Quinn (Vampires in America: The Vampire Wars Book 12)

by D. B. Reynolds

  He gathered his power, then reconsidered. He didn’t need his fire to take out Conover. Hell, what he needed was to beat the shit out of someone. His mouth curved into a malicious grin. Without warning, he launched a powerful wave of energy, taking out every member of Conover’s gang at once. They fell to the ground, bonelessly, like puppets whose strings had been cut. They weren’t dead. He wasn’t feeling that mean, and the only one who truly mattered was their leader. But they were out of this fight, making it a one-on-one battle between Quinn and Conover, who’d shuddered when Quinn’s power had brushed past him, leaving him standing while taking out every one of his backers. He stared at the vampires lying on the ground, then spun to regard Quinn.

  “What the fuck?” he demanded. “What did you do to them? Your fight is with—”

  Quinn didn’t let him finish. Stepping closer, he swung his fist and landed a power-driven uppercut that shattered Conover’s jaw. He followed up with a jab to the gut that probably ruptured a few organs, another one to his chest that cracked his sternum, and finally a third to his throat, collapsing his esophagus. He’d been right. He didn’t need fire to take down this asshole. This was far more satisfying.

  Conover staggered, but tried to rally, wasting far too much energy on a magical attack, throwing a series of grenade-like bursts that splatted against Quinn’s shields and burned out, fizzling to nothing.

  Meanwhile Quinn stuck with the physical, grabbing Conover by his long hair and head-butting him. He grunted. Christ. That felt like he’d smashed his face into a rhinoceros, but it had been immensely gratifying. And effective. Conover’s eyes literally rolled in his head as blood poured down his face, mixing with the mess of his already broken nose. The vamp staggered, and Quinn gripped his head again, slamming Conover’s face against Quinn’s raised knee.

  “Submit,” Quinn growled.

  “Fuck you,” Conover mumbled, the words barely distinguishable through his destroyed mouth and damaged esophagus.

  “Idiot.” Quinn stepped back. He had to admire the other vampire’s persistence, but it was wasted. “Don’t make me kill you,” Quinn muttered.

  Conover managed to straighten to his full height. He glared at Quinn out of one bloodied eye, the other so damaged that it was probably ruptured behind the swollen lid. “You think you can, sweetheart?”

  Quinn shook his head in disgust. He was ready to finish this one way or the other. His hands ached, his knuckles were cut and bleeding, and his head hurt like a motherfucker. “Choose, Conover. Right now,” he snarled. “Kneel before me, or die.”

  “Fuck—”

  Quinn didn’t let him finish. He took a single step forward, punched a hole in the vampire’s chest, and ripped out his heart. His eyes locked on Conover’s horrified gaze, as he loosed a tiny flicker of orange flame and surrounded the still beating organ, holding it in his palm until it disintegrated to ash, and Conover fell to dust.

  Slapping his hands together, Quinn stared at Conover’s gang of unconscious vamps. “What do I do with those?” he muttered.

  “You want them dead?” Adorjan’s deep voice snapped Quinn out of his contemplation. He hadn’t been fully aware that he’d spoken out loud.

  “No,” he said firmly. “I’d prefer them alive, but I have to know where they stand.”

  “If you release them, at least some will go straight to Sorley,” Garrick said from his other side.

  “But some of them won’t, and I don’t care about the others. Sorley will find out about this soon enough, anyway.” He glanced around the yard, his gaze going over the walls to the neighboring houses. The lots were big here, but still too close. “We should take this inside. You need my help?”

  “No,” Garrick assured him. He jerked his head at Adorjan, who immediately got the others organized to begin dragging the unconscious vamps into one of the unused garages. Garrick then turned to face Quinn, scanning him from head to toe, taking in the bloodied knuckles, the swelling knot on his forehead. “A head butt, my lord?” he asked dryly . “Isn’t avoiding that sort of thing what being a vampire lord is all about?”

  Quinn grinned. “I needed to vent. It’s been a rough few nights.”

  “Eve giving you a hard time?”

