too.”
Carson exchanged a worried look with Margery. “Anita, tell us everything you can remember about the ones who attacked your mate.”
“I didn’t see them. Jake was out with his brother, in natural form, just running to run. They were harming no one. His brother said that a tessera of Arcadians flashed in and came at them. They fought, and the Arcadians shot Jake with something, and he went down hard. Peter ran for help.”
“Where’s Peter now?” Fury asked.
A tear slid from the corner of her eye. “Dead. Whateverthey shot hit him in the head. He only lived long enough to tell us what happened.”
Carson handed her off to Margery before he led Sasha and Fury out of the room. “I’ve dug through Peter’s head and couldn’t find anything. There’s no entry wound, no exit wound, no blood. Nothing. I don’t know what killed him.”
That didn’t bode well. “Magick?” Fury asked.
Carson shook his head. “But what would be that powerful?”
Sasha shifted his weight. “The gods.”
Fury disagreed with that. “I didn’t smell a god. I smelled us.”
Sasha let out a long sigh. “You know how many Lykos patrias exist?”
“Since I’m the Regis for the Katagaria, yeah, I do. There are thousands of us and that’s just in this time period.” What he didn’t tell them was that the scent was one he was more than familiar with. One from a past he’d done his damnedest to forget. “I’m going to do some digging around and see what I can come up with.”
“Thank you,” Carson said.
Fury disregarded his gratitude. “No offense, I’m not doing this for you. I’m worried about my people. We need to know what’s causing him to hold onto his form.”
“And if it’s reversible,” Sasha added.
Fury nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Hey, Fury?”
He turned to Sasha who hit his chest three times with his fist, then swept his hand down. A silent gesture to let him know Sasha wouldn’t forget to give the letter to Aimee. He inclined his head respectfully before he left the room and headed downstairs.
But with every step he took, his long-buried memories burned through him. He went back in time to a woman whohad once been his entire world. Not his lover or relative, she’d been his best friend.
Angelia.
And in one heartbeat, when his brother had told his clan what he really was, she’d not only betrayed her sacred promise to him, she’d tried to kill him. He could still feel the bite of her knife as she drove it in to the hilt—the scar was still jagged on his chest just inches from his heart. The truth was, she hadn’t really missed that organ. Her words to him had done more damage than any weapon ever could.
If she was behind this, he’d make sure it was the last mistake that bitch ever made.
2
Angelia hesitated inside the infamous Sanctuary bar. They’d popped into the third level of the limani—the area that had been designated for those teleporting in so that no one would see them—and were now trying to get the lay of the foreign landscape. Dimly lit, the club’s ceiling was painted black, and the walls were made of dark red brick. Black railings and trim added to the cave-like feeling of the place.
She’d spent most of her life in medieval England, preferring the open countryside and untainted air to the chaos of twenty-first-century life. Now she knew why. Buildings like this were claustrophobic. She was used to thirty-foot arched ceilings. The flat one above her head couldn’t be more than ten feet, if that.
Skittish, she eyed the electric lights around her. As a Were-Hunter, she was susceptible to electrical currents. One tiny jolt and she could lose control of not only her magick, but her human appearance as well.
How did her people live in these horribly crowded and overly electrified places? She’d never understand the appeal. Not to mention the clothes . . .
She wore a pair of blue coarse pants and a white top that, while it