by Sarah Piper
He needed the witch. All of them needed the witch.
“Better?” she asked, pulling away.
Dorian rolled his shoulders, the magic finally dissipating, but the power still coursed through him like lightning. His vision sharpened, his mind clearing at once.
Without an official witch-vampire bond, the spell wouldn’t last long. But it was enough to bolster him for the weeks to come. More than that, it was a show of trust and commitment at a time when Dorian’s life was lacking in both.
“Thank you, Isabelle. You’ve no idea what this means.”
A kind smile touched her lips. “I understand all too well the obligations of family, and the often-thin line between duty and imprisonment.”
“A line that grows thinner with each passing day, I’m afraid.”
Dorian escorted her out of the study and back to the front door. He offered her payment in vampire blood, but she refused, telling him there would be plenty of time for that later.
“In the meantime,” she said, “if you need anything, I want you to call me. Oh, and Mr. Redthorne?” She took his hands again, her eyes full of understanding.
This time, it was hard for him not to shy from her touch. Isabelle was an empathic witch; Dorian couldn’t hide his emotional state, no matter how vulnerable and weak revealing it made him feel.
“Do not allow the brutality of your past or the grim realities of your present to harden your heart,” she said. “In our world, love and kindness are strengths. They should be revered as such.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Always turned out to be a little longer than Charley had expected.
Waiting for Dorian in the master bedroom, she counted the minutes until she’d be in his arms again, but soon those minutes began to drag.
Anxious to pass the time, she showered and changed into one of Dorian’s T-shirts and a pair of leggings she’d left behind last weekend.
She texted with Sasha, who was having a blast with Darcy’s family on a fall foliage tour in Vermont for the weekend.
She checked in briefly with Rudy, who’d been oddly distant all week, letting him know she was at Ravenswood on another “fact-finding” mission.
She listened to some music.
Flipped through the Met’s online gallery.
Gazed out the window and counted the stars glittering over the Hudson.
And still, her man did not return.
At some point, Charley must’ve fallen asleep. Because when she opened her eyes again, three hours had passed in a blink, and the manor was as silent as a graveyard.
She couldn’t see the driveway from Dorian’s bedroom, but when she peeked out the window, the shadow of the helicopter was gone.
Charley wandered the halls of the manor like a ghost, desperately seeking her vampire king. With no sign of him upstairs or on the main level, she decided to wait in the study, where the fire still burned and crackled.
Wrapping herself in the blanket she now thought of as her own, she sat at the desk in the corner of the room and looked out across the study, trying to see it as Dorian might. She wondered how many family meetings had taken place in here—arguments as well as celebrations. She hoped there were more of the latter, but given what she’d observed so far from the Redthorne Royals, she didn’t see how that was possible.
Still, she understood why Dorian loved this room so much. It was elegant without being pretentious, offering a rare bit of cozy charm in a home whose vast halls echoed with loneliness.
Glancing down at the desk, Charley noticed what looked like an old scrapbook. She turned the cover, revealing a collection of newspaper articles dating back to the 1970s.
Each article was more horrifying than the last, detailing a series of gruesome murders attributed to a killer they’d nicknamed the Crimson City Devil. Charley wasn’t alive then, but she vaguely remembered her parents talking about it once, after seeing it mentioned on a TV show about serial killers and unsolved crimes.
Tucked into the back of the scrapbook, Charley found a spiral notebook full of names—pages and pages of neat, precise lettering she recognized as Dorian’s. Each name was identified as a son, daughter, cousin, or spouse, listed beside another name with a date of death.
For each entry, there were other notes too:
College tuition - Stanford connections?
Daughter needs heart transplant. Contact U. hospital to facilitate.
Mortgage in default. Call First National to make arrangements.
Some of the notes had check marks next to them, while others had question marks and follow-up notes Charley couldn’t even begin to decipher.
Were these Dorian’s business associates? How did he know these people?
Scanning through the pages, her eyes landed on a familiar name beside a small red checkmark.
Marshall Goldman. Curator, Jewish Historical Society. Son of Landon Goldman, DOD Aug. 10, 1972. Whitfield painting — possible interest?
Charley’s heart stalled.
Not associates, she realized. Victims.
The names and dates of death in the notebook matched those reported in the newspaper articles.
There were a lot of them. Easily over a hundred victims, each connected to more names than she could count.
Holy shit…
“Can’t sleep?” Aiden asked, startling her from the doorway. “If you need some reading material, you might try the library down the hall.”
He crossed the room and joined her at the desk, reaching down to close the books.
“Why does Dorian have this stuff?” Charley asked, not bothering to apologize for peeking. It was out on the desk, sitting there for anyone to see. “What is it? Some kind of sick trophy collection?”
A heavy sadness washed over Aiden’s face, drawing his mouth into a deep frown. “Not trophies, Ms. D’Amico. Penance.”
Penance?
Charley’s hands trembled, her mouth dry. “For what?”
It was a stupid question—one she obviously knew the answer to, having read the articles. But she couldn’t bring herself to admit it.
When she tried to reconcile the Dorian Redthorne she’d fallen in love with and the so-called Crimson City Devil the papers had described, she couldn’t do it. The gulf between the two versions of her vampire was so wide, it damn near swallowed her up.
