by Sarah Piper
Tangled in her sheets, she sat up on the floor and leaned back against the nightstand, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Her head pounded, her mouth was full of cotton, and the very act of running her fingers through her hair left her weak and trembling.
What the hell did I get into last night?
She closed her eyes and forced herself to focus, fishing for the memories until—one by one—they finally bobbed to the surface.
Dorian’s penthouse. Midnight Marauder. A night of mind-blowing passion. Later, discussing Dorian’s art contacts. Vincent Estas, the dealer. Alexei Rogozin, demonic kingpin—a man her father and Rudy had encountered when Charley was just a girl.
Charley’s head spun as the rest of the memories rushed in—Duchanes yanking her from Dorian’s bed and tying her to the chair, naked and vulnerable. Slicing her wrist as a taunt, knowing her screams and the scent of her blood would bring Dorian running.
The look on her vampire’s face when he’d finally found her… She’d never seen anyone so terrified. Despite his own pain in the face of the demon attack, he’d fought for her.
And then, when he had nothing left to give, she fought for him.
She wrapped her fingers around her bandaged wrist, welcoming the memories of the bite. The pain had been tremendous, but also deeply erotic, the pleasure of his lips on her skin spreading languidly up her arm and across her chest, making her hot and wet even as the blood loss weakened her muscles.
Sharing that with him… God. Charley had never experienced anything so intimate before. At one point, with Dorian’s head in her lap and her wrist pressed to his mouth, he’d glanced up and caught her gaze, his eyes full of something so raw and beautiful, Charley was almost afraid to remember it now—afraid that looking at it too closely would make it disappear.
But then it’d faded, replaced with her vampire’s desperate, primal hunger, his eyes turning red as his desire for her blood demolished the last of his control.
He’d taken too much, and Charley eventually lost consciousness.
Everything that happened after that was a blur, faces and voices and scents mixing together in a thick haze: Men arguing in the other room—Dorian’s brothers? The doctor with the dimples and kind eyes. An older woman cleaning Charley up, dressing her in pajamas, poking her with a needle. And then, chanting something that sounded like a spell. Dorian shouting at them from the hallway, ordering them to heal her.
And later, sweet and tender words whispered over her bedside, a kiss as soft as a prayer alighting on her skin.
Charley opened her eyes, and the images faded away.
A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach, and she scrambled to her feet, barely making it to the bathroom before she retched. She was faint and dizzy, the headache making every movement an act of self-torture. As she washed her face and rinsed out her mouth, the reflection staring back from the mirror looked haunted and ill, her eyes ringed with dark circles, her hair wild.
Her wrist throbbed, but even the deep, erotic bite from her vampire felt like a memory now. She pulled off the bandage; her skin was unmarred.
Had she imagined the whole damn thing?
She needed to talk to Dorian. Why wasn’t he there?
Worry tugged on her heart as another memory surfaced—Dorian, begging her not to die. Blaming himself for drinking too much blood, his eyes full of anguish and fear. A woman imploring him in the hallway. You’ve done enough, Dorian Redthorne…
No. Charley needed to talk to him. Now.
With slow, awkward movements, she searched her bedroom for the phone, but it wasn’t there. It was probably still at Dorian’s place in Tribeca. For all she knew, it’d fallen into the hands of Duchanes and the demon.
Without her phone, she couldn’t get in touch with Dorian. She couldn’t even check on her sister. Sasha had planned to stay at Darcy’s all weekend, but what if she had an emergency? What if Duchanes had somehow tracked her down?
What if Duchanes had come back for Dorian or his brothers?
The tug of worry on her heart turned into full-blown panic.
Ignoring her throbbing head, Charley slipped into her bathrobe, then put one shaky foot in front of the other and exited the bedroom.
Almost immediately, she sensed it—something was off.
The roses, she realized. The smell had been so sweet and overpowering, yet now, she could barely detect them. All she could smell now was bacon. Burned bacon.
