Ronan ignored his comment. “Have the cameras ever worked?”
“Sometimes.”
“When was the last time?”
“I think for the human before Sierra.”
“Did you see anything suspicious?”
“Like what? Like a ghost maybe?” Damon paused to hand Ronan a bottle of blood. “You look like you could use this.”
Ronan had fed a few hours ago when he’d come to speak to Damon, but felt the need for sustenance so he drank the entire thing.
“I’ve heard the same stories you have about that house being haunted,” Damon said. “After all, I do live next door.”
“And?”
“I haven’t seen any ghosts.”
“But some humans have?”
“They didn’t stick around long enough to say one way or another.”
“Nothing showed up on the surveillance tapes?” Ronan said.
“No ghosts.”
“But something else?”
“No entities. Just strange human behavior.”
Ronan wasn’t freaked about the possibility of ghosts. In fact, he’d welcome that news. Because the other option was much worse. Voz smoked cigars. And if Ronan could still smell that scent, it meant Voz hadn’t gone far. Which meant Ronan had to keep his thoughts tightly locked up. If Voz discovered that Ronan didn’t know what he was looking for or that he was sexually attracted to Sierra, the Master Vampire would use those things against Ronan.
During the two weeks he’d had the house to himself, Ronan had checked the usual places to hide things. The cubbyholes he knew about from living there as a teenager. The loose brick above the fireplace provided space to hide something. But it was empty. The fake bottom beneath the built-in bookshelf. Again nothing but cobwebs and spiders. The attic was full of junk but no key. Maybe full was an exaggeration but that’s how it had felt to him. Most of it was old furniture. He’d even checked the tunnels used by the vampire residents of Vamptown. Nothing.
When he returned to the house a short while later, he was happy to find that Sierra was gone. She’d left a note on the dining table saying she was getting groceries and that Zoe next door was giving her a ride.
While she was gone, he made fast work of ripping up the floorboards in the bedrooms upstairs, and when he found nothing, swearing incessantly as he hammered them all back into place at vamp speed.
Nothing. Yet again he had reached a dead end in his hunt. Striding across the hallway, he went right up to the large framed photograph Sierra had been standing near. “If you’re a freaking ghost, I need to know about it now! Show yourself,” Ronan demanded.
Nothing. If this guy lived in the house, he might have some idea about what hidden treasures were inside. Ronan didn’t care if the guy was dead. He was good at dealing with the undead. Not that he’d ever dealt with ghosts before. Hell, for all he knew they didn’t even exist.
But on the odd chance that they did, he needed to make contact. “Show yourself!” he said, louder this time.
Again nothing.
So no ghost. Just the lingering scent of cigar smoke reminding him of Vox. Moving at vamp superspeed, Ronan knocked on the walls and the floor. He tore up more floorboards and had to put it all back. He hated this. Not the work, but the frustration.
Voz had granted Ronan his freedom and then reeled him right back in by holding his sister’s soul hostage. Ronan didn’t even realize he’d punched a hole in the wall until after the fact. He’d used such force that his bones cracked and broke.
He didn’t care. As a vampire, he healed quickly. He welcomed the intervening pain.
What if this was a mission for which there was no chance of success?
Was this his punishment then? Were the fates conspiring against him for becoming a vampire, a monster? Not that he’d been given a choice. He later learned that vampires are supposed to ask for permission before turning a human. And even then, a large percentage of the fledgling vamps didn’t survive the transformation.
But Master Vampires were immune to those rules. At least they were in Europe and Russia where vampire history went back to the beginning of time. There they could enslave a human, turning them into an indentured vampire at will to fight and to kill at their master’s bidding. That was how they got their jollies, but most importantly it was how they maintained their power among rival vampire clans.
There was no bargain involved, no requirement for the human to agree to the transaction. This was no volunteer vampire army. Voz drafted those he wanted, those he felt would be strong enough to fight his battles. Dressed as a medic there on the battlefield in northern France, Voz forced Ronan to drink blood, blood from Voz’s own vein where he’d sliced open his wrist. Then he’d moved Ronan to Romania and his remote castle there. Or to be more specific, he’d moved him in a flash to the cold and brutal dungeon beneath the castle.