Dark Deception

Chapter 1

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 f*****g 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 a 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 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 f*****g demons.

Dorian’s hands tightened into fists. A hundred miles north in Annandale-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 violation 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 i***t.

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 t**t.

“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 f**k’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 c**k on fire?”

“Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty.” Dorian scanned the alley again, hoping the human had truly fled. “Though it’s not my c**k 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 telltale brands on their sternums—marks that bonded all demons to a particular crew.

“Cortelli?” Dorian guessed, trying to recall the names of the lesser demon crime families, most of whom occupied territory in Brooklyn and Queens. “Adamson? Surely Denton’s underlings know better than to test a vampire king so soon after a family tragedy.”

The unmitigated string of curses that escaped Malcolm’s lips sent a bolt of ice to Dorian’s gut. None of his guesses had been right. Which left only one option.

The worst one.

They weren’t low-level demons looking to make a name for themselves. These pricks swore allegiance to Nikolai Chernikov, the most powerful, most ruthless demon in the city. One whose organization had been growing like a cancer, kept in check only by a mysterious, centuries-old agreement with a vampire who—as of this morning—was no more than a pile of dust and memory.

Augustus Redthorne. Their father.

Malcolm stood, brushing the filth from his hands. “Remind me again how you’ve got things under control?”

“I spared a human soul from eternal damnation. I got a hot meal out of the arrangement. And no one had to die.” Forcing a smile, Dorian kicked Metalhead’s boot, unleashing a watery moan. “I’m calling that a win.”

“There are other ways, brother.” Malcolm reached over to swipe an errant streak of blood from Dorian’s cheek. “Legal, consensual ways that don’t involve provoking enemies.” He licked the blood from his thumb, then grimaced. “Ways that don’t taste like utter shite.”

Dorian turned away from the unwanted touch as well as the unwanted lecture. “Not for me, there aren’t.”

It may have taken him a few centuries and more nightmares than he could count to learn the lesson, but now it was as firmly embedded in his psyche as his own name.

He didn’t feed on fresh humans for the same reason he didn’t fall in love—dalliances with both had made him weak and stupid. Mistakes he wouldn’t make again. Foul as it was, fresh demon blood offered the same nourishment as its human counterpart without the nasty side effects: arousal, euphoria, complete and utter obsession…

Just thinking about it sent Dorian’s mind into a dangerous spin.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Eventually, word would reach Chernikov, and—Shadow Accords violation be damned—this incident would come back to bite Dorian in the arse.

But that was a problem for another night.

Tonight, he had an annoying brother to ditch, a rare painting to acquire, and an equally rare bottle of single malt scotch to crawl into before he jerked himself off to sleep, putting the last twenty-four hours swiftly behind him.

“My apologies,” Dorian said, already making his way out of the alley. “I’m nearly late for an appointment. Are you staying at Ravenswood? Perhaps we might catch up another night.”

“An alliance makes sense, Dorian,” Malcolm said, jogging to keep up.

Stopping at a newsstand, he bought a bottle of sparkling water and a pack of mints, downing them both in quick succession. Neither relieved the sharp tang of demon blood from his senses.

Unsurprising. In Dorian’s experience, there was only one sure-fire cure for that. But it’d been far too long since he’d had the pleasure of burying his face between a woman’s thighs, and he doubted tonight would end any differently.

“With Father gone,” Malcolm continued, “and no witch bound to our line—”

“Careful, brother. In this city, even the gargoyles have ears.”

In truth, Dorian was less concerned about spies than he was about entertaining his brother’s endless quest for power. Dorian was the eldest; these decisions were his to command or ignore as he saw fit.

Malcolm had always struggled to remember it. Which was a fine oversight while he built his empire in the bayou, but less fine when he brought his aspirations north.

They walked in tense silence for the last two blocks, then Dorian spotted the blood-red awning marking the entrance to the Salvatore, a massive double-tower, thirty-story apartment building on Central Park West. The auction would take place in the penthouse, with the bidding set to begin in half an hour, and he definitely needed a drink first—a real drink. It left precious little time for chit-chat with Malcolm.

Thank the devil’s c**k for small favors.

He stepped through the opulent glass-front entry, hoping Malcolm would f**k off back to Ravenswood and spare him the headache of further spectacle. But even that was too much to ask, and his younger brother followed him into the lobby, footfalls echoing on the gleaming marble floor.

A doorman inquired about their business, but Dorian sent a wave of compulsion his way, and the man returned to his station, content to let the vampires pass.

“There are but four of us left,” Malcolm said, trailing him to the elevator bay. “Four royal vampires standing against an entire city of demons, witches, and lesser bloodsuckers who’d sell us to the highest bidder without a second thought.”

“Let them try.” Dorian hit the button for the penthouse elevator. “The last vampire who crossed—”

Movement at the lobby doors silenced him, and Dorian turned to assess the newcomer.

Everything about the moment changed, the darkness and dread that surrounded him parting like a heavy curtain to reveal the light.

