Night is Magic: A Vampire Romance (Hearts of Dagon Book 1)

by Alix Adale

“Including you?”

  There it was. She swallowed, licked her lips. “Even me.”

  Armando rubbed his chin. “What do you think, Mabon? Should we put the matter to the Queen?”

  Mabon glanced up from his phone. “The Queen has already punished Desiree by taking her nanorian. That hasn’t changed.”

  No, it hadn’t. But she wanted that stone back almost as much as she wanted Xerxes. What a luxury—she’d taken it for granted. She waited for Mabon to continue.

  “Look.” Mabon rose to his feet. “You don’t need another audience. The Queen is busy. The solstice is tonight. The Vlacs and Hei-Lungs are scheming. The lycans are stirring. Pages from the spellbook of the gods are turning up left and right. Handle your own affairs, Armando.”

  Armando flung up a hand. “Fine. But none of my people are mesmerists.”

  Mabon’s grin showed a thin line of teeth. “I’m prepared to help, under one condition.”

  Armando frowned. “Which is?”

  “You owe me a favor, Armando. A whopper—one I can call in anytime, no questions asked.”

  “As you wish. What will you do?”

  “What your spawn suggests. I will make this boy forget everything about the Underworld. I’ll even introduce evidence that exonerates him from the murders.”

  Yes! She wanted to jump for joy. Instead, she tensed, waiting for the bad news—that’s how they rolled in the Underworld. “Why are you helping me, Mabon?”

  “Because,” said Mabon, “misdirecting murder investigations puts my cover identity at risk. I don’t see value pinning all this on such a clean subject anyway. I’d rather nail these killings on a definite enemy.”

  “Agreed.” Armando slapped his hands together.

  “Wait.” She leaped to her feet. “When you—wipe Xerxes’s mind, will you do it here or at the jail?”

  Mabon shrugged. “It’s safer at the mansion.”

  “Please, do it here. I want to see him one last time.”

  His lips twisted into a smile as he stalked off toward the subterranean tunnels. “Agreed.”

  After Mabon left, an uncomfortable silence filled the room. Colin busied himself, cleaning the blood-mugs in the sink, an unnecessary task but one that left him in their vicinity. Armando stood glowering. What was up his butt now? Maybe he was jealous of Xerxes, upset that a mere mortal man loved her in a way he for all his avowed passion and dashing romanticism never could.

  She dropped his cape and stood. “I’m jumping in a hot shower, eating a bowl of strawberry ice cream, and taking a nap, in that order. Can someone fetch me when Mabon and Xerxes get here?”

  “Aye, lass, you can count on it.” Colin smiled, going to the freezer. “I’ll even make your sundae for you. Light on the blood, right?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” She turned toward her sleeping alcove, trying to remember how many clothes she’d packed. This outfit reeked and that was the end of her denim collection.

  “Wait.” Armando’s voice felt like a lash.

  She froze. “What?”

  “From now on, you will stay with the Bradens, obey me, and do your share. Correct?”

  “That’s the agreement. If Xerxes goes free.”

  He took a step forward. “Even bury the hatchet with Cherise?”

  Bury the—ugh, Armando and his insensitive clichés. He probably first heard that in the 1880s. “She’s a clinical psychopath! She told me so herself.”

  Armando scoffed. “Don’t be absurd, that’s a myth used to market motion pictures. Beneath your sister’s bad girl persona is a hurt, frightened child in need of love and affection.”

  Disbelief floored her. When had Armando turned into a jelly-brained softie who wanted to coddle monsters? What had he been doing the last year, smoking weed and attending New Age seminars? Unreal. Absolutely unreal.

  That’s when it hit her. Her sire was a handsome, charismatic, powerful vampire—but he was as fallible as any other person, mortal or immortal. He’d made a terrible mistake with Cherise and didn’t know it yet. He’d made a different but equally foolish mistake with her, something he did realize now. That revelation lifted a burden off her shoulders.

  Time to forgive him—almost. Not yet. Not today, maybe not this year, but for the first time since the night she died, the possibility appeared like the first star of evening, twinkling in the gloom. Armando deserved something for giving her this half-life, even if it was unasked for and not worth living—until she met Xerxes. Her guy made it worth living, even if she had to throw the best part of it away for his sake. The memories alone she would keep.

