by Sarah Piper
At this, Marlys stepped forward, placing her ritual case on the end of the table.
Nikolai grunted and waved a dismissive hand, but these were the rules of the Accords—rules their communities had adopted centuries ago and must continue to obey if they hoped to keep peace among the factions.
From her case, Marlys retrieved a silver athame, a small metal bowl, a bundle of dried herbs, and two large gold rings. She dropped the rings into the bowl and set it between the men, gesturing for them to hold out their hands.
Gripping the athame, she made a clean slice in Dorian’s palm, then turned the blade and sliced Chernikov, gesturing for them to squeeze their blood onto the rings. Then, satisfied they’d spilled enough, she lifted the bowl above her head and began the chant, swirling the bowl until the rings were completely coated. The scent of Chernikov’s blood reminded Dorian of his recent demonic run-ins, memories that made him both hungry and nauseated.
All he wanted to do was leap across the table, wrap his hands around that awful snake tattoo, and throttle the asshole.
But until he could find the loophole in the Accords that would allow him to eradicate the demonic race from the top down, he had to play nice with men like Chernikov and the other syndicate leaders. Politics was a delicate dance—one he’d never quite mastered before his father’s death dumped the responsibility upon him. And despite his family’s waning power and the dark shadows that hovered over them—shadows that undermined his ultimate authority over the supernatural territories in this city and beyond—he had to at least attempt to fulfill his duties.
To live up to the crown his father had stolen all those centuries ago.
Chant complete, Marlys retrieved the rings from the bowl, passing one to each man, watching as they slid the bloody jewels over their fingers. The rings temporarily muted their natural powers, preventing Chernikov from setting Dorian’s balls on fire and Dorian from ripping off the demon’s head.
Win-win for all involved.
Rings in place, Marlys lit the herb bundle, sweeping it around the small room. Faint, purple smoke encased them in a shimmering screen—a magical soundproofing that would ensure only Dorian and Chernikov could hear their conversation, but Marlys could easily access them if the demon attempted to discard the muting ring and conjure hellfire.
The ritual was expensive and cumbersome, but when it came to drinking with one’s enemies, one could never be too cautious.
Spells complete, Marlys retreated to the doorway, and Chernikov poured two glasses of vodka, sliding one across the table to Dorian. There was no need for concern about the contents; vampires couldn’t be poisoned.
“To your father.” Chernikov raised his glass. “May he find peace.”
“In hell? Tough mission, Nikolai. Even for a king.”
“Perhaps he has treasure map.”
Dorian chuckled at the image of his father wandering the dark tunnels of hell with a map and a shovel, seeking his eternal chest of gold. But the smile didn’t last long; they had business to discuss, and it was time to get to it.
They both took a deep pull from their drinks. When they locked eyes again, Chernikov’s face turned serious.
“Apology is in order,” he said, topping off their glasses from the bottle.
Dorian hadn’t expected the demand to come so quickly or so bluntly, and he tried to maintain his calm demeanor. “Nikolai, I assure you. I was unaware of their allegiance when—”
He held up a hand, cutting him off. “My men were in violation of the Shadow Accords, so you bled them. Is understandable. You know, I try to run an obedient organization, yet sometimes, there are cracks. They should not have been in your territory, let alone conducting business and attacking you.”
Twice, Dorian thought, but kept that to himself.
“For that,” Chernikov said, “you have my apologies, and my assurance that responsible parties have been… dealt with.”
Dorian offered a slight bow of thanks, then took another drink, steeling himself. As much as he appreciated Chernikov accepting responsibility, there was no way the demon had invited him all the way out here just to eat crow.
It was several full minutes of sipping vodka and playing with their figurative cocks before Chernikov finally spoke again.
“We are not so different,” he said, “the blood-drinkers and the dark ones.”
“No?”
“We love our city. We drink. We fuck.” He laughed, then raised his glass in another toast, his face turning somber once again. “And most important, we know the value of good friends.”
