Page 92 of Heir

“So you can murder me while I am restrained?” the vampire asked with a scoff.

“No. So I can not murder you. I need to practice. So . . . piss me off, Blood Boy.”

Gemma slept through dinner.

I checked on her several times, even woke her up to see how she was feeling. She said her head felt better, but she was tired and felt the headache on the fringes. She just wanted to sleep. I put more Tylenol and Advil on her nightstand, along with water and a granola bar, before letting her be for the night.

Maxar went and picked up falafel and shawarma for everyone. So we dined on delicious Middle Eastern cuisine. I locked myself in my room, and Zandren and Maxar released Drak from his restraints long enough for him to eat and use the bathroom.

I waited up for a while, hoping Mr. Fiddleman would call Maxar to let him know any new spells he discovered at my aunt’s. But we heard nothing.

I practiced a lot on all three of them. Sending thoughts of persuasion and manipulation into their minds. Nothing nefarious. Though I did persuade Drak to bok like a chicken, which was pretty hilarious. He didn’t think it was funny, but I didn’t care.

True to form, the vampire did a good job pissing me off with just his words and face, but I managed to compartmentalize my rage, shove it in a box, and keep from making his nose bleed or brain hemorrhage. We called that a win.

Maxar took the couch and Zandren asked how we would all feel if he shifted and slept on the balcony. He also asked that we leave the sliding glass door open slightly so he could still hear the coming and going of the house.

We obliged.

Once I was safely locked away in my room again, they released Drak from his restraints, only to tether him to the leg of the love seat so he could sleep reclined, but not get very far.

I waited until midnight when I knew everyone would be asleep before I slipped into a pair of dark jeans, the same crop top as earlier that day, and my black leather jacket. I yanked on my combat boots and let my hair do its thing. Then, like a starved mouse willing to risk the trap to get the cheese, I tiptoed as quiet as ever, opened my bedroom door, and crept across the apartment to the front door.

Nobody in the living room stirred.

I didn’t even look in the direction of the couches as I slipped out the front door. Then I took the stairs and was as silent as could be when I burst into the night, free as a bird.

Even though Zandren and I went to the woods that morning, I was feeling so smothered by these mates. They barely knew me and yet, they wouldn’t let me be.

I knew there was love there. Zandren said as much. And maybe that’s because they felt it the moment the lightning struck, but I was still getting to know them. I was still making sense of everything. Of my role as Queen, of the fact that my father was a demon—the King—my mother was a human, and my aunt was a mage. A dead mage, no less. I was working through my grief as best I could, but it didn’t seem like there was any time for that. I could crumble later.

Right now, I had to figure out how to be Queen, how to be a demon, and find the two men who killed Delia.

But for just a few hours, I needed to go back to a time before I was hit by lightning. Before three gorgeous men knocked on my door asking me for forever.

I had my bear spray clutched tight in my palm, a switchblade in the other. Not to mention, I was armed with the demon power of deep-frying brains. I was safe.

Keeping a keen eye out around me, I headed for the bus stop. Even though the subway would be faster, dangerous things happened in tunnels and stairwells. I was already being stupid leaving; I didn’t need to be doubly stupid.

Whatever. I could be stupid. Twenty-two-year-olds were stupid. My prefrontal cortex wasn’t even fully developed. And right now, after everything that happened in the last three days, I deserved not only some time by myself to do what I wanted to do, but I deserved a break from all things magical. I just wanted to go back to a time before shit hit the fan.

It was nearly one o’clock by the time I arrived at Black Fox. It wasn’t my first time at this establishment and the bouncer let me in with no fuss. I thanked Roman with a wink and a fifty-dollar tip. I always tipped all the staff very well. Bouncers, bussers, bartenders, servers, the cashier, the dealer. I usually left with at least a grand less in my pocket because I spread the wealth.

But these people worked hard. And tipping them ensured not only excellent service, but if things got dicey—which they had in the past—because some egotistical jackass got his tighty whities in a twist, the staff was quick to jump to my defense and get me the hell out of dodge.

I made my way through the front of the house, which was a lounge, bar, and nightclub. It was a weekday, so things were slow. I said “hello” to the two bartenders—Alex and Felix—waved at the servers who knew me, and winked at the DJ, who waved back as I headed for the spiral staircase at the rear of the room. There was another bouncer there, guarding the velvet rope.

Damien lit up when he saw me. “I was hoping you’d come,” he said. “Where’s your cute little ginger friend?”

I pouted. “Home with a migraine. I’m flying solo tonight.”

He nodded, turning serious again. “I’ll let Cane know. Make sure nobody bugs you.” He unhooked the rope, and I handed him a fifty, then lifted up onto my tiptoes and kissed his chiseled cheek. “Thanks, Damien. You’re the best.”

Down, down, down the spiral staircase I went, the pumping sounds of the club music growing fainter the deeper into the earth I stepped.

The poker game was held under the bar in what was at one time a speakeasy during prohibition times. The above ground club was actually an old textile shop.

Laughter filtered up toward me, along with the sound of ice being dumped into glasses. Different music—jazzier stuff—played, and the faint hint of cigar smoke made me cringe. Nobody was allowed to smoke down here, but I knew that smell. I knew who would be at the table.

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