Someone was in the kitchen. Not Dorian, as she’d foolishly hoped. Someone graceless and crass, cursing up a storm as he rifled through the cupboards, silverware and dishes clanging, breakfast burning on the stove.
As she reached the end of the hallway, her heart dropped into her stomach.
The roses were gone. Every last one of them, erased as if they’d never even been there at all.
And there, standing at the stove with a towel draped over his shoulder, scraping charred bacon from the cast iron skillet, was the man responsible for ruining her day before it’d even begun.
“Uncle Rudy?” Charley’s voice cracked, her throat raw.
Rudy glanced at her over his shoulder and grinned—a warm, welcoming smile for his favorite niece.
Right.
Charley didn’t miss the warning flickering behind it.
“Good morning,” he said, taking in her disheveled appearance. “You look… hungry.”
“What happened to my roses?”
“I had the doorman remove them.” He clucked his tongue. “Honestly, Charlotte. They were starting to rot.”
Tears stung her eyes, the headache behind them roaring into five-alarm migraine territory.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, willing the tears not to fall. Rudy would never understand how much those flowers had meant to her. In his eyes, they were just one more beautiful thing he saw fit to ruin—one more way to drain the color from her life.
“Take a seat,” he said, ignoring her question as well as her obvious distress. “Breakfast is almost ready.”
Breakfast with him? Like hell.
“I’ll just grab a coffee. I’m not feeling—”
“Sit down, Charlotte.” He turned to face her, abandoning the bacon on the stove.
Now, instead of the spatula, he held a gun.
“Holy shit!” She backed up against the wall, holding up her hands in surrender. For all his bullshit, Rudy had never pulled his gun on her. “What the hell are you doing?”
“You and I? We’re going to eat breakfast together, like a real family. We’re going to have a serious conversation about the way things need to change around here. And Charlotte?” He crept toward her, his eyes sparkling with cold, hard malice. “You’re going to drop that fucking attitude, or the next time a man sends roses, it will be for your funeral.”
Chapter Four
It was unwise to confront Chernikov without the proper protections, but Marlys was unreachable and Dorian couldn’t locate a backup witch on such short notice. Cole thought he should wait it out, but every minute that passed was another in which Duchanes could recover his strength and stage another gruesome attack.
Dorian had no idea what the vampire was planning—only that it likely ended with the Redthornes in a pile of smoldering ash, the city’s supernatural factions suffering under the reign of a vicious moron, and Duchanes vampires running roughshod over the entire human population.
As for Charlotte…
Dorian sighed. He could only imagine what would become of the woman if Duchanes got his way. She’d survived not only the attack by his sirelings at Ravenswood, but Duchanes’ own ambush last night.
With those near misses on the books, there was no way Duchanes would let her slip away unscathed a third time. Without Dorian to protect her, she’d likely end up…
No. He refused to entertain the thoughts. Charlotte D’Amico was no longer his responsibility. She was merely a regrettable distraction—an indulgence he could no longer afford.
“This t
he place?” Cole asked, slowing his ancient pickup truck in front of the turnoff for Luna del Mar.
Dorian nodded and directed him to a spot at the back of the parking lot, out of sight from the main road.
The sun was just peeking up over the horizon, struggling to break through a thick blanket of clouds. The day hadn’t even begun, but Dorian could already tell it was going to be wet and gray.
He should’ve welcomed the relief from the sun’s incessant assault on his eyes, but this morning, the damp, chilly weather only darkened his mood.
Cole killed the engine and retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, peering through the windshield at the café’s back entrance. “I don’t like dealin’ with demons, Red. Smokey little fuckers always leave a bad taste in my mouth.”
“I’m surprised you can taste anything at all, what with that unfortunate tobacco habit.” Dorian popped open the glovebox and retrieved Cole’s lighter. “Anyway, you don’t have to deal with them—not today. Wait for me here. If I’m not out in thirty—”
“What, no dogs allowed? I put on my best flannel.”
