right up to the wolfish bastard. “Stay the fuck out of my business, weren.”

“Stay out of my face, daemon,” Rand retorted. “I’m in command of this mission. You want to go into these tunnels with us? Or should I send you to Orlando’s now?”

For two long seconds, they faced off. Then—dammit—Doyle caved. “Make the call,” he said to Tucker. “And you, get moving,” he added to Rand. “But let’s be clear. You may be in charge of this operation, but I’m in charge of the case. You countermand my orders and you’ll spend the rest of your time at the PEC pushing papers. We clear?”

“You interested in saving that girl?” Rand asked.

“Damn straight.”

“Then I won’t have a reason to countermand, will I?” He signaled to the team, and the first two men dropped through the entrance. The next four followed, with Doyle, Rand, and Cort bringing up the rear. Because the target was a vampire, the RAC team consisted entirely of nonvamps, which made the use of hematite practical, albeit unpleasant for the team, all of whom wore masks to filter the dust and make breathing easier.

Doyle descended beneath the building then pulled his own mask off. The air was thick with particles, but he’d rather breathe them in than continue wearing the claustrophobic mask. Instinctively, he turned to check on Tucker, only to remember that his partner wasn’t with
him. On most missions, Tucker had Doyle’s back, but he’d recently received orders not to engage in combat situations. Presumably, the powers that be were trying to protect his persuasive abilities by keeping him safe. But what they wanted those powers for remained a mystery.

Rand dropped down beside him, and signaled for the group to move forward. Moving slowly, they inched their way through the earthen tunnels that Rhys had clearly crafted with care. Cort edged to the front of the group, his attention focused on the monitor that was strapped to his arm. The tunnel broke into a Y, and he signaled for half the team to veer left and the other—including Doyle—to veer right.

“The vic?” Doyle mouthed. Cort nodded and tapped the monitor, indicating that they were heading toward the heat signature as Rand led the rest of the team in the other direction, hopefully toward Rhys.

The tunnel sloped sharply downward, and they struggled to keep their footing. Once again the tunnel split into a Y, and this time Doyle and Cort continued together to the right while their two companions veered left.

A little bit farther. Slowly, slowly.

And then there it was—an opening in the side that led to a cavernous room. The girl’s prison.

She looked up, startled, as they stepped inside, weapons drawn and senses on hyperalert. Cort took the left, Doyle the right, and Doyle had to admit he was impressed with the way his temporary partner handled the room.

“Don’t!” the girl cried, but it wasn’t until Cort set his foot down that Doyle understood. He’d crossed an
imaginary line—and in doing so, had triggered one of Rhys’s traps.

The trip to the cavern had been uneventful, and they’d gotten sloppy. But now fire sprung up inside of the room—two raging walls of flame that blocked both the entrance and their path to the girl.

“Shit,”
Cort snapped, whipping around to look for Rhys, who, of course, wasn’t there. He pulled out his radio. “We found the girl, but we got fire,” he said. “Tell Leon to get his ass over here. An eater,” he added for Doyle’s sake after he signed off, indicating that Leon was a jinn that consumed fire for nourishment.

But Doyle was barely listening. He was staring past the flames at the terrified girl beyond.

Staring … and remembering.

Fire
.

It was an inferno, and it was raging through the chateau. Raw fear surged through Doyle as he clawed through the smoke, trying to find her. Trying desperately to save his Kathryn. The impressive mansion had been built in 1649 by Kathryn’s great-great-grandfather using stone from nearby quarries just outside of Paris. The walls would withstand the flames, Doyle knew, but the humans within them would not. Already, the tapestries that seemed to cover every wall were crawling with flames, the crackle and hiss sounding like vile laughter. The delicate chairs burned, arms red and writhing, as if urging a victim to sit. Sit, and be consumed.

He raced into the mirrored ballroom, hoping to find her there. But when he burst through the doors, Kathryn wasn’t there, and the doors to the garden were still firmly shut.

Backtracking, he pushed into the depths of the chateau, then stumbled as he tripped over something.
No. Someone
. Desperate, he sank to his knees, blinking to clear his vision.
Rhiana
. Kathryn’s maid. But where was the lady herself?