  Her words came out cold. “Don’t call her my sister, Armando. She was a monster before you turned her, she’s a worse monster now, and you better deal with that before she tears this happy little family apart.”

  Chapter 14: Visitation Tomb

  Xerxes

  A metallic key clinked and the cell door clanked open. A familiar voice said, “Get up, Xerxes. You’re free to go.”

  Xerxes rolled over on his cot, fighting a sudden influx of sunlight. Sitting up on the bunk, he blinked and stared at the door. Detective Zenkowski stood in the corridor with two jailers.

  Free to go? Good news—or another of the vampire’s tricks? “What do you mean?”

  Zen entered the cell, holding out his hand. “DNA evidence came back. A test can take weeks, maybe months, but somehow this Gideon guy got a rush-job. It exonerated you completely.”

  Desiree! If he was free, he could rejoin Dez right away. He scrambled to his feet and shook the other man’s hand. “That’s fantastic news, Zen!”

  Relief and joy shone on the other man’s face too. “I’m sorry I doubted you, big guy. But that Agent Gideon came up with all this evidence. It didn’t quite add up, but somehow, I went along with it. He’s … persuasive.”

  That was an understatement. A memory of that bald-headed—creature’s—face staring down with those spinning, silver eyes made him shiver. “I know. Guy’s an asshole. So I can go?”

  “Go with the wind, my friend.”

  They processed him out even faster than they processed him in. He got his old clothes back, filthy though they were, along with his wallet, his keys—with the Red Panda Girl keychain. His heart leaped at the sight of it and he kissed it. Desiree!

  “No hard feelings, huh Xerk?” Zenkowski stood with him in the glass-enclosed lobby, beyond the security perimeter.

  “Not at all.” Xerxes slapped his friend on the back. “What now for you, back to square one?”

  Zen shook his head. “Nope. The Feds want to review Agent Gideon’s handling—or mishandling—of this case. Could be tied up for weeks.” The weathered old detective grinned. “For the first time in months, I’m free on a Friday night. Maybe I’ll call one of those eHarmony gals.”

  “Yeah. You do that, Zen.” He nodded toward the windows far end of the lobby. “Is that Gideon outside?” Two figures waited in front of the police building. Sunlight gleamed on the man’s bald head. A woman in black stood beside him. Somehow, the pair gave him the creeps, sending off a malevolent vibe with their postures, their attire.

  “I bet he wants to apologize.” Zen returned to the security line. “Take care, Xerk.”

  “You too, Zen.” He was already crossing the lobby with a purposeful, angry stride.

  It was indeed ‘Agent’ Gideon, wearing—and Xerxes smiled with grim satisfaction—a bandage over his nose. He still wore his black suit and Homeland Security badge. The loose jacket left shoulder-holster straps in view.

  The woman beside him wore clogs, capris, and a bosomy blouse inappropriate for a police station—and a bandage over her left eye socket. Bruising showed across the face, concealed in part by sunglasses. Something about her nagged him.

  The woman flashed her teeth. “He’s a big one, all right.”

  Gideon grunted. “You could take him if you had to.”

  “Can I?”

  “No.”

  Such odd remarks. Black bangs fram
ed the woman’s glossy, pallid features. Then it fell into place. This must be Cherise, Oil-Can Mike’s killer.

  The hair on the back of his neck tingled. His giddy joy at his unexpected freedom came crashing back down. These two meant trouble. He was still in front of the police station. He wouldn’t let them abduct him. He’d shout, turn around, run back inside if they made one hostile move.

  He took a step in reverse. “What do you want?”

  Mabon challenged him back. “What do you want, Xerxes?”

  “I want to see Desiree. Now.”

  The man’s arms went wide. “Great, we’re all in agreement. Cher will take you there.”

  “Cher?” He turned the question into a harsh accusation. “Cherise? Cherise Braden?”

  The woman clapped her hands with sarcastic delight. “He knows my name! I’m famous!”

  Mabon snapped. “Do what you’re told, errand girl.”

