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.