The woman stepped into an alcove at the front of the lobby, her smile bright, her laughter floating to his ears like a symphony.

“…evoking veto power,” she was saying into her cell phone. “Those are terrible choices.” A pause, then she laughed again. “No, I said you can pick any movie as long as it’s not about vampires.” Another pause. “Because I want to watch normal people fall in love and mash their faces together! God, you’re obsessed!”

Dorian smiled, wondering what she’d say if she knew the vampires of this century’s bubble-gum books and movies were nothing like the real thing, especially when it came to, quote, mashing their faces together.

“I’ll be home as soon as I can ditch this work thing,” she said. “Nine o’clock, ten tops.”

Not if I have anything to say about it, love…

She put the phone away, and Dorian watched in abject fascination as she removed a mirror from her purse and checked her makeup and hair, brow furrowed as she smoothed back an errant auburn lock. Her movements stirred the air, carrying her scent.

Citrus and vanilla, with a hint of something all her own.

After two and a half centuries walking the earth, Dorian had enjoyed his share of beautiful women. But something about this one captivated him in ways he’d never before experienced and couldn’t begin to explain.

“Dorian, we need to discuss—”

He cut his brother off with a raised hand, attention still fixated on the woman. Her sweet summer scent intoxicated him, the soft beat of her heart pulling him into a deep trance.

As she walked across the lobby to the elevators, ignoring the now-docile doorman, their gazes met and locked for a beat… two… three…

Dorian inhaled sharply. Behind her coppery eyes, beneath the sunshine and light, darkness gathered like a storm on the horizon, stirring a terrible, ancient longing inside him.

Mine.

After what felt like an eternity, the woman averted her eyes and headed into the waiting elevator, tapping the button for her floor. But not before granting him the faintest, rose-colored smile and a shiver she tried desperately—unsuccessfully—to suppress.

Dorian’s lips curved in response, his mouth watering, predatory instincts flaring as thoughts of the woman’s soft skin invaded his consciousness. The taste of demon blood lingered in his throat, but perhaps he’d get to sample some of that sure-fire remedy tonight after all.

His c**k stirred at the thought.

He took a step toward her, but a solid grip on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks, and the elevator doors closed, ferrying her away.

Dorian wheeled on his brother, fully intending to hit him with the same right hook he’d given the overly pierced demon. But the look in Malcolm’s eyes stayed his hand, and he lowered it to his side, letting out a deep sigh instead.

“Bloody hell, Mac,” he said. “You show up after fifty years… What did you think would happen? We’d pop over to the nearest pub, grab a few pints, and reminisce about the good times?”

Malcolm’s face reddened. “I’m here to see to Father’s affairs. To ensure our longevity.”

“That is not your responsibility.”

“Whose, then? Yours?” He practically sneered. “We’re alone, Dorian. Father is dead. Without him, the few allies who remained loyal to House Redthorne will turn, if they haven’t already. Our power is waning. How long until we can no longer walk in the daylight? Until we can no longer pass as human? Without a witch or an alliance…” Malcolm shook his head, frustration and disappointment warring in his eyes. “If you see an alternate ending to this fairytale, I’m all ears.”

“What I see is a washed-up vampire prince attempting to manipulate his eldest brother with guilt and melodrama. I assure you, I’m moved by neither.” The elevator returned, and he stepped inside, hitting the button for the penthouse.

“Dorian. This isn’t—”

“Don’t wait up,” he said, smiling at his brother as the elevator doors began to close.

“Colin and Gabriel,” Malcolm blurted out. “They’ve already arrived at Ravenswood. They’re expecting us to return together.”

Dorian held his smile despite the fresh pit opening up in his stomach. “Tell them not to wait up, either.”

“Your family needs you, Dorian.”

Silence.

It wasn’t until the elevator doors closed and the lift began its silent ascent that Dorian dropped his grin.

Reality hit him then, a wrecking ball straight to the chest.

It wasn’t the hush of his father’s final breaths. It wasn’t the scrape of the match against the flint, the blaze of the fire as it consumed the corpse, the fetid stench of it all. It wasn’t preparing paperwork for the attorney, or receiving the condolences from his driver, or wiping his father’s ashes from the sleeve of his bespoke Italian suit.

It was this moment, right now, when Dorian finally understood. This moment, when the brother he’d taught to read and write and shoe a horse looked into his eyes with the pain of a thousand regrets and spoke the words that had plagued Dorian’s nightmares for centuries.

Your family needs you…

Malcolm. Colin. Gabriel. All that remained of his once expansive family. Bound to him first by blood, second by love, and lastly by the brutal legacy none of them—no matter how far they’d scattered, no matter how many years had passed—could ever outrun.

The king is dead, long live the king.

The vampire royals of New York have returned.

Dorian’s chest squeezed tight, forcing out a ragged breath and a single utterance that encapsulated the entirety of his thoughts.

“Well, fuck.”