Carmen smirked at him as she curved her hand around Lucien’s elbow. “Surprisingly comfortable.”
“If you say so.”
Lucien stared at Patrick with those eerie black eyes that Jono fantasized about clawing out of his skull. “Keep your promise and don’t fuck this up.”
Patrick gave him a one fingered salute. “Just get us inside so you can kill him.”
“There’s no fun in killing unless you make it hurt first. The rat won’t die tonight.”
The doorman, realizing their intent, took a step forward. “This is a private club—”
Einar had him pinned against the door before Jono finished blinking, the vampire easily holding the man off the ground by his neck.
“Open the door,” Einar growled.
The doorman didn’t answer, too busy trying to breathe around Einar’s strong fingers. The frantic kicks the vampire received didn’t seem to bother him.
“No murder where people can see,” Patrick snapped.
Lucien didn’t seem to care about bloodshed, but Jono was all for a bit of finesse if it got them inside without anyone ringing the police.
“Is the door warded?” Jono asked as he headed for it.
Patrick’s eyes cut his way before focusing on the entrance, gaze going distant as he looked for something only he could see. “Yes. Check the guy’s pocket for a key. Undoing the wards will take more time than we have available.”
Einar had choked the poor bloke into near unconsciousness in less than a minute, so it was easy to pat him down and find the key. Einar tossed it to Jono, the key larger than modern ones, heavy with the weight of iron. It seemed normal enough until he slid it into the lock. The ward flared up over the key itself, magic spreading into the lock and door handle. The tumblers clicked loudly in Jono’s ears as the door unlocked.
Einar dropped the doorman to the ground as Jono pushed open the door. Jono took off his sunglasses and hooked them over the collar of his button-down. Sound popped back into his ears as he crossed the threshold with Patrick on his heels.
The reception area floor was made of black and gold marble, with a small mahogany hostess stand perched in front of a floor-to-ceiling backdrop wall made out of fresh flowers charmed to always bloom. In the center of the flowers, above the hostesses’ heads, was a red neon sign:No Holy Items.
Patrick snorted. “Very hipster.”
The sweet floral scent wasn’t enough to overpower the underlying smell of blood and chemicals. Jono’s nose twitched as he and Patrick moved to the side, ignoring the hostesses who didn’t seem pleased by their arrival.
He couldn’t really ignore the two male vampires standing guard on either side of the door they’d just stepped through.
“This is aprivateclub,” the blonde hostess said. “You need to leave.”
Jono put himself between Patrick and the vampire guard who moved to touch what he really shouldn’t. He slammed one hand against the vampire’s chest andshoved, putting all his strength behind the hit. Bone crunched beneath his hand as the vampire was thrown backward into the far wall. He hit with enough force to dent it before sliding down to the floor.
The vampire didn’t get up. Since his heart didn’t beat, Jono couldn’t tell if he was unconscious or truly dead.
“You know I could’ve stopped him, right?” Patrick said, raising a hand and wiggling his fingers. Pale blue sparks danced around his fingertips as a pointed reminder of his magic.
Jono shrugged. “Best be quicker next time. Point goes to me.”
Patrick arched an eyebrow. “So we’re keeping score now? Are we rating by bodily harm or murder?”
Jono had killed his fair share of vampires back in London during territory fights but hadn’t crossed a single line here in the States. He had a feeling tonight was about to change that.
“The rat has poor taste,” Carmen said with a sniff. “Inferior children and terrible decorating ideas.”
“He never did learn,” Lucien replied.
Jono glanced over his shoulder and watched as Carmen turned her head away from the vampire Einar had taken care of with brutal efficiency. The vampire was missing the front of its throat, and Einar’s left hand was bloody, with bits of flesh sticking to his fingers that he casually shook off.
“Guess we’re going by murder,” Patrick muttered, a small mageglobe now nestled in the palm of his left hand.
