Dark Deception: A Vampire Romance (Vampire Royals of New York Book 1)

by Sarah Piper

  His chest burned, hating that he’d put her on guard, fearing for her life.

  But he had to press on.

  “What typically happens there,” he continued, “is that a vampire bites the human, drains enough blood to stop the heart, then forces the victim to ingest his blood. Vampire blood has rapid regenerative properties and will almost immediately restart the human’s heart and begin transforming his remaining blood into vampire blood, thus initiating the change.” Dorian leaned back, bracing his hands against the cold rock slab. “On the plus side, our blood allows us to heal quickly, and can also heal human wounds, provided the human isn’t already near his death.”

  “What if he is near death?”

  “If a human has lost enough blood for his heart to stop, vampire blood will take over his system and turn him, as I’ve described. But if the injury is less severe, it will simply aid in the regeneration process, allowing human blood to replace itself and fight off the transition before it happens.”

  “Sounds risky.”

  “It is. And many humans who do begin the transition don’t survive it.” An old, familiar chill gripped his heart, but he shook it off, continuing. “Many people believe vampires are soulless, but that’s not true—we retain our human souls, even after transitioning. We’re immortal, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be killed. Doesn’t mean our souls aren’t bound for hell, destined to an eternity of demonic enslavement right alongside the human sinners.”

  Next to him, Dorian sensed the skip of her pulse. Unsurprising, given the subject matter. It was a miracle she hadn’t yet run for the hills.

  “Tell me about the demons,” she said instead, her tone dark but nevertheless eager for more.

  “Demons are entities of hell, capable of possessing human hosts—either by force or through a demonic deal.”

  “How does the deal work?”

  “In rare cases, a human willingly offers to share his body, allowing a demonic entity to hitch a ride, but still retaining his human life. The human is able to access the demon’s powers, and the demon has a physical body in which to carry out his bidding. When the human dies, the demon takes over the vessel completely. In a more typical deal, however, a human signs over his body and soul for collection at the end of a set time period—five or ten years, usually—in exchange for a short-term gain, like fame, money, a political appointment, that sort of thing.” Dorian thought of Jonathan Braynard, the NYU student whose soul he’d spared in the alley last week. “When it’s time to collect, the demon takes residence in the body, and the soul is sent to hell.”

  Charlotte gasped. “I can’t believe anyone would willingly sign up for that.”

  “They don’t always read the fine print. But even when they do…” Dorian shook his head. “Desperation is its own form of insanity, Charlotte. It can drive people to do a great many things they might’ve once called irrational or even suicidal.”

  She shuddered beside him, rubbing her arms. “Demon deals… Hell slaves… Shit. They really didn’t teach us this stuff in Catholic school.”

  “It’s not in the interest of religious institutions to delve too deeply into the supernatural. They pick and choose from myriad myths and histories, twisting them just enough to brand us all as evil and keep you on the righteous path, stuffing their coffers in exchange for answers they don’t actually have.”

  “That about sums it up.” She let out a faint laugh. “How did they even get here?”

  “The demons?”

  “Yes. And the shifters. And the vampires. And the witches. All of you. You said the religious institutions pick and choose, but do you even know?”

  “We have our histories and legends, just like you.” He finally turned to face her again, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “Most of it, as you might imagine, can be traced back to witches.”

  “Tell me,” she said, completely captivated.

  “Witches are the world’s oldest magicians, guardians of elemental magic and the liminal spaces between all realms. As such, they are tireless explorers and experimenters. It’s said they created the first vampires through complex blood rites, all in service to deepening their practice of healing magic and immortality spells. Their deep connections with animal familiars allowed them to literally experience the lives and gifts of these creatures, and from there, create the first shifters.”

  “And the demons?”

  “The demons are creatures of hell, but the witches—eager to access and experiment with their dark and immeasurable powers—opened the gates that allow demons to pass between realms.”

  Charlotte’s eyes were full of wonder. “So all of these beings… they’re here? Around us?”

