It existed only in her memory, the story written above her hip in a silver scar.
She never found out what happened to the bodies.
She never found out what happened to the car.
She never found out why they’d taken so long with the delivery.
She never found out whether Rudy had killed the second guy, or whether he’d just opened the door before her father shot them both.
She never found out who the men were, or why they’d targeted her.
It was the worst day of her life—worse, even, then the day her father died. And all she had left of it now—aside from the ghosts and the scar—was the name of the client who’d asked for the special delivery.
Alexei Rogozin.
Chapter Forty-Six
city streets run red with blood; ‘crimson city devil’ eludes authorities
August 11, 1972 - The mutilated body of a thirty-nine-year-old Manhattan father of two was found in a service alley on Canal Street in the early morning hours of August 10th. Witnesses who made the grisly discovery claim the man was lying in a pool of blood, with severe lacerations on his neck and shoulder. Police have not made an official statement, but an NYPD officer who agreed to speak on the condition of anonymity confirmed that the death has been ruled a homicide and shares many of the same markers as the previous twenty-seven murders attributed to the so-called Crimson City Devil. Authorities are urging extreme caution and have asked anyone who has information about this or any of the previous crimes to contact them immediately…
Sitting at his desk in the den, Dorian tipped back his scotch and flipped to another article in the bound leather book, each headline carving a fresh wound in his heart.
summer of slaughter earns new york ‘crimson city’ moniker; no end in sight for grisly crime spree.
crimson city devil strikes again.
police exhausted after three-state, six-month manhunt brings no closure on unsolved murders.
Every article had been meticulously clipped and mounted—a gruesome scrapbook created first as a souvenir and saved, later, as a reckoning.
No matter how many times Dorian forced himself through this particular punishment, the gnawing, acidic burn of his endless guilt never receded.
Nor should it.
He opened the top drawer of the desk and removed a spiral notebook, scanning the list of names and related notes he’d been keeping for four decades. He found the one he was looking for on the third page.
Marshall Goldman. Curator, Jewish Historical Society. Son of Landon Goldman, DOD Aug. 10, 1972. Whitfield painting — possible interest?
With a red pen, he made a small check mark next to Marshall’s name, then closed the notebook, slipping it back into the drawer.
One more name, he thought. One more deed.
He tossed the pen onto the desk and reached for his bottle of scotch, pouring himself another drink.
Charlotte D’Amico was a deep, dark well of secrets, but how could Dorian pass judgment when his closet was full of more blood-soaked skeletons than a hundred cemeteries?
His chest tightened with shame. Why had he pushed her so hard tonight?
She’d clammed up after learning about Estas and the demons, refusing to answer his questions, even though it was obvious something about his news had affected her. She’d turned away from his touch, her shoulders trembling, but no matter how many times he asked—demanded—she wouldn’t reveal a thing.
I can’t, she’d said. I’m sorry, Dorian. I just can’t.
Eventually, in the long, cold silence that followed, she’d fallen asleep, and he’d escaped to the den at the other side of the penthouse, determined to burn off his anger with a bottle of scotch and a reminder of his own terrible past.
But now, all he wanted to do was slip back between the sheets and draw her close, as if by kissing her and bringing her to ecstasy, he could transform himself from a monster into the man she deserved—a man who would always protect and cherish her, no matter how many secrets she kept.
He flipped to another page in the scrapbook.
city marks one year since last ‘crimson city devil’ murder; killer who terrorized new yorkers never found.
The buzz of his cell phone yanked him out of the past, and Dorian picked up on the first ring.
“Colin? Is everything all right?”
“I have news,” Colin replied.
Dorian braced himself. Although Colin was the most forgiving of his siblings, they hadn’t spoken more than a handful of times since his arrival. After the fundraiser, Colin had all but sequestered himself in the crypts with their father’s journals, and Dorian had scuttled off to his penthouse in the city, eager for a break. The combined, prolonged presence of his estranged family at Ravenswood had created an atmosphere more oppressive than he could bear.
“I’ve just spoken with Malcolm,” Colin continued, “and it seems the established vampire families are becoming more outspoken.”
“About?” Dorian could hear the awkward pause in his brother’s voice, the silent tension gathering. “Don’t stand on ceremony, Colin. What are they saying?”
“Some don’t believe you’re fit for the crown.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“Perhaps not, but the vocal majority is growing louder by the day. There are rumors—spurned on by House Duchanes—that House Redthorne framed Renault for the attack, murdered two innocent vampires, and possibly even murdered Renault himself, all as retaliation for his interest in Armitage Holdings.”
“That’s ridiculous. Renault disappeared from Ravenswood the moment his bloodsucking sycophants attacked Charlotte.”
“Which only lends credence to their theory. House Duchanes and their bonded witch are claiming Renault hasn’t resurfaced. They fear he’s dead, Dorian.”
“I don’t buy it. If they truly believed he’d died at my hand, they’d be banging down my door with torches and pitchforks.”
“Yes, well. At the very least, they’re putting on a good show of it, and it’s riling up the other families. Many of them remained loyal to our line only out of their abject fear of Father’s retribution. With him gone…”
Colin didn’t need to complete the sentence.
With their father dead, what cause did the others have to support House Redthorne? Nothing but memory and tradition, Dorian feared. And in a world that valued money and power above all else, memory and tradition were little more than the dusty relics of a time long past.
“They’re reaching out to all the vampires and witches who attended the fundraiser,” Colin said, “asking for anyone who witnessed the attack to step forward.”
Dorian seethed. “The only witness to the attack was the victim herself, and I’m not going to put her in any more danger than she’s already in, nor expose her to the cutthroat world of supernatural political maneuvering.”
“Of course not,” he said softly. “I just thought you should know. How is Charlotte, by the way?”
The kindness and authenticity in his question took Dorian by surprise, and he didn’t know how to answer.
“She’s… well. Sleeping in the bedroom.” Despite his dour mood, Dorian’s lips curved into a smile as he pictured her in his bed, her auburn hair fanned out across his pillow, her rosy lips parted. He reached for his drink, eager to finish it off and get back to his woman. “Thank you for the update, Colin. I should—”