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Chapter 8

Kostas

E lrith McKittack was about as helpful as Kostas had imagined he’d be—not at all.

It wasn’t hard for Kostas to find him after talking to the nymphs down at the pier. Guy owned his own building, apparently. Not like an incubus of that stature to be subtle.

But he was paranoid.

Kostas couldn’t even get into the building. According to the doorman, Elrith was “otherwise occupied” with a “guest.” Pushing hadn’t gotten Kostas much either. He said he was looking for the guy Elrith had gone out with that night, and the doorman had blinked at him with wide, milky eyes.

“Young Malcolm, sir?”

Kostas had scowled at him. “I didn’t catch his name. About yay tall. Longish brown hair. Blue eyes.”

“Yes, indeed, sir. That is Malcolm McKittack. Master Elrith’s son.”

Blinking, Kostas had the sinking feeling that he’d gotten himself trapped in a dark trench, no way to the surface.

“Okay, well, I think he’s in trouble. I saw some guy grab him off the street.”

The doorman, who was pretty old, but seemed like a nice, reasonable sort of man, was obviously concerned. He called up to the penthouse, but Elrith put him off. Malcolm was fine, he said. And when the doorman pressed, Elrith had snapped, “If someone is here looking for Malcolm, give him the boy’s number. This isn’t my problem. Don’t call again.”

So Kostas had ended up with a phone number, and he’d called in a favor to get Malcolm’s location from a techie troll—literally, a troll. The big, tall, bridge-protecting sort.

When it turned out Malcolm McKittack’s phone was in the middle of the woods, Kostas couldn’t play at convincing himself everything was well and good anymore. He’d never seen a person less suited to the outdoors than the incubus who’d slid into the club that night. There was a kinky good time, and then there was roughing it, and no way a demon like Malcolm would go for the latter.

The Poisonwood Forest was just about the worst place for a siren to make a stand. In water, he was sleek and fast and lethal. But here, twigs and leaves crunched under his feet with every step. Gravity felt heavier. Every breath was loud as a gong.

He’d driven out into the woods as far as he could find a path, but a few miles in, the trees had gotten thick. The trail veered off, and the signal was coming from the right. There was nothing Kostas could do but hoof it the rest of the way.

But the cabin Malcolm’s cell signal was coming from was rustic, the edging around the windows loose enough for Kostas to work his claws around the wood and open it. Getting off the ground and through it was another issue, but Kostas had strong arms from swimming. Even on land, he could jump high enough to get purchase.

Then, he was pushing himself through, wiggling over the wooden ridges digging into his stomach, while from a cot in the corner, a tied and trussed Malcolm McKittack stared at him with wide, sky-blue eyes.

When Kostas’s feet hit the floor, Malcolm’s lips fell open in shock. “You are unbelievable ,” he whispered, pushing his elbows into the cot under him. The way he was tied kept him from moving much, but to make a point of things, he stuck his chin out. “Seriously, are you some kind of idiot? What the hell are you doing here?” Malcolm kept his voice low, whispering between little fangs. His eyes flashed ruby red, but just as quick, the color went back to normal, like he was exhausted. Maybe drugged.

Kostas crept on the balls of his feet, then crouched on the floor near the top of the bed.

Malcolm had a sour-sweat scent, like alcohol and fear. The ropes keeping his arms up were hardly alleviating the situation. And like this, well, he didn’t seem half so ornery or obnoxious as he had back at Phaze.

A strange, possessive urge tightened in Kostas’s chest. An incubus shouldn’t be trapped like this. It wasn’t right. Not the way things were supposed to work. He furrowed his brow. “I’m Kostas. I got your name and number from your father.”

Malcolm flinched. “My father knows I’m here?”

With a frown, Kostas looked at the edge of the cot. “He was... busy.” Malcolm scoffed and rolled his eyes, and, well, it wasn’t like Kostas had any real experience navigating father-son relationships. Best leave that one alone.

“This isn’t a game?” he asked instead.

Malcolm jerked, eyes so wide Kostas could see the whites all around those opal irises. “No this isn’t a fucking game,” he spat. The bed jerked, scratching against an already scuffed wooden floor.

“Shh,” Kostas hissed. He pressed Malcolm’s wrist back against the cot. “Be quiet.”

Malcolm froze, but his glare was searing.

“I’m sorry. I had to check.”

“You actually didn’t. You could’ve just kept your fucking mouth shut. That’s always an option.”

Kostas pressed his lips together tightly. “Fair enough. But if you don’t shut yours, whoever’s out there’s gonna come in here, and I think we’d both rather avoid that, hm?”

He shifted up to inspect the ropes. They were tied tight, and thick enough to cause trouble. But siren claws were meant for digging through sandstone and coral.

Malcolm must have caught a glance at the flash of silver claw, because he jerked away. “What are you doing?”

“Getting you out,” Kostas whispered. “I really need you to calm the fuck down.”

He heard the click of Malcolm swallowing, but the incubus didn’t make another sound as Kostas sawed through the ropes one strand at a time.

The second he could, Malcolm sat up, rubbing his wrists and letting Kostas do the rest of the work getting his feet untied, frowning all the while.

“Do you know how many of them there are?” Kostas asked.

Malcolm’s eyes narrowed further, till Kostas could barely see his eyes behind his dark lashes. “I was a little busy being drugged and manhandled. You couldn’t do a little recon yourself?”

“I’m here to help you. If you think I’m not doing a good enough job, I can just?—”

There was a sound outside the door. Muffled voices.

Kostas stiffened. “Can you walk?”

Malcolm had gone pale, his pretty cheekbones suddenly seeming too sharp, like he was wasting away. “Yeah. Yes. Let’s go.”

Kostas slipped his arm around Malcolm’s shoulders to help him up, but they only made it a step.

The door burst open, and a man with dark hair and an inky black leather jacket stood in the frame, a pistol raised, even as he took in the scene—the open window, Malcolm leaning on him, an intruder. Kostas froze, his arm tightening around Malcolm’s middle.

Like he was the world’s most disappointed parent, the man sighed. His arm steadied.

“Oh, princess, we talked about this.”

The man’s silvery blue eyes hardened, he frowned, and with one smooth curl of his finger, he fired.