  “Constantly, though humans greatly outnumber us, and rarely learn of our existence. It’s better for everyone that we remain a secret.”

  “But still! This is one town, in one state, in one country, and I’ve already encountered more vampires than I can count on one hand. How are you all not killing each other or trying to take over the world?”

  “How do you know we aren’t?” He flashed a dark smile, but then shook his head, the shadow of his responsibilities never far from his thoughts. “The supernatural races co-exist through a tenuous policy of mutually assured destruction. Conflicts lead to discovery, and widespread discovery would almost certainly lead to our extinction. For that reason, it’s in everyone’s best interest to avoid killing each other.”

  “And killing humans.”

  “Precisely.”

  “What about Duchanes? And the vampires who attacked us in the park?”

  “The men in the park were demons. As for Duchanes…” Dorian seethed with fresh anger at the mention of his name, his vision clouding with red. “He will be dealt with accordingly.”

  Even now, Malcolm and Gabriel were on the hunt, sweeping the area around Ravenswood while Aiden had returned to Manhattan, seeing what rumors he might unearth from the other greater vampire families. Colin had spent the night in the crypts, where he was still undoubtedly poring over their father’s journals.

  “But what if—”

  “I don’t want you to worry about him. I don’t want you to worry about any vampires, or demons, or bogeymen, or even a lowly paper cut.” He took her face between his hands, brushing her cheeks with his thumbs, the very idea of anything hurting her sending him into a dark inner rage. “I meant what I said last night, Charlotte. You’re mine.”

  Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “What does that even mean? You hardly know me.”

  “I’ve been alive for two hundred and fifty years, Charlotte. I hardly know anyone, and it’s hardly a prerequisite for a promise.”

  “What promise?”

  “That I won’t let anything happen to you. Ever.”

  At this, a tear slipped down her cheek, and he brushed it away. Then, tracing a path over her eyebrow, he said, “I think I’ve already learned something about you. See, this one arches a certain way when you’re having a good think.”

  Charlotte smiled, and it felt like the sun had just burst through the clouds. “Just that one?”

  “It’s one of your beautiful mysteries. So what is it, love? Tell me what else is on your mind.”

  She shifted closer to him, tucking herself into the spot beneath his shoulder. “This might be a personal question.”

  “Aren’t they all?” Dorian put his arm around her, pulling her even closer, pressing a kiss to her head. Her hair smelled different today—she’d used his shampoo last night—but he could still sense the orange-and-vanilla beneath it, and he took a deep inhale.

  “How… how did you become a vampire?” she asked.

  He’d known it was coming, but still, the question slammed into his heart, rattling against the iron gates and knocking something loose.

  “That’s… not an easy story.” And outside of those precious few who’d lived through it themselves, Dorian had never shared it with another soul. It lingered, as so many of his ghosts, in t
he deep recesses of a fractured mind, in the darkest parts of a shuttered heart. “Perhaps we’ll save it for another day.”

  He closed his eyes and waited for her rebuttal, but she seemed to understand his pain, and graciously let the matter drop.

  They enjoyed a few more moments of peaceful silence, and then she pulled out of his embrace, got to her feet, and walked back to the car alone, her shoulders heavy with the secrets he’d shared…

  And the ones he hadn’t.

  As much as he’d wanted to be totally honest with her, Dorian had been alive long enough to learn the hard truth:

  Some skeletons were best left undisturbed.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  759462.

  Now that she’d seen Dorian enter the alarm code at the front door, Charley couldn’t get the sequence out of her mind, no matter how badly she wanted to obliterate it.

  It was the kind of perfect intel most thieves would risk their lives for, and all Charley had done was glance up at the right moment. A mindless, two-second effort after she and Dorian had gotten back from their drive; it hadn’t even occurred to Dorian she might be watching him.

  That she might have a reason to watch him.

  759462. It was everything Rudy needed to bleed Dorian’s priceless art collection dry. Everything she needed to win back Rudy’s elusive trust.