Doyle started to rise, frantic to find his love, but he dropped back down hard onto the hot marble floor. He had to try to help the girl …

But there was no help to be had. She was dead, taken by the smoke.

Cold terror curled through him as he imagined Lucius finding Kathryn this way—sprawled on the floor, dead.

Where the hell was she? And where the hell was Lucius?

He started to stand, then realized that Rhiana would never have willingly left her mistress. It was a risk, and it would take time—precious seconds that were ticking away—but the chateau was too big to search randomly. He needed a goal, some clue to where Kathryn was. And if Rhiana could provide that …

He placed his hand on the girl’s forehead.
Hurry. Hurry
.

And then he was in. Feeling Rhiana’s terror. Looking through her eyes at Kathryn’s beautiful face, distorted in horror as she looked at
—what
?

Frustrated, Doyle silently urged Rhiana to turn. To look at what her mistress saw. But the dead girl didn’t cooperate. Instead, she ran, following Kathryn as she fled through the door and into the hallways that wound deep into the bowels of the house.

A moment later, the girl was on her own, having lost sight of Kathryn in the thick fog. And then there she was again—
Kathryn DuLac
—and Rhiana’s joy mirrored Doyle’s own. The girl stumbled toward her mistress, lungs burning, head fuzzy from the smoke, so thick in this narrow hallway. Then a cold wave of disappointment cut through her—cutting through Doyle at the same time, so intense it would have brought him to his knees had he not already been kneeling by the girl.

It wasn’t Kathryn
. Her portrait, yes, but not the woman herself.

Rhiana’s memories flooded through him—the day Kathryn had stood for that life-sized portrait. Tightening the stays of Kathryn’s dress. Brushing her long, golden locks into curls that danced flirtatiously around her shoulders, bared by her daring gown.

An image. A vision.
A ghost
.

The girl stumbled and fell, the impact of knees against tile sending pain through Doyle. She gasped, and Doyle’s lungs burned as she took in the scalding hot air. She’d reached the end—the smoke and her fear clutching at her, weakening her. Without Kathryn, she didn’t want to go on. Doyle knew how she felt, and it took all of his own strength to break the bond with the dead girl. To fight the sweet lure of death.

But he couldn’t let go. Not if there was even the slightest chance that she was still alive, trapped and frightened.

And so he wrenched free of Rhiana’s grasp and pushed forward once again. More bodies littered the way. These he essentially ignored, glancing down only long enough to confirm that Kathryn was not among them. There was no help for these fallen; he was certain they were as dead as Rhiana.

A sudden scream startled him, the sound thick in the unwieldy air. He put on a burst of speed and rushed toward it, wondering again where Lucius was. A new fear stabbed through him. He’d been traveling with Lucius on and off for the last two centuries, and the vampire had become one of his closest friends. They’d come here so that Doyle could introduce Luke to Kathryn. So that he could draw on his friend’s strength when he finally revealed his true nature to the human woman he’d come to love so desperately.

But though he worried for Luke’s safety, that concern barely registered against the icy fingers of his fear for Kathryn as he pushed his legs to move harder and faster toward the dwindling sound of the scream. There was no discerning the voice, and yet he somehow knew it was her. In pain, perhaps. Afraid, most definitely. But at least she was alive, and as his feet pounded against the floor, he kept repeating the word like a mantra.
Alive
. His love still lived, and he was going to her.

He found her upstairs, her back pressed against a wall, her eyes fixed on a window that was barred to her by a wall of flames. Flames licked the doorway, too, making it impassable for her.

For her, yes, but not for him.

Without thinking of how she would react, he thrust his hand forward and down, calling upon his innate power over the elements. Exhaustion and fear worked against his powers, but he managed to clear enough of a path through the fire to let him pass, and he scooted through, the cotton of his shirt and breeches getting singed in the process.

Her eyes widened as he moved unharmed through the flames. “Darling—how?”

“Later.” He moved toward her.

“It was him!” she cried, her voice raw from the smoke. “By the virgin, I couldn’t trust what my own eyes showed me.”

Around them, the air shimmered from the building heat. Kathryn did not seem to notice. “I’m being punished. God has smited me for sinful thoughts.”

“You have not sinned.”

“I let you touch me. And I—I wished for you to touch me as a husband, even without the bond of matrimony.”