The pair of them climbed the opera theater-like stairs to the mezzanine. When they reached the top, Jono realized immediately they had a problem aside from the gathering of master vampires. Perched in a seat between the ranks of vampire guards affiliated with the Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, and Staten Island Night Courts who shifted around their masters was Sage.
“Bloody hell,” Jono muttered under his breath.
Sage kept her eyes locked with his from where she sat but said nothing, refusing to acknowledge them. Patrick’s face was devoid of all emotion, the blank mask of a special agent in the midst of a job. He said nothing, keeping quiet in a way Jono didn’t really like. Jono wondered if Patrick holding back in the face of Lucien’s reign of terror was how their promise was going to set the tone for the evening.
Fuck that.
Jono clenched his hands into fists as Carmen let go of Einar and sauntered forward, hips swaying with every step she took. Between one breath and the next, Jono could smell when her power hit, the sexual desire a wave that brought more than one vampire to their knees from want. Incubi and succubi fed off sex, and they weren’t particular about how they got it. Human, vampire, werecreature, demons—if it was dead or alive, they would fuck it to feed.
Making anyone want them was a potent power that had hobbled more than one army over the centuries.
Carmen carved a path through the vampire guards, pulling orgasms out of many of them in the span of seconds. They went down, and the rest who tried to fight off Carmen’s sexual power by fighting her were stopped by Lucien’s vicious smile and the threat he gave voice to.
“Touch her, and I will raze your Night Courts to the ground,” Lucien promised.
Jono was grudgingly impressed at the way Lucien could command a room. Every single vampire made the decision to survive instead of die a second, more permanent death. They let Carmen pass without protest, the ranks shifting into huddled groups that coalesced around five of the seven chairs that formed a circle in the center of the mezzanine. Seated in those five chairs were the master vampires of New York City.
Maria, of the Bronx Night Court, had ruled her territory for over a century, and was the youngest of the five at somewhere around three hundred years of age. She’d died old for her time but looked in her late thirties now, with brown skin faded to a paler tan and black hair styled in a pixie cut. The amount of gold jewelry she wore wouldn’t have looked out of place in a music video. The tiara she wore, made from the fangs of those who tried to take her throne and failed, certainly would.
Devon, of the Staten Island Night Court, reminded Jono of every posh Wall Street wanker who thought they were better than everyone else. Power suit and Rolex couldn’t take away from the death cast to the master vampire’s face. Sharp featured, with slicked-back gray hair and brown eyes, he was five hundred years old and had called New York City home for two centuries
Rajesh, of the Queens Night Court, still wore the dastaar of the Sikh religion he’d followed when he was alive six hundred years ago. Considering the master vampire’s reputation for viciousness, and the body parts that always got strewn in the streets when a territory fight happened, it was doubtful he followed those teachings any longer. His brown eyes remained locked on Lucien even as one of his vampires, a tiny blonde thing, leaned close to whisper in his ear.
Jamere, of the Brooklyn Night Court, wouldn’t have been out of place at a local high school or university in the jeans, T-shirt, and heavy gold jewelry he wore. He’d died before he was twenty some four hundred years or so ago. No one was too sure which Caribbean island he once called home, but he eventually carved out territory in New York City in the mid-1800s after the Civil War ended. He guarded his borders zealously to this day.
Then there was Tremaine, of the Manhattan Night Court, the entire reason they were here. Tall, broad-shouldered, with white-blond hair and icy blue eyes, Jono had never crossed paths with the master vampire before, though he knew Estelle and Youssef had. Tremaine’s gaze was riveted by Lucien’s arrival, pale face stripped of emotion. Jono couldn’t get a read on the master vampire who held more clout than the others, and he didn’t like that.
“This is not your territory,” Tremaine finally said, rising to his feet in a fluid motion, that force of presence all master vampires had filling the mezzanine.
“My Anahuac Cartel says otherwise,” Lucien replied as he came to stand by Carmen, not bothering to respond to that show of power.
“You are notinvited.”
The statement was an order, a command to the threshold wrapped around the club. Public domains were near impossible for thresholds to thrive in, but Jono supposed an exclusive club could count as a home if one was desperate enough. Tremaine’s words rang through the air, louder than the music pouring through speakers—but they did nothing.
Jono was reminded of how Patrick had broken the sacrificial circle he’d been tied to in June. Blood always slipped through magic in the most inconvenient of ways.
Lucien smiled, black eyes like holes in his head. “Youwere made byme. Your bought magic knows that.”
Tremaine’s lips peeled away from his jagged fangs in a snarl, but he made no move against Lucien. No one spoke until the fae lawyer seated by Sage stood to address the crowd.
The Seelie fae was beautiful, in a way that caught everyone’s attention. Silver hair that fell to his shoulders parted around delicately pointed ears, and unearthly violet eyes gazed at the fractious crowd without fear. Impeccably attired in a tailored dove gray three-piece suit with a silver and black striped tie, the fae lawyer wore a crown of hawthorn flowers on his head and carried a sleek, gold-tipped wooden cane.
“May I remind you of the oaths you took to do no harm to each other during this mediation?” the fae said, his voice light in tone, though firm, with a thread of power running through his words that made Jono want to flinch.
Fae and their words were always such dangerous weapons.
“Tremaine’s sire gave no such oath,” Maria said pointedly, not looking at Lucien as she spoke.
“I give oaths to no one,” Lucien bit out. “Itake.”
Tremaine stepped forward, braver than his brethren, or just utterly thick. Jono couldn’t quite tell. “You come into my territory—”
“Yourterritory?” Carmen drawled derisively, cutting him off.
“Manhattan is mine.” Tremaine’s gaze cut their way, and Jono found himself on the receiving end of a murderous glare. “Nothing you do, no one you bring with you, will change that.”
“Is that right?” Patrick asked, his right hand resting close to the dagger strapped to his thigh. “Because I’m pretty fucking sure my agency can put a dent into the shit you’re selling on the street.”
