“I rang a couple of hunter friends nearby, too.” Her scent twined around him in the confines of the cockpit, fine ropes he knew he’d never break. “None of them had heard anything.”
“Neither had my people—but Kallistos is no youth.” He wouldn’t have done anything to draw attention to himself near his lair. “I’m certain we’ll find him there.”
“One way or another,” Honor said, reaching out to brush her fingers over his jaw in an unexpected caress, “tonight will finish this.”
“How do you understand?” That it savaged him to realize this small piece of Isis survived when his family’s ashes had been scattered by the wind so long ago, entire civilizations had risen and fallen in that time.
No longer touching him, she said, “I know you, Dmitri.” A fisted hand over her heart, her voice soft, potent with raw emotion. “Right here, so deep it feels as if you’ve been a part of me since the instant I took my first breath.”
Reaching out, he brought her fist to his lips, pressed a kiss to the knuckles. She robbed him of words, of sophistication, until he was once more the man he’d been with his wife—harder, deadlier, but with the capacity to feel emotions both beautiful and terrifying. He would spill blood for the mortal by his side, split open his veins if she asked, slay demons and enemies until the world shivered at the sound of his name.
But he would not mourn her. Because a man didn’t survive such a loss twice.
Having landed far enough from the house that their arrival should’ve gone unnoticed, Dmitri looked up as they began to navigate the heavy woods that led to Eris’s estate, attempting to spot Illium. Not even a hint against the starless night sky, but when Dmitri said, Illium, the response was immediate.
I see you. I’ve scouted the house—it’s silent, but there’s no way to know if Kallistos lies within.
Even if he isn’t there now, he’ll return to his lair sooner or later.
Breaking the mental contact, he relayed Illium’s words to Honor. She nodded, the gun she’d chosen as her main weapon held to her side. He preferred the blade. The scimitar he carried was an old favorite, and it often sat on display in Raphael’s home at the Refuge—but the last time he’d been at the angelic stronghold, Dmitri had felt driven to take it down, bring it to New York.
“The runes on your blade,” Honor asked as they continued to walk through the thick quiet of the woods, the rustling of the leaves the only sound. “What do they mean?”
“You should know,” he said with a provocative smile. “It was another witch who put them on the blade for me, after all.”
A green-eyed glance as sharp as the gleaming edge on his scimitar. “Careful, or I might decide to turn you into a toad.”
Hell with it.
Gripping the back of her neck, he brought her to him for the kiss he’d been wanting to claim for hours. A long dark tangling of tongues, he indulged in her until she shuddered, her lips ripe and swollen. “After this is over,” she said, touching her fingers to her kiss-wet mouth, “I think I want to spend a month locked in a bedroom with you.”
His lips curved. “That could be arranged.” The bedroom games he wanted to play with Honor were beyond decadent, beyond sinful. “The house should be coming up soon.”
“There,” Honor whispered a bare two minutes later.
Hidden in the midst of what felt like thousands of sugar maple trees shivering in the whispering night wind, the house sat private and cocooned from the outside world. Though they’d come out behind it, Honor had no doubt what she was seeing accurately reflected the overall architecture. Despite the serene setting, it was no fairy tale, no elegant retreat. It reminded Honor of nothing so much as a hulking beast, a monument to gothic excess.
Two snarling gargoyles guarded the back steps, their fangs bared and claws unsheathed. From what she could make out in the dark, that was simply the beginning—she was fairly certain more gargoyles peered out from the roof, including a giant batlike creature silhouetted against the pitch-black sky.
The ivy that covered most of the building added to the impression of decaying menace, as did the spread of leaves deep on the ground. As if decades’ worth of forest debris had collected on top of each other, until now, the ground was forever lost. Walking across the leaves—soft this time of year, concealing rather than betraying their passage—Honor kept her gun in hand as Dmitri’s blade cut a dark wound through the night, his stride as confident and quiet as a hunting cat’s.
She touched his arm when they reached the bottom of steps that led onto a narrow porch, pointed. “Look.”
No ivy or moss covered the central part of the stone steps. As if they had been used recently and often. When she bent down and cautiously flicked on her flashlight, shielding the beam with her palm, she was able to glean a faint path in amongst the organic matter that covered what may once have been a manicured lawn. A single nod to Dmitri, before she flicked off the flashlight and they headed slowly and silently up the steps and to the back door of the monstrosity of a house.
Dmitri angled his head.
It was strange—in a wonderful kind of way—how perfectly she understood him. Bending, she duckwalked to the nearest window. She could see nothing beyond, but she kept going, checking window after window.
The only thing that lay beyond was a stygian darkness. Since the house was enormous, that meant nothing, but she turned and straightened up enough to shake her head at Dmitri before moving past him to check the other side, while he kept watch, a silent, dangerous predator almost indistinguishable from the night. It was at the third window that she saw it.