by Sarah Piper
Dark Deception
Vampire Royals of New York, Book One
Copyright © 2020 by Sarah Piper
SarahPiperBooks.com
Cover design by Covers by Juan
All rights reserved. With the exception of brief quotations used for promotional or review purposes, no part of this book may be recorded, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, organizations, brands, media, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Also by Sarah Piper
Get Connected!
About Dark Deception
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
About Sarah Piper
Also by Sarah Piper
Vampire Royals of New York
Dark Deception
Dark Seduction
Dark Obsession
Tarot Academy
Spells of Iron and Bone
Spells of Breath and Blade
Spells of Flame and Fury
Spells of Blood and Sorrow
Spells of Mist and Spirit
The Witch’s Rebels
Shadow Kissed
Darkness Bound
Demon Sworn
Blood Cursed
Death Untold
Rebel Reborn
Get Connected!
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About Dark Deception
A ruthless vampire king. An alluring crime-family heiress. A dark desire that won’t be tamed…
After the mysterious death of his father, vampire king Dorian Redthorne has more responsibilities than he can count.
Keep New York City’s supernatural factions in line.
Protect what’s left of his family.
And above all, keep his father’s secrets buried… before his enemies discover the royal family’s greatest weakness.
Charlotte D’Amico is a complication he doesn’t need.
She’s a thief. A con woman. An amateur seductress playing a deadly game she’s got no business entering.
But the scent of her blood is intoxicating, her heartbeat a siren call he can’t resist.
As far as he’s concerned, there are only two ways this can end:
He claims her. Or he bleeds her dry.
Falling for her? Not an option. Love is an indulgence the dark king can no longer afford.
Unfortunately, Dorian’s heart is as treacherous as his enemies.
The question is… which will destroy him first?
Chapter One
Dorian Redthorne stepped out of the limousine onto Central Park West and buttoned his suit jacket, cursing his father from here to hell.
The wretched cunt couldn’t have chosen a less convenient time to die.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Redthorne.” His driver, who’d remained silent behind the privacy window the entire two-hour trip, shut the car door and lowered his head. “For your… For the loss.”
The loss.
Dorian glanced at his watch. Ash clung to his jacket sleeve, a stark smudge against the fine black wool. He stared at it, unblinking, figuring he ought to feel some way about it—the ash, the condolences, the fact that he’d spent the last two days presiding over the interment of a man who’d dominated his life for two and a half centuries.
But when he prodded his heart, he found only an iron gate, eternally locked.
No, the death of his father wasn’t a loss.
It was a fucking complication. One Dorian and his brothers had just inherited, along with a sizable estate and a list of adversaries that stretched ‘round the globe, every last one of them doubtlessly celebrating the demise of the Redthorne vampire king.
Among the cursed and the damned, good news always traveled fast.
He erased the ash with his thumb. “Thank you, Jameson. I’ll phone you after the auction.”
With a curt nod, Jameson returned to his post in the driver’s seat, leaving Dorian in the company of thoughts so black they threatened to swallow the setting sun.
It was the city itself that saved him, soothing him with its autumn heartbeat as he walked alongside the park. Two sleek, chocolate-brown horses trotted by, pulling carriages full of gaping tourists, and Dorian gave them wide berth. Unlike humans, horses instinctively distrusted vampires, which was unfortunate. He’d always loved the creatures as a boy, and he missed riding them. Now, their sharp, pungent odor mingled with the sweet smell of honey-roasted peanuts from a nearby cart, reminding him of simpler times.
But as much as the English countryside remained in his blood, New York had been his home for more than two hundred years. And now, with his father gone, the city was his to rule, his to command.
It should’ve thrilled him. But the feeling burning through his veins wasn’t power or freedom.
It was dread.
Crossing Central Park West, he made his way toward the The Salvatore, the exclusive apartments where tonight’s auction would take place. He’d just reached Seventy-Third when the hairs on his arms lifted, the air around him thickening. He scented it immediately—a putrid mix of sweat, sulfur, and desperation that could only mean one thing.
Sodding fucking demons.