  No way was he getting in a car with Mike’s killer. He might be her next target, knowing as much as he did. Adrenaline pumped and fists clenched. “Why should I trust you—creatures?”

  Mabon touched his sunglasses. If he made one move to try that hypnotism shit again—but he didn’t, he only rubbed his forehead as if coping with a migraine. “Do you want to see Desiree or not?”

  “Yes, asshole!”

  “Cherise will drive you to where Dez is, with the Bradens.”

  “Liar! Dez fled her clan. She quit.”

  “And now she’s back.” Mabon snapped his fingers. “Look, fireman. I don’t care if you live or die. I’m busy, so run and hide if you like. I’ll catch up with you, sooner or later.”

  This bastard, how can he offer a choice like that? No way to trust this creature, these killers. But the only way to reach Dez was through her clan. He didn’t have a cell phone or her number and had no idea how to sneak into the well-guarded Eibon Manor grounds. “Will you give me your word of honor that Desiree is there?”

  Their laughter sounded like the rustling of dead leaves. But in the end, he got in the car. What else could he do?

  Mike’s killer drove her cherry red BMW 4-series convertible like she stole it, fast and reckless, weaving in and out of traffic, heedless of honking horns and traffic signs.

  At the second red light, he almost jumped out and ran for it. Nothing restrained him, no handcuffs, no roll bars, only a simple lap belt. But she was driving toward West Hills and Eibon Manor, giving no reason to flee. He grit his teeth instead. The car stopped at one of Portland’s longer, downtown lights.

  “I bet you’re wondering what happened to my face,” she said, breaking an awkward silence.

  “No.”

  “Take a guess anyway.”

  “Dez said the Queen hit you. I am glad.”

  “A political disagreement.” She caressed her jaw. “Look, I’m sorry about your friend, Oil-Can Mike.”

  “Sorry? You’re sorry? Unbelievable.”

  “I know you’re upset, but you gotta understand, these things happen.”

  “Don’t treat it like an accident. You killed him at random. Chased him through the streets like a dog, cut him down and drank his blood. You’re a monster!”

  She snickered with mock horror. “I’m just as God made me, sir.”

  Revulsion filled him. Worst of all, this creature would get away with the crime. Her ‘punishment’ was nothing, driving people around for Mabon, apparently. He lapsed into silence. The light changed and traffic surged forward again.

  “You have to understand,” she went on, “this whole experience has affected me too. It’s given me a real appreciation for the struggles of the homeless.”

  “Stop it.”

  “I’m serious. What if I told you I was thinking about volunteering at a soup kitchen? Making amends, you know.” When he didn’t respond, she reached over and seized his hand, stroking his fingers with her thumb. Despite the brilliant June morning, her fingers ran cold as ice. “Why not join me? We could get to know each other better.”

  He yanked his hand away. “No!”

  “Dude, chill. I’m just playing.”

  Anger welled up inside him, accompanied by an overpowering urge to hit this woman. The impulse embarrassed him. He’d never struck a woman before and never would. Mom had taught him better than that. But wasn’t this creature more of a monster than a woman? Yet if that was the case, then what was Dez? In frustration, he punched the armrest on the passenger side door. “I don’t want to talk to you. Ever.”

  “Fine.” She turned on the stereo. Electronic dance music blasted from the speakers. “Asshole.”

  The BMW passed through the security gate, the cameras recognizing the driver even under her bandages. The car moved through the expansive estate.

  Wow. This was his first glimpse in-person of the famous if secluded mansion, as they never conducted public tours and invited news cameras in only on rare occasions. The reclusive Eibon billionaires were vampires, a secret they killed to keep. A secret they’d pin a dozen murders on an innocent to preserve.

  He stared, wide-eyed at the opulence on display. Pristine acreage, well-watered lawns, duck ponds, and golf holes on the left, jogging trails and tennis courts to the right. So much wealth and privilege was on display and none in use.

  This was Dez’s world, where she belonged even if she never asked to join it. On the other hand, if she’d gone back to her clan maybe she accepted this life now. She drank blood. She lived on it.

