With his cousin’s blood in the air and on her tongue, she was so distracted, Assail was able to get over to the door without her being aware of his withdrawal. Reaching into his coat, he took out a tiny old-fashioned oil can, the kind with the poppable bottom and a short-necked nose.

Pocka-pocka. Pocka-pocka. Up above.

Pocka-pocka. Pocka-pocka. Down below.

The lubricant didn’t smell like much because he’d loaded the thing with brand new Pennzoil 10W-40 for motorcars—and after his ministrations, the massive door opened in utter silence. With a sly smile, he slipped out of the playroom and re-closed the heavy panels. Replacing his oil can into the pocket of his cashmere jacket, he looked both ways. Then he proceeded to the left, following the path Throe had taken the previous evening.

The basement walls and floor were made of rough-cut stone, with electrical lights tacked onto wooden ceiling beams casting dim shadows. He tried every door he came to and discovered storage room after storage room, some filled with lawn-care equipment from the forties and fifties, others with travel trunks from the turn of the twentieth century in them, and yet another with festival decorations that had wilted and spoiled in the damp and mildew.

No sign of Throe’s quarters, and that was truly not a surprise; he would not deign to stay down here in this window-less land of forgotten utility objects. No doggen, either, the house clearly having been modernized, with the supplies and sundries of the servants moved up to higher levels. No wine cellar, but then he would imagine that that, too, would have found a home on the first floor, closer to the hub of social activity.

All of which was why she had kitted that space out as she had.

There was privacy to be had down here.

Mayhap, like him, she did her own sheets from those bedding platforms? Perhaps not. The female probably had a trusted maid.

At the very far end, a second set of stairs appeared as the corridor took a turn, the stone steps so old they had wear patterns in them.

Ah, so this was where Throe had run off to.

Moving quickly, Assail was almost upon them when he came to a final door—which was reinforced like that of Naasha’s dungeon, as opposed to the flimsier ones of those storage areas.

The Master Lock upon it was fresh and shiny, and of the sort that required a specific key. On a whim, he patted around the molding, in the event such a thing happened to be hanging up on a nail or a hook, as some were wont to do. Alas, no. Whate’er was on the far side was something that was precious.

Or not for prying eyes.

Taking the stairs, he was quiet as a draft as he ascended to a door that, blessedly, appeared to be unlocked. He listened for a moment, confirmed that there was nothing on the far side, and opened the way with care.

It was the butler’s pantry, going by all the glass-fronted cupboards full of dishes, and the silver closet that was paneled in green felt and stacked with great stores of gleaming sterling.

Although he did not know the layout of the house, he was well familiar with the necessaries of great manors, and sure enough, an unadorned staff stairwell with bald wooden steps and a functional handrail was not far. As he continued onward to the second floor, he was forced to stop halfway up and flatten himself against the wall as, upon the landing above, a maid passed by with a load of laundry in a wicker basket. When she was gone, he closed the distance and sneaked out behind her into the staff section of the bedroom wings.

Following his instincts, he whispered to a wide door, one that was broad enough to accommodate all manner of ins and outs—and indeed, on the other side, the hallway became splendiferous, crystal and brass sconces lighting the way, thick wool carpeting cushioning the foot, antique bureaus and tables marking windows that no doubt had views of the gardens.

He ducked into every bedroom, and each appeared to correspond to a given sex, done in alternating masculine or feminine schemes.

He knew when he got to Throe’s from the aftershave that scented the air.

Now, he went inside and shut the door behind himself. Fortunately, the maids had already been through and done their tidying up, the bed made, a fresh stack of towels set in the bathroom, new flowers on the writing desk. There were few in the way of personal effects, which would be in line with a former soldier of few resources and much mobility. The closet was filled with clothes, however, many of which had tags on them, indicating new purchases.

No doubt by the lady of the house.

Back out in the room proper, he went through the drawers of the Chippendale highboy and found nothing. No weapons. No ammo. At the antique desk, he searched for papers, phone records, mail. There were none.

Pausing by the bed, he observed the paintings that hung on the silk wallpaper.

“There you are, little one.”

With a purr of satisfaction, he went across to a small framed landscape—that just happened to be ever so slightly off center.

As he removed it, the burnished face of a wall safe was revealed.

The dial was flat and red, and there were many numbers from which to spin one to another.

Where was his cat burglar when he needed her, he thought as he put back the painting.

There were no doubt ways he could get inside if he chose, but he was ill prepared for such an endeavor, and he did not want to run out of time with the fun that was transpiring downstairs—his cousins were a hardy pair, but the fucking was not going to last forever.

Measuring the gold-leafed frame of the picture, he made certain that it was exactly as off-kilter as before, no more nor less, and then he went back across the Oriental—feeling rather glad that the short-napped, multi-colored expanse would not reveal his tracks.

With a final look around, he put the doorknob to use and reemerged out in the corridor—

“May I help you?”

As Rhage waited for the male vampire down the alley to respond, he glanced up to the roof of the building across the way. Vishous had just dematerialized to that vantage point—but the brother stayed quiet and motionless.

Refocusing, Rhage called out again, “Show yourself or I’m coming to get you. And you won’t live through that, motherfucker. I guarantee it.”

Beneath his skin, the beast surged, his curse coiling and unfurling restlessly in spite of all the sex he’d been having. Then again, his instincts were at a roar. Having already been shot in the chest this week, he wasn’t looking to beat the Brotherhood’s record for near-death experiences.

“’Tis I, yet I am unarmed.”

The sound of the aristocratic voice echoed around the grungy tenaments, and then a moment later, Throe stepped out with his palms up and facing outward, his body tense.

“Do not shoot.” The male performed a slow circle. “I am unaccompanied.”

Rhage narrowed his eyes, searching for other signs of movement in that dark corner. When there were none, he zeroed in on Throe again. No weapons were visible, and the male was not dressed for fighting—unless he was looking to bitch slap Zoolander: The bastard’s threads were as nice as Butch’s, his overcoat tailored like a fine suit, his shoes gleaming even in the low light.

“Looks like you’ve had a makeover,” Rhage muttered. “Last time I saw you, your clothes weren’t that good.”

“My prospects have improved since I have left Xcor’s employ.”

“Word had it you weren’t employed, you sonofabitch. Conscripted is more like it.”

“I had a debt to repay, ’tis true. But that is done now.”

“Well, we’re not hiring. Not assholes with your résumé, at any rate.”

“May I put my arms down? They are getting rather tired.”

“Up to you. I’m a trigger-happy douche bag, though, so you might want to watch where you choose to put your hands.”