“Dorian, wait. There’s more. It’s… it’s about Father’s work.”
Dorian’s hand stilled on the glass, his heart thudding. “Have you deciphered the mysterious illness?”
“That’s just it. There was no illness.”
“But he was searching for a cure. I’m certain of it.”
“Yes, but not for any ailment.” Colin sighed, his voice dropping so low, Dorian had to strain to hear him. “He was searching for a cure for vampirism. And I believe he found it.”
“What are you saying?” Dorian’s own words were a whisper now too, the pounding of his heart nearly drowning them out.
“Father cured himself of vampirism. He was in the process of turning human again. That’s what killed him, Dorian. Without his immortal blood, his body began to rapidly age, his cells deteriorating much faster than they could heal or regenerate. Essentially, he aged two hundred and fifty years in the span of a few months.”
Dorian’s ears rang, his mouth turning to ash. After a long pause, he finally said, “But why? Why would he do such a thing, knowing it would kill him? Knowing it would kill us? Bloody hell, if word got out, it could be the end of all vampires.”
“Not just vampires. It looks like he found cures for shifters and demon-occupied humans alike, though I haven’t been able to locate the specifics.” Colin’s voice dropped again. “I don’t know how long he spent on such work, but one thing is certain, Dorian: Father gave his life in an attempt to usher in the end of supernatural existence as we know it.”
Dorian’s head spun with this new information. As much as his rational mind railed against it, he knew—deep in his bones—that Colin was right.
And he knew, with equal certainty, that if word got out, it would unleash a war the likes of which their communities—despite a long, blood-drenched history—had never seen.
“Who else have you told?” Dorian asked.
“Only you.”
“I’ll be back at Ravenswood tomorrow afternoon. Do not speak to the others until I arrive—we’ll do it together.”
“You have my word. What should we do about the—”
“Hold on.” Dorian cocked his ear, a strange sensation creeping along his skin. “Something’s wrong. I thought I heard…”
“Dorian? What is it?”
Dorian closed his eyes, trying to pinpoint the source of his sudden unease. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, a chill racing suddenly down his spine. When he took his next breath, he tasted brimstone.
And then, in the span of a single heartbeat, a shriek of raw terror pierced the night, and the scent of warm blood flooded his senses.
Dorian’s heart shattered like a bomb.
The scream—as well as the blood—had come from his bedroom.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The unmistakable scent of Charlotte’s blood wrapped him in a haze of delirium, but Dorian fought through it, half-blurring, half-stumbling across the penthouse.
There was a demon in his home. He felt its dark presence. His lungs were already burning, the taste of hellfire a grim warning in the back of his throat, but there was no time to heed it.
Charlotte was all that mattered. He had to get to her.
When he finally reached the bedroom, he was so weak from the hellfire, he could barely stand.
“Charlotte,” he choked out.
She was naked, tied to a chair in the corner of the room, bound and gagged. A bright red gash wept from her wrist, ruby liquid spilling down her fingers, dripping onto the carpet.
Her wide, frantic eyes implored him, and she shook her head, shouting something he couldn’t understand through the gag—another warning unheeded.
With a burst of new energy, Dorian shot forward.
But he didn’t get far.
A force like a freight train slammed into him from the side, and a sharp pain bit into his neck. Seconds later, he felt his heartbeat slow, his muscles twisting as if they’d come loose from the bone.
He dropped to his knees, and the room spun before his eyes.
Charlotte screamed and rattled in her chair, but her cries were still muffled by the gag, the scent of her blood still flooding his senses.
“Good evening, your highness,” came the cruel taunt. “I’m so pleased you’ve finally decided to join us.”
Renault Duchanes crouched before him, flashing his signet ring. A blood-tipped spike rose from the center—clearly the source of the pain in Dorian’s neck.
“What… have you… done?” Dorian panted. The breath was leaving his body, the hellfire smoldering inside him, which meant the demon was near. Dorian had no idea where—he couldn’t see through the blinding agony in his guts. He felt as if he were being consumed from the inside out—not just by hellfire, but by some ungodly microscopic enemy chewing through to his bones.
Duchanes beamed at his ring, fluttering it before Dorian’s eyes like a prized diamond. “Just a little something Jacinda whipped up. Quite ingenious, really. For so long, it was believed vampires couldn’t be poisoned, but witches can be rather clever when sufficiently… motivated.”
Dorian blinked back tears of anguish, barely fighting off a full-bodied tremor.
“Your blood,” Duchanes said, taking great pleasure in Dorian’s torture, “is locked in a fierce battle with the poison, leaving your muscles and internal organs to fend for themselves. One by one, your systems are shutting down. Ironically, the poison was crafted from plants procured from your very own gardens. Funny how life works out, isn’t it?”
Dorian’s mind flashed back to the night of the fundraiser, his words to Jacinda echoing.
…the gardens at Ravenswood are home to over four dozen species of medicinal herbs and flowers. You’re welcome to take clippings…
Duchanes got to his feet and crossed the room to stand behind Charlotte, dropping his meaty hands onto her bare shoulders. The sight was more than Dorian could bear.
With a monumental effort and not an insignificant amount of pain, he pushed himself to his feet, stumbling toward her. But before he’d taken more than a handful of awkward steps, his lungs caught fire, the sudden burst of pain forcing him back to his knees.
Smoke leaked from his mouth, his vision flickering at the edges.
Duchanes let out a sick chuckle. “Did you really think I’d enter hostile territory without proper backup?” He snapped his fingers, and the demon finally revealed himself, stepping out of the shadows from the darkened bathroom. He held Dorian’s gaze, two obsidian-black eyes shining in a pale face, conjuring enough hellfire to keep Dorian immobilized—but not enough to kill him.
Which meant Duchanes had other plans. Worse plans.
“Let… her… go…” Dorian sputtered, still trying to drag himself to Charlotte’s side despite his broken body and the searing pain in his lungs. His eyes watered as the smoke gathered behind them, the scent of burning flesh stinging his nostrils. “Kill me, Duchanes. Just… release her.”
“I have every intention of killing you, Redthorne. But not yet. First, you’re going to pay for your egregious acts against my house.” His tone turned chilly, his eyes wild with madness and determination. “You’re going to pay for decades of insults and dismissals. You’re going to pay for your father’s cruelty against my sires. You’re going to pay for the sins of your past, for every life you stole, for every drop of innocent blood you spilled. And through it all, you’re going to watch from a helpless, pitiful distance as I suck your filthy human whore dry, until there’s nothing left of her but agony and bones.”