  He sunk back into his seat. There’s no way they could stay together. He was just a fling for her, a happy accident, someone to break her out of her shell. Oh, she would remember him with fondness but she would move on, to someone of her kind. Did she have a face like Mabon’s beneath a mask of humanity? Did her eyes turn silver, her skin turn scaly? What was she anyway?

  As if he didn’t know—she was a vampire. He sure could pick them. Forget about Candice the hairdresser or Jilly the waitress. Mom would go gaga over Dez the blood-drinker.

  The car skidded to a halt on a gravel trail not far from a marble mausoleum. Three men stood in front of the tomb, arms folded across their chests.

  Where was Dez? He reached for the door handle and exited. The BMW roared off, spitting gravel.

  These men looked all too familiar. The long-haired one had popped up in Pioneer Square and chased them onto the Max. The other two he’d glimpsed outside Booklandia Bookstore. Up close and in the daylight, all three were big, strong men, but not large enough. He towered over them and outweighed them by a few weight classes. But these were not ordinary men. Try and remember that. They were vampire brothers—something about a shared sire, dead some seven years. Dez’s explanation of the clan’s tangled relationships made little sense.

  No matter. This was no genuine family. He advanced on the men. “Where’s Desiree?”

  The grizzled one bit his stogie. “This the man you wanted to frame for murder, Armando? Look at him. Does he look like a killer?”

  Armando flung up an arm in annoyance. “He would’ve done seven years for manslaughter, tops. This justice system is a joke. We used to hang a man for stealing a loaf of bread.”

  “Oh, aye, those were the good old days,” Colin said, rolling his eyes. “And it wasn’t one murder, Mabon wanted to stick him with. It were more ‘an a dozen.”

  How dare they ignore him! He clenched his fists. “Dammit, where’s Dez!”

  That bearded weirdo Armando didn’t bother to look his way. “Shut up, boy.”

  The nerve of this old-clothes-wearing asshole! All the anger, the frustration, the fear—the disgust—simmering inside, directed toward these creatures, boiled up and exploded. He roared and charged, fists swinging.

  “Don’t!” said Colin, stepping up to intervene, but George held the other vampire back.

  Good; this was between him and Armando. Time to make this monster pay for what he’d done to Dez! He was already in mid-stride, launching a powerful haymaker with his right fist.

  Armando flung
up a forearm, blocking it with ease. He snapped the arm forward, causing Xerxes to stagger backward. Then with indolent and disdainful care, the vampire dandy unbuttoned his frock coat and flung it the ground.

  Okay, this vampire-man could fight, despite his foppish looks. And was he strong, was he ever, far stronger than a human. Regaining his balance, Xerxes raised both fists into a boxer’s stance and circled his opponent with care.

  With a sudden rush, Armando darted forward, side-stepped, and connected with an uppercut under Xerk’s jaw. The blow—beyond what a mortal man could throw outside of a heavyweight boxing championship—almost dropped Xerk. He backpedaled, howling in pain. Blood and a bit of tooth came up with his spit.

  “Give it up, boy,” the vampire said, dancing back and forth, fists raised. He was faster, stronger, and almost certainly unbeatable. “I pulled my punch—I don’t want to kill you. But you can’t win.”

  Maybe not. With a sudden bull rush, Xerxes charged, feigning another wild punch. “I can’t win—but I can fight!”

  Armando raised a forearm to ward off the blow. But instead of swinging, Xerxes flung both arms wide, catching the other man in a tight embrace and tackling him to the ground.

  Caught by surprise, Armando failed to dodge. They rolled over and over in the grass, punching, kicking, clawing, screaming. It continued as they rolled down the slope and into the pond. In the knee-deep waters, Xerxes held his opponent underwater, hoping to drown some of the fight out of him. But the other fighter didn’t even breathe. His grin showed through the murky water. A fist shot out of the pond, catching Xerk in the mouth, sending him reeling backward into the muck.

  Desiree’s scream ended the brawl. “Stop it! Stop it, both of you!”

  Xerxes leaped to his feet at once, rushing toward her. She lingered on the threshold of the mausoleum, guarded by a parasol and wearing a heavy, velvet gown from another age. It was yellow like the sun. His sun. His embrace almost knocked her over. She flung herself against his chest, the parasol dropping to the grounds.