Dorian couldn’t argue with the premise, though he wondered where the fuck this was going.
“Your father, Augustus,” he continued. “He was good friend. Maybe not good man, but good friend.”
The vodka churned in his gut, but Dorian remained impassive.
“I have known him many, many years,” Chernikov said. “And in that time, he had many, many secrets. Some that would surprise even you, his oldest son.”
Dorian refused to take the bait. Whether Chernikov had dirt on his father was irrelevant; the elder vampire was dead.
He sipped his vodka, wondering how long, precisely, his father and the demon lord had been acquainted. He vaguely remembered seeing Chernikov at Ravenswood on more than one occasion, not long after the manor had been built. In the time since, his father had probably amassed as many secrets as he’d amassed enemies, but the elder Redthorne had never deigned to share such things with his royal sons.
Now, all Dorian could say in response was, “That he did, Nikolai.”
The demon lifted his glass, frowning as he gazed at the clear liquid sloshing inside. Then, in a low, menacing voice, “His secrets are your secrets now, Dorian Redthorne.”
Fucking hell, Dorian hated dealing with demons. They were worse than the bloody fae, what with all the double talk and veiled threats. No wonder their contracts had so much fine print.
Patience, never Dorian’s strong suit, was quickly ebbing.
He set down his glass.
“Forgive me, Nikolai, but was there something specific you wished to discuss tonight, aside from the transgressions of your underlings?”
The demon glared at him, frustration simmering behind his dark eyes, but Dorian held his ground. He was the vampire king, for fuck’s sake. He did not trek all the way out to Staten fucking Island to be bullied, intimidated, or subjected to demonic guessing games by a glorified mobster. If Chernikov wanted something from him, he needed to spell it out, and quickly.
“Very well,” the demon finally said. “Before his… untimely death, Augustus was working on procuring something of great importance to me. For many years he searched, but never found it.”
“What was this item?”
“A sculpture. It belonged to my people, long ago.”
“What sort of sculpture?”
“She is called Mother of Lost Souls. Very rare, very valuable.”
Cold dread pooled in his gut. Mother of Lost Souls was a fertility goddess sculpture crafted in Finland in the fourteenth century. Dorian was intimately familiar with her; in 1815, his father had stolen her from the vampire royal family in London, right after he’d slaughtered them and usurped the crown. He then smuggled the statue into America, where she remained under lock and key until the crypts were constructed beneath Ravenswood, at which time she was unceremoniously bricked up behind a wall.
Which wall? Could be any one of hundreds, Dorian supposed. It was yet another secret his father had concealed, telling them only that the Mother of Lost Souls would be unearthed when the time was right.
She is what makes us powerful, he’d said. One day, you will see.
So, what was so damn important about this sculpture? And why the fuck did Chernikov want it so badly? Dorian could damn near taste the greed and desire on the demon’s fetid breath.
“My father and I didn’t spend much time together on his last visit,” Dorian said, as close to the truth as he was wi
lling to get. “He did not discuss this with me.”
“He never told you of our arrangement?” Chernikov held Dorian’s gaze, a spark of challenge in his eyes. “I find this… unusual.”
“If I discover anything about the sculpture, I will inform you straightaway.”
Clearly unsatisfied with the lukewarm response, Chernikov tossed back the last of his vodka, then wiped his lips with a finger and thumb. “There may come time when I ask you for favor, vampire king.”
“I see.” Dorian bit back a condescending smile at the demon’s nerve. “And in exchange for this favor?”
“As I said, your father’s secrets are now your secrets. I kept his. Perhaps I will keep yours too.” He glared at Dorian, letting his words sink in.
Worry spiked in Dorian’s chest. Did Chernikov know about his father’s illness? Or was there some other past indiscretion lying in wait for the perfect opportunity to leap out from the shadows and ruin his life?
Perhaps Chernikov was simply baiting him.
Poor strategy on his part.