  That’s my girl, her father’s voice echoed. Resourceful as always.

  Shame burned through her heart, and for a moment she pictured herself in the mines of hell, shoveling coal into a furnace alongside all the vampires and terrible humans who’d ever existed.

  “Are you still intent on leaving me today?” Dorian asked as they headed into the grand foyer.

  Charley sighed. “I’m just anxious to get back to Sasha. But if it helps, I’ll be thinking of you the entire ride home.”

  “Not especially.” Dorian cupped her face, his eyes glittering, despite his frown. “One last drink before you go?”

  “Why not? I always love a good day-drink.”

  “Splendid. I’ve got just the thing.”

  They headed into the study, where the fire was crackling, the room cleaned of all evidence of last night’s arguments and broken glass. Charley wondered if his brothers had taken care of it, or Aiden, or some mysterious housekeeping staff who’d remained totally invisible.

  Settling into the same chair she’d occupied last night, Charley pulled the blanket over her shoulders and welcomed the fire’s warmth, her head still spinning from all the things Dorian had shared with her. Vampires, shapeshifters, demons, witches… It was enough to send anyone to the nuthouse. Yet nothing he’d confessed had scared her off. Not from him.

  There were still so many questions to ask, so many rabbit holes she wanted to go down. In a perfect world, she would stay the whole weekend. The whole month. A blissful, perfect vacation from all her regrets and bad choices, where she could wake up every morning to a gourmet brunch, spend the afternoon driving through the autumn mountains and learning all there was to know about the supernatural world. Then, at night, she’d slip between dark satin sheets with the vampire whose every demanding kiss set her skin aflame.

  But now, after seeing that security code, her mind kept veering right back to the topic they hadn’t covered.

  The stolen art.

  Dorian poured two drinks at the bar, then turned and handed her a glass full of amber liquid. “A rare vintage Cognac, about half as old as I am.”

  Charley grinned, bringing the glass to her nose for a deep whiff. “Mmm. An antique in a glass.”

  She sipped, letting the smooth taste linger on her tongue. It was—like everything connected to Dorian Redthorne—elegant, delicious, and a little overwhelming.

  She couldn’t even imagine what the bottle must’ve cost him.

  When he finally settled into the chair next to her, she looked up at him and said, “Before we say our goodbyes, there’s something else we need to discuss.”

  “Another deal? Perhaps a negotiation that ends with me tying you to my bed for a proper punishment?”

  Her thighs clenched, butterflies twirling in her stomach at the thought.

  But she had to stay focused. To get through this, or it would all be for nothing.

  “You haven’t told me about the art, Dorian.”

  Disappointment flashed in his eyes, but he recovered quickly. “Remind me which pieces you were interested in.”

  “Well, all of it, of course. But first, I need to know about the Hermes statue and the Viola LaPorte painting.”

  “Ah, yes. The pieces you were so diligently investigating last night.”

  Ignoring the burn of shame in her gut, she said, “How did you acquire them?”

  “Quite legally, I assure you. I work with a highly discerning, highly reputable buyer. He knows my tastes, and contacts me when something that may be of interest crosses his path.” He sipped his Cognac, relaxing deeper into his chair. “He acquired the LaPorte for me about three years ago, Hermes… maybe six or eight months later. They both came from separate estate auctions, I believe.”

  “You believe? Or you know?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Charley closed her eyes, returning the glass to her lips. She really didn’t want to disclose anything else, but she sensed Dorian would make things a lot more difficult if she didn’t at least give him a breadcrumb or two.

  She just needed some liquid courage first.

  After a few more sips, she said, “What I’m about to tell you can’t leave this room. Do I have your word?”

  Dorian’s eyebrows lifted. “I can’t imagine what could be so secretive about a perfectly legal transaction I made years ago, with a broker who’s made dozens of similar transactions before and since.”

  “Your word, Dorian.”