Aiden opened a desk drawer and placed the books inside, then slid it closed, his eyes shining with pity. “It’s not your place to sift through the skeletons of another man’s past, nor mine to help you assemble the bones.”
“It’s mine.” Dorian’s voice, dark and ominous, echoed across the small room, sending a shiver down Charley’s spine. He towered like a vengeful god in the doorway, the firelight reflected in his eyes, blood staining his shirt.
Crimson City Devil strikes again…
Charley gasped at the sight, and Dorian glared at her, his golden eyes blazing.
“Leave us, Aiden,” he ordered. “Ms. D’Amico and I have some things to discuss.”
Chapter Thirty
Dorian had never wanted to have this conversation with Charlotte.
He’d never even wanted her in this room, in this house, in the dark spaces of his heart.
Yet there she was, invading every part of his life. Every part of his home. Every part of his being.
He could no more avoid his darkest confessions than he could avoid his feelings for her; attempting to do both had only made the bitter pills harder to swallow.
“The night I met you—only an hour earlier, in fact—I’d been reminding myself about the dangers of falling in love.” Dorian handed Charlotte a glass of scotch and settled himself in the chair across from her, taking a moment to look at her in the firelight.
To truly look at her.
She was radiant and alive, glowing with a deep inner beauty that never failed to captivate him. Even the darkness inside her was beautiful.
“Have you ever been?” she asked, pulling the blanket tighter over
her shoulders and taking a tiny sip of scotch. “In love, I mean. As a vampire. After… after Evie.”
“Once. Not counting…” He smiled softly, but didn’t fill in the word.
You. Not counting you.
Since that night in Charlotte’s bedroom, he hadn’t found the courage to say the words to her again, and now, he likely wouldn’t get the chance.
“It was a long time ago,” he continued, ignoring the ache in his heart. “You weren’t born yet. Your parents were, though. I’m sure they remember what happened in this city back then.”
Charlotte nodded and closed her eyes, and Dorian glanced at the desk behind her, where he’d stupidly left the scrapbook. He’d only intended to be gone from the study a moment, but then he’d ended up in the crypts with Colin, still theorizing about the origins of the demonic book they’d found. Dorian had all but forgotten the damning evidence on the desk.
“In any case,” he said, “yes, I loved a human woman. So much so, I wanted to spend my life with her.”
Charlotte nodded again, but didn’t open her eyes.
It was probably for the best. Dorian had no interest in watching those gorgeous copper eyes fill with revulsion… or worse.
Fear.
Fear was for his enemies. For his brother. Not for the woman he loved.
“I didn’t have a choice in whether I became a vampire,” he said. “It’s a fate I eventually learned to accept, but I wanted better for Adelle.”
At this, Charlotte finally met his gaze, but her thoughts remained guarded. “And you think being human is better?”
“No. I think having a choice is better.” He sipped his scotch and shook his head, the old warnings rising to the surface. “I never should’ve let things progress as far as they had, but our relationship moved so quickly. We had no secrets between us but one. The blackest one.”
“She didn’t know you were a vampire?” Charlotte guessed.
“She did not. So one night, just days before I’d planned to propose, I sat her down in the rose garden. After sharing a lovely dessert of German chocolate cake and coffee, I confessed. I wanted her to make the choice—choices, actually. Whether she wanted to walk away, or remain with me, knowing my true nature. And if she remained, whether or not she wanted to turn. I would’ve done it for her… I thought she… I…” Now it was Dorian who closed his eyes, the memories rushing at him like wraiths. “I simply wanted to honor her wishes. But it… it didn’t go well.”
“What happened?” Charlotte whispered.
“She didn’t believe me at first. Thought I was playing some terrible prank, or trying to scare her into breaking things off, as if I were too cowardly to do it myself. She called me every name in the book for that. Nothing—nothing I said could convince her otherwise. Not even when I showed her the ring I’d already bought for her. Eventually, I had no choice but to play my last card. I grabbed her and blurred her across the garden, and then I transformed, turning from man to monster before her eyes.”
The scotch turned over in Dorian’s stomach. He’d never forget the terror on Adelle’s face, the mix of fear and disgust in her eyes.
Frightening her like that… To this day, it remained one of his greatest shames.
“Our bonded witch was still with us at that time,” he continued. “Rosalind. Adelle had always assumed Rosalind was a live-in housekeeper—an assumption I never discouraged. Anyway, Rosalind heard the screaming and rushed outside, only to see Adelle threatening me with the cake knife. She couldn’t have hurt me, of course, but Rosalind had always been rather protective. She stepped between us, intending to diffuse the situation. But in Adelle’s mind, Rosalind—sweet, playful Rosalind who’d always treated Adelle like a sister—was suddenly a threat. Another vampire, perhaps, or worse. Without thinking it through, Adelle…” Dorian finally opened his eyes, tears blurring his vision. “She attacked Rosalind. She stabbed her, and she…” His voice broke. “It happened so fast, Charlotte. I tried to save her, but she refused. She didn’t want to risk turning into a vampire. She… she bled out in my arms. Adelle was so distraught over what she’d done, I had no recourse but to compel her to forget everything that had happened that night.”