“Yes, and don’t think I don’t appreciate the effort.” Dorian wrenched open the door and slid out from the cab, gesturing for Cole to stay put.
When it’d become clear that Dorian was heading to the meeting with or without a witch, Cole insisted on accompanying him, leaving his wolves to deal with the two grays they’d trapped in the woods. Dorian was more than glad for the company, but he wouldn’t let the man put himself directly in harm’s way.
If things went south with Chernikov, he didn’t want the wolf anywhere near it.
“The terms of the Accords forbid me from bringing backup without advanced warning,” he explained.
“Thought they prohibited meeting without a witch too, but here you are, charging in like the bloodsuckin’ Lone Ranger.”
“Such is the burden of a vampire king.” With a wry grin, Dorian tossed his phone to Cole. “If I don’t return, someone will need to phone Aiden and my brothers with the news of my untimely demise and make arrangements for my priceless collection of scotch.”
“Well, shit, brother. If I’d known you were putting me in the will, I would’ve come outta hiding months ago.” Cole lit his cigarette and sucked in a deep drag, then exhaled a plume of smoke in Dorian’s direction. “But seriously, asshole. We just got the band back together. Try not to get yourself killed.”
“Dorian Redthorne, my old friend.” Chernikov beamed at him, holding court at the same private-room table they’d shared last time, his usual array of vodka bottles lined up like little soldiers. “My sources tell me you have demon problem.”
“We have a demon problem, Nikolai.” Dorian sat down across from him, taking in the demon’s appearance. Mornings didn’t agree with him; his hair was unkempt, his suit wrinkled. Beneath a thin sheen of sweat, the snake tattoo around his neck looked particularly unpleasant.
“No hocus pocus today?” Chernikov glanced toward the doorway as if he expected Marlys to appear, toting her box of tricks.
“I’m trusting we can both remain civilized this morning. Do not make me regret that decision.”
“I don’t attack my friends, Dorian Redthorne. Do not make me regret decision, either. Coffee?” Chernikov snapped his fingers for the waitress.
Still buzzing from the inescapable rush of Charlotte’s blood, Dorian wasn’t interested in a caffeine hit, but he nodded anyway, figuring the mug would give him something to do with his hands. He’d only been in the demon’s presence a few moments, and already the need to choke him was making his fingers twitch.
The waitress returned quickly, delivering two fresh coffees with nothing more than a smile. When she disappeared back into the main area of the café, Chernikov lowered his voice and said, “You are right. Demon problem is mutual.”
Dorian gripped the mug. “I presume you heard about the attack at my residence last night?”
“They were not my guys.”
“Then how did you learn of it so quickly?”
“Demon and vampire attack king. More demons follow. Gray vampires run loose upstate.” He glanced at Dorian’s shoulder, where a spot of blood from the earlier wolf attack soaked through his shirt. “Wolves make error in judgment.”
Dorian continued to glare, but Chernikov only shrugged.
“News travels fast in this city, vampire king.” He grabbed a nearly-spent bottle of vodka and dumped a healthy splash into his coffee, then offered the last of it to Dorian.
Dorian slid his mug closer, accepting the shot. “If the demons taking orders from Renault Duchanes aren’t part of your organization, then whose?”
“You tell me. You must have ideas.”
“I’d rather hear yours.”
Of course Dorian had ideas—Alexei Rogozin, primarily—but he wanted to see how Chernikov would play this. The demon might claim ignorance, but if not—if he was actually willing to name names—Dorian knew the intel would be reliable.
False accusations? That’s not how things worked in their world.
It wasn’t honor, exactly, but people like Chernikov—like Dorian—didn’t get where they were without adhering to some kind of code. Which was why Duchanes, for all his machinations, would never amount to anything in this city. Even if he succeeded in slaughtering Dorian’s family and usurping the crown, he’d likely be overthrown by his own sycophants the first chance they got.
Such was the fate of every vampire king. Only two things could grant him a reprieve—commanding respect, or inspiring fear.