  Concern warred with curiosity in his eyes, but eventually, he gave in. “Fine. It won’t leave this room.”

  “At one time, both pieces belonged to a single collector in the West Village.”

  “Really? I didn’t acquire them together. As I said, I’m fairly certain they came from different estates.”

  “Prior ownership isn’t the only thing they have in common.” Charley stared into her glass, firelight dancing in the amber liquid. She tried not to think about the fires of hell. “The LaPorte and the Hermes, along with the rest of the man’s collection—approximately seventy million dollars in art and artifacts—were stolen from his apartment five years ago, never recovered. As far as I know, yours are the first pieces to surface.”

  “That’s… impossible.”

  “I wish it were.”

  Dorian leaned forward in his chair, his eyes narrowing. “Charlotte. How on earth do you know about this?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “So you investigate art heists for a living? I thought you were a consultant.”

  “I am a consultant. And in my line of work, sometimes I come across stolen pieces. It’s not as unusual as you might think.”

  “Why haven’t I heard of this before? An art heist of that magnitude should’ve made the papers.”

  Charley’s cheeks heated, and she took another sip of Cognac, unable to hold his gaze. “The theft was never reported. I suspect the collector wanted to keep his name out of the spotlight.”

  “Which brings me back to my question. How did you find out about it?”

  “I—”

  “Dorian,” a voice from the doorway called. “Ms. D’amico.”

  Dorian sighed. “Good afternoon, Gabriel. Is there something we can assist you with?”

  “Found this at the bottom of the hill. Thought you might want it back.” He crossed the room and handed Charley her cell phone, scuffed up but still functional.

  “Thank you,” she said, not sure if she was more grateful for the recovery of her phone or the break from Dorian’s scrutiny.

  “Anything else?” Dorian asked his brother.

  “Malcolm and I are heading back out now—I jus
t wanted to return the phone.”

  Dorian nodded. “Keep me—”

  “Informed,” Gabriel said, already turning his back. “Of course, your highness.”

  He was almost to the doorway when Charley spoke up again. “Gabriel, wait.”

  He stilled, one hand on the doorframe, but didn’t turn around.

  “I wanted to thank you,” she said.

  “You’ve already done so.”

  “Not for the phone. For last night. You and Dorian… You saved my life. I know you took a big risk. So… thank you. Again.”

  He let out a sigh, then turned his head, glancing at her over his shoulder. It was the first time she’d seen even a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “You didn’t deserve what they did to you.”

  And then he was gone, leaving a chill in his wake.

  Charley pulled the blanket tighter over her shoulders.

  “No one ever accused my brother of being a gracious host,” Dorian said. “Be grateful you’ve only got a sister, love. Brothers are more trouble than they’re worth.”

  Charley smiled, but beneath the irritation, Dorian’s tone held a note of softness. Sadness too, but it was clear to her that whatever their shared resentments, the brothers cared deeply for one another.

  She thought of what Dorian had said earlier, about how his brothers and his vampire house were one in the same. He hadn’t wanted to talk about how he’d become a vampire, but Charley suspected whatever had happened that fateful day was at the root of their fractured relationships.

  Tragedy cast long shadows. She could only imagine what that meant for immortals.

  “Sasha’s the best,” she said, trying to inject some lightness into the conversation, hoping to avoid any more questions about her so-called career.

  “Sasha, the erotic vegetable photographer?” Dorian finally smiled, his eyes regaining some of their sparkle. “Older or younger?”

  “Younger. She’s nineteen. We didn’t grow up together, though—different dads. I’ve only known her about five years. My mother kept us apart until she just… didn’t want her anymore.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, she basically loaded her onto a bus and shipped her off to New York with nothing but some old clothes and my address.” Charley told him the story, the familiar disappointment and disgust churning inside. “It all worked out, though. Sasha’s the best thing my mother ever gave me. The best person I know. I used to wish…” She trailed off, catching the look of pity on Dorian’s face. “Oh, God. Please don’t look at me like that.”