If he’d developed a taste for blood and flesh, he had the means to indulge it. As he had with the whore he’d killed and drained on his last night in London.

He was becoming. Nerezza had given him this gift, and the promise of eternity and power—once he’d completed his tasks. And he could have and do with the six guardians whatever he liked, once he’d secured the stars.

Then he and Nerezza would rule all the worlds for all time. Together.

He’d considered just what he would do with the guardians. He wanted the compass—that was principle—just as he wanted to kill the annoying yokel who held it. Slowly, of course, and painfully.

He would hunt the inestimable Dr. Gwin, and force her to lead him to her pack. Just the thought of owning a pack of werewolves delighted him. Sell off some of the young, breed more, and have hunts for centuries.

The mermaid he intended to keep for his own. She would make a lovely display. The sorcerer—likely a quick death there. The seer he’d hoped to capture and keep, but they would see, as Nerezza wanted her destroyed.

And the immortal. Ah, once shackled and held, such a creature would provide decades of entertainment in the torture chamber even now being built for that purpose.

He would never be bored again.

Now, sipping a Bloody Mary mixed as a transforming demon preferred, he gazed out over the sunstruck view from the terrace. As the veins in his arms tended to bulge and pulse, he wore a long-sleeved shirt and dark glasses, as the brilliant sun irritated his eyes.

A small price to pay.

For tonight, Nerezza would come to him, and she would take him places with her body beyond pain, beyond pleasure.

But today, there was work to be done.

“Sir.”

His head turned, several degrees beyond the human, but the servant didn’t blink or cringe. One who had, in London, had never been seen again.

“Commander Trake has arrived.”

“I’ll see him in my office.” Malmon set the half-empty glass aside, walked away.

The servant allowed himself one small shudder as he picked up the glass to take to the kitchen.

John Trake, fit, forty, fiercely handsome with the curved scar down his rugged right cheek only adding a dangerous appeal, walked briskly into Malmon’s office on boots polished to a mirror shine.

He believed in discipline, in order, was quick to mete out punishment to any under his command who failed to maintain his standards.

Killing was simply a by-product of command, and while he also believed, strongly, in profit for work done well, he would—and had—killed for free.

A contract with Malmon inevitably led to profit. For this new work, so elaborate, so far-reaching, so challenging, he’d already banked a million euros. Each capture of the six targets would bring another million, with a bonus of ten more upon successful completion.

Six captures, and the three stars (he assumed them jewels) Malmon wanted for his own.

He had sixty men under his command, and twenty more civilian workers. In taking the contract, he’d agreed to work with, coordinate with Eli Yadin and Franz Berger, both specialists.

He considered Yadin a psychopath, and Berger undisciplined, but had respect for their work and the results of it.

Though nothing showed in his face, Malmon’s appearance surprised him. Pale as parchment, thin enough that the shirt hung loose over his torso, Malmon sat behind a large desk, eyes shielded with dark glasses.

“Commander.”

“Mr. Malmon.”

“I trust everything is on schedule.”

“It is. The holding center will be completed tomorrow, on schedule. Yadin arrived yesterday, and is already supervising his own areas. We expect Berger by eighteen hundred hours.”

“Excellent. I expect you to put the holding center to good use, and quickly.”

“I look to report the first capture within thirty-six hours.”

“Alive, Commander. Alive is essential to my needs.”

“Understood.”

“And where are they now?”

Trake took a device from his pocket, consulted it. “Their boat is anchored off the southeast coast. Do you want the coordinates?”

Once a man who gathered and examined all details, Malmon just flicked a hand. “Not necessary at this time. As soon as their accommodations are ready, take them.”

“Within thirty-six, sir.”

“You’ve never disappointed me, Commander.” As Malmon stared, a dull yellow glow seemed to pulse behind the dark glasses. “Don’t let this be the exception to that rule.”

“I’ll complete my mission.”

“I depend on it.” Malmon smiled, showing incisors longer, sharper, than they should have been. “Contact me when the tank is ready. I’m particularly interested.”

After another long day in and on the water, Sawyer grabbed a shower, a beer, and headed straight to the radio and recorder he’d set up.

A few minutes later, Riley leaned over his shoulder, one hand braced on his back, listening as he did.

“Rewind. Doyle and Bran are winding down playing pool. I’ll get them, and the others.”

When they all crowded in, Sawyer held up a hand. “Nothing from the parlor yet, and no conversations from the bedroom—just moving around, probably staff unpacking for him. But we hit in the office. First came in about eleven fifteen. It’s Malmon and Trake—I think Trake.”

“It’s Trake,” Riley confirmed. “I recognized his voice. And word is he’s calling himself commander now. Gave himself a promotion. Play it back, Sawyer.”