Dorian preferred the former.
His father had made a centuries-long game of the latter.
Duchanes wasn’t strong or capable enough for either.
“I am not only demon in town,” Chernikov said now. “The others… They’ve become pain in my ass—bigger pain than you know. And vampires? I thought you had them under control, yet always, they come to me. Favors for this one, for that one. It wasn’t like this with Augustus.”
“Which vampires, specifically? Duchanes?” Dorian asked, ignoring the dig about his father’s superior leadership skills. “Tell me, comrade. Just how many favors have you granted the house plotting to overthrow the king?”
“I did not come here at ungodly hour to discuss my business practices.” Chernikov shoved a finger in Dorian’s direction. “Vampire mess is your problem. Your father would’ve handled it.”
In the span of a heartbeat, Dorian grabbed the empty vodka bottle and blurred into Chernikov’s space, smashing the bottle against the table and pressing the jagged end to his throat. “In case you haven’t noticed, demon, I’m not my father.”
Hellfire exploded in Chernikov’s palm, and the demon grinned, a trickle of blood leaking from the eye of his snake tattoo. “I didn’t think Russian roulette was your game, bloodsucker.”
The bottle cut into his flesh. Dorian held firm even as Chernikov’s flames licked at his skin, hot and hungry.
“Try me,” Dorian said.
Locked in a battle of wills certain to destroy them both, the men continued to glare at each other—a ridiculous competition neither could possibly win.
Finally, Chernikov backed down. With a raucous laugh, he closed his palm and extinguished the flame, and Dorian returned to his chair, pitching the broken glass into a nearby trashcan.
It was all a show, and they both knew it. But like their code, the occasional bit of dick-measuring had its place.
“You know why vampire is king and not demon?” Chernikov asked, flicking a few shards of glass from his suit jacket.
Dorian had several responses, all of which he kept to himself. “Enlighten me, Nikolai.”
“Magic.”
A dark chuckle escaped Dorian’s lips, and he reached for his coffee, shaking his head. “It’s that simple, is it?”
“Most things are that simple. We complicate them because we have human brains, and human brains like challenge. Makes us feel smart and superior, yes?” H
e opened a fresh bottle of vodka and poured another splash into his mug. This time, he didn’t offer any to Dorian. “Your witches… They give you more power. Change your nature. Make you smart and superior.”
Dorian sipped his coffee, waiting for Chernikov to circle back round to the bloody point.
“Demons? We have witches too,” he continued. “Not as many, of course. Most witches find demons… unpalatable. But there are some who crave darkness. Crave chaos.”
“Yes, the dark witches. A charming lot, to be sure.”
“Charming, no. But powerful?” Chernikov shrugged. “Between this realm and hell, demons are always coming and going. It is dark witches who decide how many.”
“They control the gateways.”
“Yes. And they could open more, if price is right.”
Dorian suppressed a shudder. Dark witches skirted the line, but they’d never been an outright threat. In Dorian’s lifetime, they’d played their part in maintaining the balance, carefully controlling the flow of demonic entities to ensure none of the supernatural races overpowered another or became too great a threat against humans.
“Is that what you want?” Dorian asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “Demons, storming the gates and flooding the city streets?”
“Nyet. I like being big fish in small pond. Too many fish come into my pond, they get ideas about taking over—like your Mr. Duchanes. But Alexei Rogozin? He has other aspirations.”
Rogozin. Just as Dorian had suspected.
Rogozin was currently number two among the greater demonic crime families, but if he could convince enough dark witches to fall in line, and they could turn up the tap on the flow of demons, and Rogozin united them all under the common cause of eradicating vampires and anyone else who got in his way…
“Many demons, many dark witches, all loyal to him,” Chernikov said, confirming Dorian’s fears. “This is Rogozin’s perfect world order. And he’s using traitor vampires to help build it.”
“House Duchanes,” Dorian grumbled.
“For now. But as soon as Rogozin is happy, he has no more use for Duchanes or any vampires.”