He could still hear the cries—Rosalind’s, as she gasped her final breaths. Adelle’s, when her senses had finally returned and she realized what she’d done. In that moment, Dorian knew she’d never forgive herself, and never accept him as a vampire.
In the span of fifteen minutes, he’d completely altered the course of her life.
“Certain she had no memory of the incident after the compulsion, I broke off the relationship, acting as if I’d simply grown bored. I was cruel and terrible to her, but I knew she had a much better chance of surviving a broken heart than surviving the trauma my earlier confession had inflicted upon her.”
“Dorian, I… I don’t know what to say.”
“There are no words, Charlotte. Believe me, I’ve tried them all, and none of them ever make it any better.” He downed the last of his scotch, then headed back to the bar.
The next part of the story was the worst part, and they both needed another drink.
He grabbed the bottle and topped off her glass, then returned to his chair, trading his empty glass for what remained in the bottle.
“It was my fault Rosalind died. I’d allowed her to get involved in something I should’ve dealt with long before—something I never should’ve brought to our doorstep in the first place. And then, when it mattered most, I failed to protect her. That is a vampire’s sworn oath to his bonded witch, Charlotte. Protection. Other than our blood, it’s the most precious gift we offer.
“Rosalind’s family had been bonded to our line for generations, but when they learned what had happened, they immediately broke their alliance—and rightfully so. Word travelled fast throughout the witch and mage community, and the once esteemed House Redthorne became overnight pariahs. Almost immediately, the spells and enchantments Rosalind’s family had imbued in us—everything that allowed us to walk in the daylight and live essentially as humans—began to fade. My father and brothers found ways to cope, but I… I didn’t handle it well. Something inside me broke, and I just…”
Dorian took a long pull from the bottle, welcoming the burn. Across from him, he felt Charlotte shiver and shift in her chair, but he didn’t dare look at her again. He couldn’t. Not now. Not for this.
“No longer kept in balance by Rosalind’s magic,” he said, “unwilling or unable to consider alternatives, I began to revert to a vampire’s natural state.”
“Like the grays?” she asked, and Dorian nodded.
“The bloodlust quickly overwhelmed me. I flew into a murderous rage. Like a rabid animal, I tore my way through the city, slaughtering scores of innocents. I hunted them. I killed them. I didn’t feel anything—only blood and death. That was my life. I cared for nothing—no one. Not my family. Not my duty. Not even myself. The more lives I devoured, the worse I felt, yet I couldn’t stop. It was like something had taken possession of me, consuming a bit more of my soul with each passing day. The emptiness, Charlotte… It was like… like I died again every day.
“One by one, my father and brothers turned their backs on me and left—all but Aiden. No matter how ruthless and terrible I’d become, he never gave up on me.” Dorian took another swig of scotch. “One night, after a particularly barbaric weekend, Aiden tracked me down—bloody hell, he quite literally fished me out of a dumpster, into which I’d stumbled hours earlier after killing four innocent college students out for a pub crawl. I was delirious from the blood overdose, but somehow, he managed to get me back to Ravenswood. I hardly recognized my own home, Charlotte. Hardly recognized my best friend. I was vicious and cruel to him, yet still, he remained by my side through all of it. He brought me back from the brink, and simply refused to let me fall again. To this day, I don’t know how the hell he did it.”
Dorian shook his head. Those days… The recovery… It was the darkest time
in his life. He barely remembered it, each day blurring into the next, a haze of hunger and pain and shame so hot and intense he’d feared it would incinerate him.
“What you found,” he said now, his voice thick with that old, familiar shame, “was the record of my rampage.” He finally met her eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable fear. The revulsion. The end. “I’m the Crimson City Devil, Charlotte. Never caught, never prosecuted, never punished. But guilty just the same.”
“And… and the names in your notebook?” she asked, her voice a broken whisper, her eyes shining in the firelight. “They’re all…”
Dorian tipped back the last of the scotch, then set the empty bottle on the table beside him. “They are the descendants of the one hundred and forty-nine innocent people I slaughtered. Every last one I’ve managed to track down over the years, hoping to offer some sort of… some…”
Charlotte stared at him in silence, and he trailed off, not quite knowing how to finish the thought.
No amount of penance could ever absolve him of these sins—Dorian had always known as much. But seeing it now, through the eyes of the woman he loved, he realized just how meager and pathetic his efforts had been.
Mortgages, tuition payments, paintings, hospital wings donated in the names of the dead… Dorian nearly scoffed at his own gall.
As if any of that could ever make things right.
Absent a time machine, nothing could make things right.
“Dorian,” Charlotte whispered. “I can’t… I don’t…”
City streets run red with blood…
A single tear slid down her cheek, and he waited for the terror to register in her eyes. Waited for her to bolt for that door and flee his home for good, taking her chances with the monsters outside.
Crimson City Devil eludes authorities…
But she didn’t flee. Didn’t look at him as if he were a villain.
Crimson City Devil strikes again…
Instead, she set down her drink, rose from her chair, and dropped the blanket from her shoulders.