  “Eve hates my guts.”

  “You silly kids,” Garrett chided.

  Quinn narrowed his eyes. “Don’t push your luck, asshole.” He raised his hand and flexed one swollen fist. “Fuck, that hurts. No sense in fixing it before I question the others, though. We have any liquor in this house?”

  “Are we in Ireland? Of course, we have liquor. There’s a full bar in the den, and another one in basement.”

  “Good. They’ll wake up soon enough,” he said jerking his head at the unconscious vamps. “Make sure you maintain a guard. You know where to find me when they come around.”

  EVE SQUINTED through the high-powered binocs. Her eyes stung with the effort, but she couldn’t take her gaze away, couldn’t risk missing a single minute of what she was seeing. She only wished she could record the whole thing. She had her phone, but wasn’t sure if it could catch the long-distance details, and didn’t want to divert her attention to find out.

  Quinn was over there. And he wasn’t alone. It looked like the vampire version of the OK corral. A real standoff, like in the old American westerns her da had been so fond of. Except without guns. She’d followed Quinn to Dublin, using the tiny tracker she’d slapped on his Range Rover outside her flat. It hadn’t been a car chase, since she’d been so far behind. But she’d counted on him not finding the tracker, and the tracker not falling off, before she made it to Dublin and got a fix on him through the app on her phone.

  She’d expected to find him at Sorley’s mansion in Donnybrook. That’s why she’d followed him, hoping to figure out once and for all what his deal was with the vampire lord. Were they allies? Or had Quinn told her the truth about wanting Sorley dead?

  Instead, she followed him here to Ballsbridge, to this lovely, ivy-covered brick two-story building that looked like it housed some gentleman financier and his perfect family, not a gang of ruthless vampires. But then, hadn’t she thought that’s exactly what Quinn was when she’d first met him? Not the family part, but he’d definitely been a gentleman. Even knowing what he really was, she’d still bet he wore a three-piece suit as well as the highest paid banker in Dublin.

  When she’d first arrived at this house, she’d seen only Quinn and his gang, who’d been carrying on like they were moving in, just like anyone else would. They’d spent a good hour unloading duffle bags of gear, and boxes of who knew what. They’d probably been working for a while before she’d arrived, too, since it had taken her some time to follow the signal to this house, and then to find a good vantage point from which to do her spying.

  Lucky for her, the couple across the street had gone out for the evening—based on his suit and her elegant dress—while she’d been sitting in her car down the street, wondering if she dared sneak closer. And then she’d strolled down the block, trying to look like she belonged, hoping Quinn’s vampires didn’t have a watch out for her specifically.

  She’d breathed a sigh of relief when she’d made it to the neighbor’s gate and ducked behind the thick wall that surrounded their house. They’d left their gate open, which most people seemed to do in this neighborhood. Although not Quinn, she’d noticed. His solid wood gate was closed, so you couldn’t see what was going on behind it. The wall around the property was also designed for privacy, with thick blocks of stone that were tall enough to keep out all but the most determined climber. That wasn’t Eve. She did, however, climb the sturdy chestnut tree that hung over the neighbor’s perimeter wall. Its branches were more than broad enough to hold her and it had a trunk fat enough that she wasn’t completely uncomfortable as she perched up there with her binoculars. The houses were far apart in Quinn’s new ne
ighborhood, but between the height afforded by her treetop vantage and the tree’s location close to the street, she had a good view directly into his yard

  And that was how she’d come to witness this incredible scene. Quinn had just killed that other vampire, but not until after he’d beaten the shit out of him. That part of it hadn’t surprised her all that much. The other vamp had attacked Quinn first, and for all Quinn’s gentlemanly ways, he was a big guy in great shape. He also had a temper, which he mostly hid behind that icy control of his, especially with her. But she’d known instinctively that if he ever let loose. . . . Well, that vampire—the one who’d shown up with a gang, looking for a fight—had just learned what happened when Quinn let loose. Quinn had beat the shit out of him and then punched a hole in his chest and ripped out his fucking heart! Right there before her eyes. She’d killed vampires, and she’d seen them go to dust when they died. But she’d never seen anyone, human or vampire, slam a fist through bone and flesh and tear out someone’s heart.