“Rather than keeping my secrets,” Dorian said coolly, “I’d much rather you keep your demons on a leash and out of my territory. And in return, I’ll grant you the favor of overlooking the recent violations. Next time, I may not be so forgiving.”
Tension simmered between them, but eventually, Chernikov broke into a raucous laugh. “You are… what is saying? Cheeky bastard. I like that in a bloodsucker.”
Dorian didn’t give a fuck what he liked. He tipped back the last of his vodka, then rose from the table. “If there’s nothing else, Nikolai, I shall take my leave.”
And be grateful I’m not leaving with your head in a bag…
“Only one more thing, Dorian Redthorne.” The demon handed over an unopened bottle of vodka from his stash on the table. “A gift from home, in honor of mutual… friendship.”
Reluctantly, Dorian took the bottle, knowing he was accepting a lot more than an innocent gift, but seeing no way around it without causing himself another fucking headache.
Whatever arrangement Chernikov had with Dorian’s father, it clearly went far deeper—and much farther back in time—than Dorian had realized. Something told him it was all connected to that mysterious sculpture—a piece which, not unlike the Chernikov demons he’d fed on, Dorian suspected would come back to bite him in the ass.
“Thank you for the gift,” Dorian said anyway, then turned to Marlys, signaling the end of the meeting. She rejoined them at the table to close out the spell, remove the rings, and pack up her belongings. Then, she and Dorian were off.
The moment he was outside, Dorian pitched the vodka into the closest trash bin and retrieved the cell from his pocket, pulling up Aiden’s number.
“Aiden? We’ve got a problem.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
An hour into the party, Dorian stood on the lower patio overlooking the Hudson River, contemplating drowning himself in that godforsaken infinity pool—an impossible feat for a vampire, but he’d do his damnedest to try.
No one had cancelled, no one was leaving early, and no one would give him a moment’s peace in his own home. He’d answered enough inane questions about the house to fill an entire issue of Architectural Digest, smiled at dozens of terrible jokes, sympathized through lengthy debates about the homogenization of Manhattan restaurants, and warded off no less than three propositions, two of which from married women whose husbands were also in attendance.
This, Aiden Donovan, is why I don’t host parties.
Worse, while the Armitage people, the museum’s board of directors, and variously intolerable supernatural socialites oohed and ahhed over his art collection, drank his champagne, fawned over his vintage cars, all but ignored the eight-piece string ensemble for which he’d paid handsomely, and ingratiated themselves in ways civilized beings should find utterly embarrassing, all Dorian could think about was Charlotte.
He hadn’t seen her since the JHS run-in, but they’d talked on the phone every night this week, save for last night—he hadn’t been able to reach her. It had become the best part of Dorian’s evenings, making her laugh and making her come, sending her into the best kinds of dreams—and sending himself into a cold shower. Despite her many offers to repay the favor, he’d refused; when Dorian finally came for the woman haunting his every thought, it would be by her touch, not his own.
He hadn’t mentioned the party again. In fact, there was a lot he hadn’t mentioned. She’d wanted to keep things simple, no attachments, nothing too complicated. And as much as he wanted to know more about her, to see her, to feel the soft touch of her velvet skin beneath his lips, he didn’t want to push her. Not like that.
So instead, he lingered in the familiar space between frustration and obsession, attempting to soothe the ever-present ache in his balls with copious amounts of alcohol.
“Dorian Redthorne, I’ve been looking for you,” a voice called from behind, shattering his perfect visions of Charlotte and filling him with contempt so hot and sharp, it felt as if a swarm of hornets had invaded his lungs.
“Renault Duchanes.” Turning to face the scoundrel, Dorian forced a hospitable smile, holding it in place even as he noticed the man’s entourage. “Welcome to Ravenswood. I’m so glad you could join us.”
There were four other vampires in the group—one female and three males. Duchanes introduced them as members of his house, though Dorian had never seen them before. Unsurprising, considering how quickly most of the other families sired new vampires to do their endless bidding. House Redthorne was unique in that Dorian’s brothers were related by blood, but that was a rare occurrence that required an entire family be turned at the same time.
