Lucan put a hand to the shallow wound at the base of his throat, and stared down at the glittering gold piece. When he looked up again, his eyes turned pure silver, and he threw his sword away from him in disgust. He then straightened and bowed his head. “The match is yours, Lord Durand.”
Behind him Jamys could hear the murmurs of the men watching. By surrendering, Lucan had lost not only the fight but his rule over the jardin—and, if Jamys so chose, his head.
“So it is.” Jamys lowered his blade and returned the bow. “But I did not challenge you, Suzerain. My quarrel is with the Kyn who held you bespelled.”
“Bespelled. So that explains my madness.” Lucan eyed Aldan, who had come to join them. “Captain, where is Mr. Vander?”
Aldan looked uncomfortable. “You permitted him to leave the stronghold unattended some hours ago, my lord.”
“He has taken the women to a ship,” Lucan told Jamys. “I know not where it is moored, but we will find it.” His eyes shifted. “Herbert?”
“My lord.” Burke appeared, his face battered and one eye swelling shut. At his side he held a pistol, which he returned to the holster inside his jacket. “I trust you are yourself again?”
“Indeed. Lord Durand was kind enough to free me of Vander’s control.” Lucan looked disgusted. “Did that bastard use me to do that to you?”
“He did, my lord, but it was not an especially impressive beating.” Burke sniffed. “I’ve actually suffered worse at the hands of my chiropractor.” He removed a device from his pocket. “I also know where our ladies are being held.”
The tresora tapped the small screen, which zoomed out to show a map of the South Florida coast. Two lights, one blue and one red, clustered together a few miles off the coast of Miami.
“Herbert.” Lucan looked enormously pleased. “When this is done, I believe I shall send you to my private retreat in the Bahamas with the lady of your choice for as long as you desire.”
“I thank you, my lord, but I already have a lady friend, and we’d much rather prefer Marlins season tickets. Shall I summon the fleet?” When Lucan nodded, Burke bowed and hurried off.
Jamys regarded the suzerain. “You have a fleet?”
Lucan smiled. “Of sorts.”
Aldan brought a cordless phone to Lucan. “There is a call for you, my lord. It is from Vander.”
Lucan’s expression turned icy. “Put it on speaker.” When Aldan pressed a button, he said, “I do hope your affairs are in order, Mr. Vander. You will find them quite impossible to manage when I reduce you to a heap of rotting flesh, which shall be the moment I find you.”
A harsh laugh came over the speaker. “You may look, my lord, but you will not find. But I can be persuaded to give you back your slut. Give me your men and your stronghold, and she is yours.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Vander.” Lucan reached for the phone.
“Would you care to bid your whore the same?” The sound of a scuffle came over the speaker, and then Samantha’s tight voice as she said, “Lucan, we’re in trouble.”
“I know,” he replied, his voice as gentle as his eyes were murderous. “I’m coming, love, very soon now.”
“Vander is Dutch, and he has barricaded hundreds of people inside his casino,” she said. “He’s had his men douse the entire place with gasoline. If you don’t give him Alenfar, he’s going to burn them alive.”
Several bottles behind the bar exploded.
“Don’t worry,” Lucan said. “We know where you are, and we will give him what he wants.”
“I love—,” Samantha said before her voice was cut off and Vander spoke again. “Since you know where I am, you will come and surrender your territory and men to me at sunset tonight. Or I will set your women on fire and toss them in the casino.”
Chapter 18
Chris had known something was wrong with Lucan from the moment they’d left the island. The men piloting the speedboat didn’t belong to the jardin, while the suzerain sat down next to the cage he’d shoved her in and simply stared at the deck.
“Don’t you think you should tell me what’s going on?” she asked. “I mean, am I in trouble? Do I have to leave South Florida? What?”
Lucan’s handsome face lifted, and then began to melt. “I suppose it does no harm,” he muttered as he turned into a thin, snarled-haired woman with a dirty face.
“Oh, God.” Chris shoved herself back into one corner of the cage. “Who are you?”
“My name is Werren.” She tugged down the ragged hem of her tunic, which to Chris’s eyes looked more like a burlap sack than something wearable. “You smell like Kyn, but you are mortal.”