  Part of her was horrified. She was still shaking inside as she replayed the brutal scene in her mind. But another part of her was glad that Quinn was strong enough to take care of himself. Proud even. What the hell was wrong with her?

  Movement snapped her attention back to Quinn’s house. His vampires, including his cousin Garrick and the big bodyguard, were dragging the remaining unconscious vamps into a garage, apparently having decided they needed privacy. She was lucky Quinn hadn’t done so earlier. Maybe he would have, if he’d realized how bloody the confrontation was going to get. Or if he’d known anyone was watching. She’d had a bad moment when he’d seemed to be searching for watchers in the surrounding trees. But his gaze had moved on quickly enough, and she’d started breathing again.

  She waited until they’d all disappeared from sight, then scrambled out of the tree, gaining a scraped forearm for her troubles. Apparently, her tree-climbing skills were a bit rusty. She pulled her sweater over the scrape, which was oozing blood, and walked casually down the street, not drawing a full breath until she was back in her car. Her heart was racing and her breath was a little short, but mostly, she was agitated by what she’d seen. And confused. She’d been all set on hating Quinn and everything he stood for. She hadn’t fooled herself into believing she could kill him, but she’d been ready to kill the others, if the opportunity presented.

  But now . . . what if he’d been telling her the truth? What if he was here to replace Sorley? To change the way Irish vampires lived and conducted their business? What if he’d help her get the vampires who’d killed her brother?

  And from the deepest part of her heart, where still lived the last remnant of the girl she used to be before her brother’s death had changed everything, came a fragile whisper of hope. What if she could go back to who she’d been, back before vengeance had become her life?

  She sat in her car, waiting for her heart to stop pounding, waiting for the unbidden tears to stop streaming down her face, and knew what she had to do. She was going to have to talk to Quinn.

  QUINN STROLLED into the empty garage—empty of cars, anyway—and raked his gaze over the assembled vampires. He was still feeling mean, which didn’t bode well for them. He’d confined himself to a single drink—two fingers of a very nice scotch—which had tasted fine, but hadn’t helped his mood any, since booze didn’t have any effect on vampire physiology. His knuckles still ached and his head hurt. What the fuck had he been thinking with that head butt? The vampire symbiote in his blood was working to heal the injuries, but the headache lingered. Quinn could have healed himself in an instant, but he didn’t want to waste power if it turned out this group was going to be more trouble than he thought. Looking at them now, he knew it wasn’t necessary. A quick scan told him that none of them had any power to speak of. Conover had been a strong master vampire, with enough power to be a valuable tool for Sorley. Unfortunately, he’d had ambitions beyond his abilities. When he’d challenged Quinn, those ambitions had ended in death.

  But none of his followers even approached master level. Conover apparently didn’t want any challengers arising out of his own clique. These six were all ordinary line vamps, nothing more. It infuriated Quinn that Conover had risked their lives in a battle that, once he’d met Quinn, he had to have known he couldn’t win.

  Quinn flexed his hands again, feeling the ache, and knew he had to douse his rage. Using a wash of his own power, he healed the injuries left over from his fight with Conover, and brought his temper under control. Oddly, it was the memory of Eve and their last encounter that remained a spark of discontent in his thoughts. He wanted to believe it was worry for her safety, nothing more. He would have felt the same for anyone he knew, if they were following a dangerous path, taking too many risks. But Quinn had never been one to lie to himself. He knew it was something more than that. Eve had gotten under his skin in a way none of his other women ever had. He wanted her to be more than safe, he wanted her with him. Wanted her clever, frustrating, stubborn self in his life. Which went to show what a twisted sense of humor the fates had. He was a vamp with a plan—organized, tidy, some would say anal. He had a checklist in his head, ticking off items as he moved toward his goal. Eve was like a mini hand grenade sent to fuck his list up. And he wanted her . . . in his life and his bed.

