Yes, he'd lost his son, but he'd still managed to find an heir. Stefan used his good looks to his advantage and showed up often in the society pages. He was a media star and had been voted one of the top five eligible bachelors in the United States by several magazines. Little did anyone know the savage heart that beat under Stefan's polished public facade.

Damn, but he was a proud father.

"She's there," Crane finished. "Give the wardbreakers all the resources they desire. I need that woman. We might have to do this the crude way and break in." He sighed. "I hate doing it the crude way.”

"Yes, sir. I'll get right on it.”

"And bring in Stefan from Europe. I need him for this. Christ, if we can't get this woman into the demon circle we'll have to use Marcus. I don't want to waste him. He's perfect where he is, not much power to wield against us and nicely broken in. Anyway, I don't even know if he has enough juice to close a circle.”

Their pet air witch had been paper-trained long ago. Marcus had just enough power to give the Duskoff some much needed service in the realm of air magick, but not enough to fight them. Not like the woman. Unless they controlled her before she fully came into her powers, she'd be able to wipe them off the face of the planet.

Crane shuddered in pleasure. Ah, she was delectable. If her parents were any measure, she was a fount of untapped potential. She probably had enough magick to close five demon circles. He might just have to play with her a little— while she was heavily drugged, of course—before he left her the honor of performing this most important task for him.

"Understood, sir.”

Crane watched David leave the boardroom, then rose from his leather office chair and crossed the room to the bar. He needed a drink. In the mirror above the polished bar, he studied his reflection. Silver marked his hair at the temples. Age and illness now lined his once handsome face.

His light blue eyes were the only thing that had stayed the same over the years. They were the same eyes that stared from Jack's face. They were eyes that people said were strange to find on a fire witch—so icy and cold.

He took a short, chunky crystal glass and poured himself a bourbon and branch. The cancer was growing within him. He could practically feel it eating him up inside. He could heal himself somewhat, but the disease was quickly breaching the limits of his ability. He suffered bouts of severe nausea and fatigue. His leg bones and knees, where the cancer was mostly located, ached.

Fear flickered through him, and he clenched his free hand.

Fear. He should know none of that.