Dorian’s hands tightened into fists. A hundred miles north in Annendale-on-Hudson, smoldering in the crypts beneath Ravenswood Manor, the remnants of his father’s corpse had just begun to cool. Yet here in the city, the immortal enemies of House Redthorne were already pressing their advantage.
His gut rolled once more at the stench—a final warning before a pair of lesser demons slithered out from a bus idling several paces ahead. Their presence in Manhattan was a direct viol
ation of the Shadow Accords, but the demons were about to commit a crime even more egregious than trespassing.
A human male trailed them like a puppy.
Again, Dorian checked his watch. If he arrived at the auction after the bidding began, they’d refuse him entry. But he couldn’t let demons poach a human soul in his father’s territory—his territory. Not unless he wanted the whole of New York’s supernatural underworld staging a coup.
The demons were so drunk on their impending victory they paid Dorian no mind as he followed them down Seventy-Fourth and into a dark, narrow alley wedged between a parking garage and an abandoned construction zone.
“Where are we going?” the human asked his new friends. Poor bastard couldn’t have been more than twenty, fresh-faced in his dark purple NYU T-shirt, all too eager for whatever the demons were offering. Dorian pegged his accent as American Midwest. Indiana, perhaps. Briefly, he wondered if there were parents back home. A girlfriend waiting on a goodnight text.
One of the demons—a guy with a face full of metal hoops—grinned. “Down here.”
“Will… will it hurt?” the human asked.
Dorian wanted to smack him.
No, selling your soul is a real pleasure. Bloody idiot.
Most humans didn’t know about the supernatural races that walked among them, and the few that did either made peace with it and kept their heads down, tried to hunt them to extinction, or convinced themselves they could use a supernatural being’s power to short-cut their way to riches and glory.
In Dorian’s experience, the latter camp never read the fine print.
“Hurt?” The other demon laughed, his long, white-blond hair floating over his shoulders like a ghost. He tossed an arm around the human as if they were best mates. “Not for a good ten years.”
Blondie led the guy deeper into the alley, leaving Metalhead to stand guard near the construction site’s dumpster.
Dorian waited for cover from the sound of a passing ambulance, then approached Metalhead with a friendly smile.
“Pardon me, could I trouble you for a—” He slammed his fist into the demon’s jaw, then hauled him close, sinking his fangs into his neck before the bastard could conjure his deadly demonic hellfire.
Demon blood slid down his throat, saccharine and terrible, like burned sugar poured over hot rubbish. The rancid taste made Dorian’s eyes water, everything in him begging him to retreat, but his hunger made it impossible. Like a living, breathing entity, it took over, stripping Dorian of all humanity, of memory, of understanding. In these brief but bloody seconds, he was nothing but a predator devouring his meal, the demon twitching helplessly in his arms.
The only thing that prevented Dorian from killing him outright—from killing any demon—was the threat of possession. Demonic entities could be banished to hell, but only by a skilled witch. If a demon’s physical body died, the entity itself would slide into the closest available human host—a fate to which Dorian wouldn’t condemn his worst human enemy, let alone an innocent moron in an NYU shirt.
When Dorian sensed the demon’s heartbeat slow to an acceptably near-death rhythm, he unlatched from the artery and turned the limp body around, holding it face-out like a shield as he moved down the alley. Tucked away in the shadows, Blondie muttered his ancient incantations, ready to slice the human’s hand and finalize the blood deal. The smell of brimstone hung heavy in the air. The ritual was nearly complete.
“I believe you dropped something,” Dorian announced, then shoved Metalhead into the surprised arms of his mate. In a blur of speed no demon could match, he rushed forward and slammed them both against the bricks, biting into Blondie’s artery and draining him with an efficiency born of centuries of practice.
Thoroughly weakened and teetering on the precipice of death, the demons slid to the ground in a quivering, moaning heap.
The quick pattering of another heartbeat caught Dorian’s attention, and he turned to find the human gaping at him, pale and shocked. In the frenzy of the feed, he’d almost forgotten about the little twat.
