Crane's anger flared again, and he closed his hands, fighting to contain it. His body ached from the effort, making him shudder.

From the end of the table, Stefan spoke. “Time grows short. I suggest we substitute Marcus and hope he has enough power in him to open the portal." He shrugged an elegant shoulder. "If we cannot open the portal with Marcus, we are simply out four witches. Three we can find easily again, no? The fourth has always been a problem anyway, and good riddance. We will find a replacement.”

Stefan still retained a heavy French accent, and his appearance was gentile and sophisticated. It masked the inherent dark viciousness that Crane so respected. Stefan was his son more than Jack had ever been. Still, Crane had to be careful with Stefan. He'd raised him too well and knew how much he coveted his father's position as head of the Duskoff... and the money and power that came with the leadership.

He considered Stefan for a moment, wondering if he was being manipulated. Yet he couldn't find a flaw in the plan. Indeed, it seemed his only option at this point.

He made his decision. "Then Marcus must be secured." Crane stood, feeling agony—real or imagined, he wasn't sure—lance through every fiber of his body. He hesitated, wincing, then moved quickly through his mansion to the room where he kept Marcus.

Their footfalls echoed down the corridor of the basement. The warlock guarding the door discarded his magazine and bolted to his feet when he glimpsed Crane, Stefan, and David turn the corner and come toward him.

"Open," commanded Crane in a curt voice.

The guard extracted his key and unlocked the door. It swung inward, and Crane fought the cry of rage and frustration that rose in his throat. All he could do was make a strangled sound at the sight before him.

Marcus hung in the center of the room with a sheet around his neck. Crane stopped in the doorway and watched the heavy witch swing gently back and form.

Stefan came to stop behind him and clucked his tongue. "What a shame.”

Crane's fingers gripped the doorknob so tightly they turned white. He fought the intense desire to raise fire and char Marcus's body where it hung. Better, he could burn the ineffective guard who currently shook in fear to his left.

He turned and fixed his gaze on the guard, his palm heating. It would make a mess, sure, but he could have someone else clean it up. The guard backed up a few paces, fell over the chair, and sprawled on his ass.

Stefan put a hand on Crane's shoulder. "Ne t'inquietes pas. No worries, father. I have another plan. It will even be fun." His voice carried the viciously playful tone that Crane had come to know well—and to be wary of—over the years.

Fine. It was time to take off the gloves.