Darnell spoke up, shoulders stiff, jaw clenched. “That isn’t why you’re all here.”

Bastien’s lips turned up in a bitter smile. “Oh, come now. Why not give them what they want? They’ll find out soon enough anyway.”

“Bastien,” Darnell warned.

Ami didn’t know what was going on, but silently willed Bastien to remain silent.

“The mystery has been solved,” Bastien announced instead, glancing at each immortal in turn. “Vampires didn’t kill Ewen Donaldson.”

Marcus stiffened.

Bastien smiled. “I did.”

“It’s true,” Chris spat out. “The bastard practically bragged about it last night when I held him in custody. Said if Ewen couldn’t best him, what made me think I could.”

The room seemed to acquire a photograph-like stillness. No lungs expanded. Breath neither sucked in in gasps nor whooshed out in furious exhalations. Not one muscle twitched as shock hung in the hair, dangling like a spider from its web.

Ewen, a much-beloved Scottish immortal, had been killed almost two centuries ago. Ami had heard David mention him.

Marcus’s eyes began to glow. Then Roland’s. Richart’s. Étienne’s. Lisette’s. Yuri’s. Stanislav’s.

Ami bit her lip as Marcus clenched his hands into fists. “You fucked-up fuck!” His form blurred, shot forward, and slammed into Bastien. All hell broke loose. Every immortal in the house blurred and dove into the fight. Every immortal save Sarah, who—like Ami—gaped at the violence.

Darnell herded Sarah and Ami behind him and backed them toward the dining room as furniture flew, sofas split, lamps shattered, and Sheetrock rained down from the ceiling.

Ami stood on her toes, struggling to see over Darnell’s broad shoulders, but he was as tall as Marcus.

Sarah did the same, then gently forced him aside.

He looked at her in surprise.

“I’m immortal,” she reminded him.

Darnell offered a chagrined nod. “Sorry. I forgot.”

Bastien crashed into the wall opposite the struggle. The window a few feet away shattered in a burst of sparkling confetti. Sheetrock and soundproofing material crumbled and tore, fluttering down around him as he fell to the floor. The immortals converged on him in a combined blur of motion, flowing like a ghostly tidal wave over broken furniture, and sweeping him up in a maelstrom.

Ami touched Sarah’s arm to get her attention. “We have to stop this.”

She nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“You can’t,” she protested, as at the same time Darnell blurted out, “The hell you are!”

Ami frowned. “They’re more likely to stop to keep from hurting me.”

When she started forward, Darnell latched onto her arm and tugged her back against him. “No. They’re not thinking straight and may not even realize you’re there until it’s too late.”

“But—”

“I’ll do it,” Sarah repeated, and took a step forward.

The loudest, foulest epithet Ami had ever heard shook the room.

Every blurred form solidified as the immortals stopped. Bastien’s battered, bloody form slumped to the floor, released by whomever the last to pummel him had been.

All eyes turned to the hallway and the tall, imposing figure stepping from its shadows.

His amber eyes blazed brightly with fury, a fascinating contrast to his smooth, dark as midnight skin. Ami had once heard Sarah say David had the face of a pharaoh, and she had to agree. Something about him just screamed royalty. He stood six feet seven inches tall, with broad shoulders and a mass of pencil-thin dreadlocks that tumbled neatly down his back to his hips. Power oozed from every pore.

Usually even-tempered, tonight he radiated fury like a campfire radiated heat.

“I can’t leave you children alone for five minutes!” he bellowed and threw out his arms, indicating the damage. “What the hell?”

Darnell motioned to the figure on the floor, nearly hidden behind all of the immortals’ black-clad legs. “Bastien told them why he needs protection.”

David released a long-suffering sigh. “Roland, Marcus, the two of you are paying for this.” He looked pointedly at his demolished living room.

“Why us?” Roland demanded belligerently, wiping blood from his nose.

“Because you started it.”

No one asked how he knew. He could have plucked the information from any of their minds or heard it from the basement.

“Technically speaking,” Chris Reordon said, “Bastien started it.”

“Bullshit. All Bastien did was open that mouth of his. Roland and Marcus threw the first punches.”

“He killed Ewen,” Marcus barked.

Ami bit her lip. He and Ewen must have been friends.

“Yes,” David said, unperturbed, “he did. One hundred eighty-seven years ago. Seth is handling it. Tonight we have more pressing issues to discuss.”