  Fuck.

  With an effort of supreme will, he shoved thoughts of Eve far away, into the back of his mind. He had other lives to protect tonight.

  “Pay attention,” he said abruptly. Every vampire in the garage, including Garrick and those of his own people who’d been standing guard, snapped to attention. “You have one chance, right here, right now. Swear to me or die.” He let his gaze touch every one of Conover’s remaining vampires, where they were seated on the floor. “Be very clear about one thing. If you leave this garage alive, your soul is mine.”

  One of the vamps stood defiantly. “What right do you have to demand anything of us? Sorley rules Ireland, not you.”

  Quinn nodded, acknowledging the vampire’s point. But . . . “My right comes from millennia of vampire tradition. You challenged me, and you lost. Your life is forfeit, but I’m giving you a chance to live. Know this, however. I have more than enough power to detect lies and deceit. If you swear falsely, or if you ever betray me, your death will be long and painful.”

  The vampire’s mouth pursed into an unhappy grimace, but he bowed his head and dropped to his knees in acceptance. The others, who’d been looking to him for guidance, did the same.

  “What’s your name?” he asked the vampire who’d challenged him.

  “William McKeever,” he muttered. “But they call me ‘Numbers,’” he admitted grudgingly.

  Quinn tilted his head curiously. “Numbers? Why?”

  “I’m a chartered accountant.” One of the other vamps snickered, and McKeever added, “And I might gamble a bit.”

  “Successfully?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Quinn thought that might be the most interesting thing he’d heard that night. He glanced at his cousin. Garrick was good with numbers, too. Good enough that he wasn’t welcome in Atlantic City. Garrick gave Quinn a smile and a small shrug.

  “All right, McKeever. Can I call you ‘Mac?’”

  McKeever nodded almost eagerly, as if he didn’t like his current nickname. “Please, yes, my lord.”

  “Okay, Mac, let’s get this over with.” Quinn walked over to where the vampire still knelt. Taking the small knife Garrick offered him, he rolled up his sleeve and cut a four-inch gash in his forearm. Blood immediately gushed from the wound, pooling in the hand that he held out.

  “William McKeever, do you come to me of your own free will and desire?” he asked formally.

  The kneeling vampire’s nostrils flared at the scent of Quinn’s blood, but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he raised his eyes and searched Quinn�
�s face, then nodded, as if he’d found whatever he’d been looking for. “I do, my lord.”

  “And is this what you truly desire?”

  “My lord, it is my truest desire.”

  Quinn offered his bloody arm. “Then drink and be mine.”

  McKeever—Mac—drank. Tentatively at first, as if not knowing what to expect, and then hungrily as if he’d never tasted the bounty that was a vampire lord’s blood. And maybe he hadn’t, Quinn considered. Not every vampire in Ireland had been turned by Sorley, or by Lord Tiegan before him.

  Quinn jerked his mind back to the present, where Mac was still gorging on his blood. He had five other vampires to bind, and his blood supply wasn’t endless. In fact, after tonight, he was going to need a re-supply. He hadn’t had fresh blood since he’d tapped the little brunette at the pub, after his fight with Eve. He had to think back as to which fight it had been. There’d been so many. So why was she still in his thoughts?

  Shaking his arm slightly, he pulled his wrist away from the vampire’s eager mouth. Mac sat back on his heels, dazed, licking blood from his lips. Adorjan stepped forward and took his arm, urging him to his feet and making room for the next candidate.

  One by one, the others came forward and swore, much as Mac had, each sucking down more of Quinn’s blood and seeming just as dazzled by the power of it. Until the last of the six knelt before Quinn and swore . . . falsely.

  Quinn pulled his arm back and stared down at the kneeling vampire. “I did warn—” But the vamp was already on his feet and racing for the exit. Before anyone could grab him, he was smashed to the ground by a hammer force of Quinn’s power. He lay there, pinned to the garage floor like a bug, straining to move. Quinn strolled over and gazed down at him. “As I was saying,” he said calmly. “I did warn you. I will not tolerate betrayal.”