Saria stepped into the space behind him and inhaled sharply. “I smell Mahieu—and Armande. They’ve both been inside this passageway recently.”

“Baby, maybe you should . . .”

“Don’t say it, Drake. Don’t.”

No. She wouldn’t stay behind no matter how bad it got. Saria had too much backbone for that. He could hear her heart thundering in her chest, her ragged breathing. The smell of fear coming off of her was strong. She was terrified for her brother, but she wasn’t going to hide upstairs while he checked to make certain Mahieu was alive. Drake stopped abruptly at the top of another narrow staircase.

“Those stairs are in disrepair,” Charisse said. “No one ever comes here.”

There was an absence of spiderwebs and the steps had been repaired in places. Still, it looked as if a few of them might crack under a man’s weight. Drake tested each step cautiously. There were seven and they wound around a pillar down into another room and with each stair, the scent of blood grew stronger. Vines from outside had reclaimed the structure and pushed through the slats so that the swamp grew inside, snaking up the walls to the ceiling and down along the floor.

Long tables spanned the room. Small, fancy boxes and colored tissue paper were crammed in the garbage cans. Remnants of perfumed soaps and stems of withered plants were strewn around the floor as if they’d fallen and no one had bothered sweeping up.

“Here’s where they packed the opium into the soap,” Remy whispered.

Charisse made a small sound and leaned down to examine a crack in the table. When she would have touched a small, hardened bead caught in the crack, Remy stopped her, touching her hand and shaking his head.

Drake halted just past the second table. Fresh blood smeared the edge of the table, a bloody handprint where someone had grabbed the table to steady themselves. His heart plunged and he couldn’t help the small glance he spared for Saria. Her gaze was fixed there. She couldn’t fail to scent her own brother’s blood. The scent of Armande Mercier was strong in the room. There was no doubt he had been in the stuffy room quite recently.

An open door on the far side of the room led to another hallway. Wood rot and vines crept through the cracked siding. As with most dwellings in the area, the house had been built a good seven feet above ground, allowing for the water that poured into the area each season, flooding the land continually. The hall led down to the space below.

As he approached the room, Drake scented a leopard’s lair. This one was damp, dark and smelled overwhelmingly of depravity. Every leopard could smell corruption to some degree. This lair stank of it, of an evil, immoral degenerate. This lair had been used in more than one life cycle, home to a cruel, cunning monster or monsters.

As he took another step, Drake caught the coppery scent of blood, a man’s cologne and fear. He moved in silence, his leopard lending him stealth as he rounded the corner and caught sight of Armande crouched over Mahieu. One bloody hand ground into the wound in Mahieu’s belly, while another gripped his throat. Across from the two men, Iris Lafont-Mercier stood with a tear-streaked face, one hand extended pleadingly toward her son.

Remy shoved passed Drake, gun in his hand and leapt toward Armande. Charisse screamed and leapt after him. Although her leopard hadn’t emerged, there was no doubt that she had one rising close to the surface. She covered the distance in a single leap, trying to shove Remy away from her brother. Simultaneously, Iris was on her daughter, jerking her backward, dragging Charisse with her, a razor-sharp knife against her throat.

“Mama, no!” Armande begged, trying to roll out from under Remy.

“Don’t you dare!” Drake roared. His weapon was absolutely steady.

Charisse squeezed her eyes closed tight, not daring to breathe. Hatred filled the small room. Remy and Armande remained crouched beside Mahieu, working furiously to stem the flow of blood.

Saria moved out from behind Drake, into the center of the room. Iris’s green-yellow eyes tracked her, filled with loathing. She snarled, exposing long canines. Her gaze followed Saria’s every movement, focused with a predator’s stare. Saria took another step to her right, forcing Iris to turn slightly to keep facing her.

Drake’s mouth went dry. He had no doubt that Iris was an expert with a knife. Saria was deliberately putting herself in harm’s way. One toss of the knife and Saria was dead. Iris would still have weapons. The others thought she had no leopard, but it was evident to him from the scents in the lair that her leopard was strong. She might not be able to fully shift, but some with weakened bloodlines could partially change and her leopard was filled with hatred, giving her the strength for a partial shift.

“Did you think you could hide from Drake, Iris?” Saria asked, her voice low. “You looked to that old man Buford for strength. He was an old fat slug, takin’ advantage of any woman he thought was weak. You loved a coward. You admired a man who raped and beat women and you thought that was strength.” She poured disgust into her voice, not just disgust, but amusement, as if she was secretly laughing at Iris.

Drake knew what Saria was doing—goading Iris into staying completely focused on her. She knew Iris, they lived in a small area, and were in each other’s lives. She knew her vanities, the things that would make her lose her ability to think beyond what Saria taunted her with. She had accessed the situation the same way he had. Mahieu needed immediate medical attention, and Charisse was going to die if they didn’t kill Iris first.