The little bit of rumbling protest that floated through the room in response fell silent as David raked his gaze over each person present. When his glowing eyes met Ami’s, a smile lit his handsome face. “Hello, sweetheart.” He opened his muscular arms. “Come give us a kiss.”

Smiling back, she crossed the room and wrapped her arms around his waist. Since he was so tall, the top of her head only reached about nipple high, but she didn’t care. She had missed him.

He engulfed her in a tight hug, then leaned down and kissed her forehead. “How are you holding up?” he asked softly as the immortals began halfheartedly putting the living room back together.

She shrugged. “Kicking lots of ass.”

He laughed. “I told you you were the most talented warrior I have ever trained. Why do you think the three of us always fought over who would spar with you?”

She wrinkled her nose in denial.

“What about Marcus? How are you getting along with him?”

Though she tried, she couldn’t keep a blush from creeping into her cheeks and hoped fiercely that he wouldn’t peek into her mind and read her memories of the hours they had spent in bed. “Fine.” Then she ruined any attempt at nonchalance by blurting out, “Don’t read my mind!”

“I won’t,” he promised with a wry smile. His gaze, still glowing faintly, went over her head. “Something tells me if I did I would want to do some ass-kicking of my own.”

“Where’s Seth?” Marcus spoke behind her, voice grim.

Ami swiveled around. “Are you all right?”

Bastien had gotten in a few shots, though how he had managed it she didn’t know. One of Marcus’s eyes had already swollen shut, blackened, and begun to heal.

Reaching up, she cupped his chin and tilted his head so she could examine the scrape on his jaw and his split, puffy lip, which sealed itself as she watched.

“I’m fine.”

“Do you need blood?”

David’s large hands cupped her shoulders. “She’s not on the menu.”

Ami rolled her eyes. “Seth already told him that, David.”

Marcus took her hand and drew it away from his face. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t seem fine.

He looked to David. “Where’s Seth? I need to speak with him.”

“Still training the youngsters. I offered to handle the scuffle up here.” He raised his voice sharply. “Which shouldn’t have needed handling. Honestly, every immortal in this room has lived at least two centuries, give or take a year. In all of that time you haven’t learned to control your tempers better than this?”

Several heads dipped. Gazes slipped away.

Marcus gave Ami’s hand a light squeeze. “I’ll be back in a few.”

Ami watched him go with trepidation.

Marcus strode down the hallway and descended the steps to the expansive basement. At the foot of the stairs stretched another long hallway. To the right were a dozen or so bedrooms meant to accommodate the many visitors David received. To the left was a practice room the size of a high school gymnasium with a padded floor, exercise equipment, and a wall full of mirrors.

Just on the other side of the gym a new room had recently been added. Though it served as another bedroom, it had come to be known as the Quiet Room. So much soundproofing material had gone into the making of it that even immortals couldn’t hear a word of what was spoken within once the door was closed.

David had not said why he had added it, but Marcus and the others believed he had done it for Sarah and Roland, so the couple could have privacy if they stayed the day. A very rare occurrence considering Roland’s reclusive nature. But Roland adored Sarah and would do just about anything to make her happy, including spend more time with men and women he would rather avoid like a sexually transmitted disease.

Metal striking metal resounded from the training room. Pained grunts, the whoosh of blades cutting through air, and a startled gag assaulted Marcus’s ears as he strode to the entrance.

Inside, one man sprawled on the padded floor where Seth had deposited him, while another breathed heavily through his mouth and swung two short swords at the Immortal Guardians’ leader.

Seth deflected the attack with embarrassing ease. And the attack was not at all amateur.

Marcus recognized the men Seth fought. Edward, the one leaping up from the floor, was a Brit like himself who had been transformed 123 years ago if Marcus remembered correctly. At what age he had been turned, Marcus didn’t know and couldn’t tell. Such was generally the case with immortals, since the virus reversed the damage age did to the body.

Étienne had trained Edward. His sister Lisette had trained the other youngster, who held his own fairly well, though he inflicted no damage on his more powerful adversary. Ethan was an American who had been an immortal for exactly one century and had reportedly fallen a little bit in love with his mentor, a snippet of gossip Lisette insistently denied.

Edward retrieved his swords and circled Seth, swinging and thrusting every time he saw an opening.