Outside his own unfortunate gene pool, Dorian didn’t know any parents who’d subject their children to such torture. Still, Dorian’s family was full of enough dysfunction to keep a hundred therapists busy for a thousand years, but he wouldn’t trade them. There was something about blood and shared history that had made them loyal to one another in ways that sired vampires—despite their vows and the adoption of their sires’ names—were not.
In addition to the vampires, Duchanes had also extended the invitation to their bonded witch, whom he now introduced.
“Jacinda Colburn,” he said proudly, as if she were a prized steer.
The woman extended a hand glittering with rings, offering a mysterious smile.
Dorian shook her hand. It was cold to the touch. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Colburn.”
Glancing around to ensure they had at least a small audience, Duchanes cleared his throat, and Dorian braced himself for the inevitable performance.
“As a gesture of goodwill and friendship between our two great houses,” Duchanes announced, “for this evening, House Duchanes offers the services of our bonded witch to the brothers of House Redthorne.”
For fuck’s sake.
“Very generous of you, Renault, but that won’t be necessary.”
“Oh, but it’s no trouble. Jacinda would be honored to assist you in any way.”
Turning to the witch, Dorian put on his most dazzling smile, trying to recall what he knew of the Duchanes witch. “You’re an earth witch, Ms. Colburn, are you not?”
She lit up at the question, her own smile broadening. “I am.”
“It’s not my area of expertise,” he continued, “but I’m told the gardens at Ravenswood are home to over four dozen species of medicinal herbs and flowers. You’re welcome to take clippings of anything you’d like for your practice.”
“Really?” Her blue eyes sparkled, making her appear much younger than she probably was. “Thank you, Mr. Redthorne.”
“Please. Call me Dorian.”
“Dorian,” she said with a smile. “Thank you.”
Beside her, Duchanes seethed. Dorian’s refusal of his offer was an insult, but everyone standing there knew Duchanes’ kindness was artificial at best.
What are you after tonight, bloodsucker?
&n
bsp; “Very well,” Duchanes said. “We shall share a drink instead.” He snapped his fingers, and two women stepped forward from his group.
Human women—a blonde and a redhead, both wearing short cocktail dresses entirely inappropriate for the autumn night. They couldn’t have been more than twenty years of age, with pale skin, glossy eyes, and deep hollows beneath their cheek and collarbones.
Dorian’s gut churned, his vision swimming with red. They were obviously unhealthy and not well cared for. But unless he had clear evidence of coercion or compulsion, there was nothing he could do; the women were of consenting age.
“Gentleman’s choice.” Duchanes gestured for Dorian to take his pick.
He took a swig of his scotch, letting it linger in his mouth a moment before smiling at the women. “I’ve no need to partake this evening, but I appreciate the offer.”
“Your house is amazing, Mr. Redthorne,” the redhead said. “Like something out of a magazine!”
“Thank you.”
“That painting in the foyer, is that a Chantuille?” the blonde asked.
“Chanteaux,” he said. “Blackbirds in Flight.”
The blonde woman placed her hand on Dorian’s forearm, slinking further away from Duchanes to give Dorian what she probably thought was a furtive look, but he couldn’t help but notice the tremor in her hand. “Maybe you could show me around? I’d love to see the other pieces in your collection.”
“Ah, another time, perhaps,” Dorian said, grateful to see Aiden approaching. “Lovely to meet you all. The garden paths are extensive—feel free to explore.”
“You’re not coming with us?” she asked.
“I’m sorry. If you’ll excuse me, it seems another matter requires my attention.”
Pulling away from her touch as well as her disappointed gaze, Dorian walked past the whole group, making a beeline for his friend.
Without waiting for Aiden to speak, Dorian grabbed his arm and dragged him through a side door that led into the massive garage.
The scent of car wax, motor oil, and tires calmed his nerves, the stately presence of his cars a familiar comfort. Thankfully, he and Aiden were alone.