“Well? Anything to say for yourself?” Dorian wiped the blood from his lips, scowling at the taste.
“I… I needed tuition money, and…” He swallowed hard, fingers trembling as he fished out his wallet and handed it over. “Take it. Just don’t hurt me.”
If Dorian hadn’t just fed, his predatory instincts would’ve kicked in, and this sniveling man-child would be an easy dinner—much more flavorful than the demons. As it was, he looked about thirty seconds from pissing himself.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Dorian snatched the wallet, sparing a brief glance at the driver’s license inside. Jonathan Braynard of Tipton, Indiana. He’d just turned eighteen.
Old enough to consent, young enough to give up his best years as a slave of Hell.
Dorian retrieved his platinum money clip and stuffed it into the wallet, handing it back to the kid with a deadly glare.
“Return home, Johnny,” he said smoothly, the kid’s pupils dilating as the vampire compulsion took hold. “Forget this happened. Whatever darkness led you to bargain with demons, that path is closed. You’ve got a new lease on life.” Dorian dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Run along.”
Still shaking, the guy turned and vomited, narrowly missing Dorian’s shoes. Then he took off, stumbling into the sunlit street and out of sight.
“You’re welcome,” Dorian grumbled.
“Dumpster diving, brother?” a voice taunted from behind, achingly familiar, supremely irritating. “What will the neighbors think?”
Malcolm.
Dorian cursed under his breath. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to hear the speech. Nice touch, that bit about a new lease on life.”
“I’ve been working on the pitch.” Dorian tried to hold fast to his annoyance, but his heart betrayed him, and a genuine smile spread across his face as he turned to take stock of the man before him—a man he hadn’t seen in five decades, who now stood tall and confident, with piercing golden eyes and smooth, tanned skin that made him look even younger than Dorian remembered. “New Orleans favors you, brother.”
They’d all come to America together, but unlike Dorian, Malcolm preferred the languid pace of the South to the rapid-fire beat of New York.
Yet news of Father’s demise had brought him home, as Dorian knew it would.
Malcolm returned the smile and stepped closer, but the brothers didn’t embrace. Too much time had passed; too many old wounds lingered for either to allow such easy affections.
“You needn’t have made the trip,” Dorian said. “Father’s attorneys will ensure the assets are transferred equitably.”
“So it’s true. He’s dead.”
It wasn’t a question, and the minuscule twitch of an eyelid—an old tell—was all the emotion Malcolm revealed.
“I’d prefer to keep Ravenswood,” Dorian continued, sparing them both the trouble of sorting out their feelings. “I’m prepared to buy it outright. But if you’ve got your heart set on any of Father’s artwork or antiques, we can discuss—”
“An alliance.”
Dorian raised an eyebrow. Straight to the point, then.
“Now that Father’s gone,” Malcolm continued, “the covens will expect us to consolidate power with one of the other greater vampire families. Have you considered our options?”
Our options?
Dorian nearly laughed. Malcolm hadn’t set foot in this city in fifty years. Hadn’t spoken with him or their father in just as long. But here he was, picking up the endless game of political maneuvering as if he’d never left Ravenswood.
Rather than dig that dead horse out of the ground for another beating, Dorian said simply, “I’ve got everything under control.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Malcolm toed the twitching blond body sprawled on the ground between them. “How long until these sods are back on their feet, looking to set your cock on fire?”
“Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty.” Dorian scanned the alley again, hoping the human had truly fled. “Though it’s not my cock I’m worried about.”
Hellfire was one of the few methods guaranteed to kill vampires, and demons were especially fond of burning them alive from the inside out. It was a brutal way to go, no respite from the flames as they consumed every ounce of flesh, blood, and bone inside. Without a witch to perform a banishment, a vampire’s only advantage against a demon was speed. Most low-level demons couldn’t conjure the fire fast enough to outpace a charging vampire.
But some could.
And those odds, however minuscule, were enough to earn demons the title of immortal enemy.
Malcolm crouched down to inspect the bodies, tugging down their shirt collars to reveal the tell-tale brands on their sternums—marks that bonded all demons to a particular crew.