The Dead Wolves: An Ashwood Novel (Cursed and Damned Book 1)

by Lee Dignam

  When the stylist was done with him, he stood from the chair and examined himself in the mirror. His jaw had been cleanly shaven, his hair had been given a classic parting, and his black suit and shirt fit perfectly; a silver tie completed the ensemble. He walked over to the vanity set in his bedroom and opened the small, ornate brown box sitting on it. Inside were a number of small, silver pins and broaches; each bore a small version of the Knight clan crest—a shield, the sun, and a horse’s head. He plucked a pin and a broach from the box, fitted the pin to the lapel of his tuxedo, and then headed outside to where Jessica sat surrounded by stylists.

  She was a vision. The blonde hair, the blue eyes, the way the dress clung to her curves. He could but stop and stare for a moment, transfixed, or smitten, or enamored—the choice of word was irrelevant. But he realized in an instant, it wasn’t because she was beautiful that he had stopped to stare, but because in that light, wearing that dress, she looked more like Grace than she ever had.

  Only, that wasn’t exactly true; she had looked like Grace when he killed her and brought her into the night.

  The more he stared, the stronger those nostalgic feelings came rushing back to him, like ghosts out of a long-ago shut and sealed closet. He had tried to bury the feelings, to keep Grace and Jessica separate, but sometimes that proved to be an impossible feat, especially when she was being made to look her absolute best.

  Jessica caught him staring and smiled. He smiled in return, and pinned the broach to her dress. “You should be wearing this,” he said, “You’re a Knight now. You deserve it.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “I’m feeling better about this.”

  “Good. I’ll—” one of the assistants in the penthouse respectfully came into Daniel’s field of vision and tried to catch his eyes, succeeding in stealing his attention. “Yes?” he asked.

  “I’m so sorry, Mister Knight, but there’s someone here to see you.”

  “Where?” Daniel asked.

  “Downstairs, if you’d follow me…”

  “Excuse me,” he said to Jessica, and he followed the assistant to the penthouse door, and then down the elevator to the ground floor. It wasn’t typical for Daniel to receive guests upstairs. Guests first needed to be vetted and allowed to pass through his meticulous security staff, especially if they weren’t on the list of Daniel’s regular acquaintances.

  This particular guest was on the list, but he hadn’t seen her in some time.

  Angel.

  She waited in the beautiful, domed, black marble lobby with its shiny columns, floors, walls, and furniture lined with gold trimmings. Around her, many of Daniel’s staff went about their business, some men in suits and carrying weapons, others manning the reception desk. This entire building, one of the oldest in Ashwood, was his. Some floors had been turned into offices, others into apartments. But the penthouse was reserved for him and Jessica.

  He approached his guest, who had been ushered into a waiting area where there were rounded tables with low, flickering candles on them and plush, comfortable chairs to sit on. But she had chosen to remain standing, holding her hands delicately in front of her ornate, red and gold kimono.

  “Hello, Daniel,” she said as he arrived.

  Daniel stopped short of where she stood and nodded. “It is a pleasure to see you again,” he said.

  “Likewise.”

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  “No. I’m afraid I’m in somewhat of a hurry, as I’m sure you are.”

  “Of course—I’ll be heading to the gathering soon.”

  “And Jessica? I’m desperate to meet her.”

  “Jessica will be there, yes,” he said, adding a smile. “But I don’t think you came here to talk to me about Jessica.”

  She shook her head. “No, I came here to talk to you about something else, if I may. And if you’d allow me to do so, I’ll speak candidly.”

  “You have my permission to do so.”

  Angel stepped forward, the corner of her mouth tipping up into a smile. “I know something you may not want me to know.”

  Daniel’s eyes narrowed. “Concerning what?”

  “Not concerning what, but who.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Then in that case allow me to explain, but before I do, you must offer me some assurances.”

  “What kind of assurances?”

  “I want you to promise me that you will not lie when you answer my questions, and in return I will promise never to hold this information against you or divulge it to anyone else.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “Not unless you and our person of interest are planning something against me.”

  “We have been friends for a long time. I would never do anything to damage our relationship.”

  “Good,” she said, “So, how about I start by asking the question most burning on my lips?”

  Daniel nodded, giving her a silent go ahead.

  “How long have you been hiding Grace Knight from the rest of us?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Neo brought the Trans Am to a halt about half a block away from the Old Greystone Hotel. Cyanide turned to look at him, wondering why he had stopped, but he refused to give her his eyes—instead he stared down the street, almost as if he were trying to pick out the vampires from the nighttime crowd of people passing in front of the tall, charcoal gray building.

  “What is it?” Cyanide asked.

  “This is where you get out,” he said.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I don’t want you to be seen going in with me. I want you to go in on your own.”

  “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “I don’t think any of this is a good idea, remember?” he gave her a sidelong glance. “But this is better than going in together.”

  She thought about the proposition only for a moment. When she thought about what kind of an entrance she would make, she pictured having Neo by her side. Together, the two would walk through the doors, in defiance of the Count and the court, shoving the blood hunt in their faces. By now, she was sure that all of the vampires who would be in attendance knew about Neo’s blood hunt, and many of them would be less than impressed at it having been called off.

  Now he wanted her to go in alone, and as much as she hated the idea of having to face that crowd without him, she didn’t have a choice.

  Cyanide nodded. “And where will you be?” she asked.

  “I’ll go in when the time is right.”

  “You aren’t thinking of ditching me, are you?”

  He gave her his full attention, now. “Never,” he said, in a low voice.

  That was all she needed. She opened the car door and stepped out into the night. The streets were wet from a brief rainfall that happened earlier in the evening. “I’ll see you inside,” she said.

  Neo nodded, and when she shut the door, he drove off, leaving her to walk the rest of the way.

  This street was one of Ashwood’s busier ones. Though the Count had called court to convene at midnight, the sidewalks were still littered with people coming in and out of fancy pubs and bistros. It was the kind of place where dinner and a show was the price of a small mortgage, where men wore expensive watches and drove sleek, expensive cars, and where the women wore ridiculous amounts of jewelry and dresses hand-stitched by famous designers.

  There were cops here, too, on almost every street corner. But as Cyanide walked closer to the Old Greystone, she started noticing unmarked black cars parked at strategic points around the block. Inside, vigilant men and women with hard expressions, wearing suits and packing heat, waited patiently for someone to come and break the law; only it wasn’t the law of the land they were enforcing, but their employer’s laws.

  The Old Greystone loomed tall and imposing on the right. A solid rectangle of a building—one of, if not the oldest in the city—, it was the kind of structure that commanded respect from its surroundings, with searchligh
ts aimed into the night sky and gargoyles perched on ledges, giving it a sinister look. At its peak, an arching spike had been fashioned into every corner, each point converging at the center like a four-fingered claw reaching into the sky.

  Cyanide headed toward the main entrance where no less than seven men, all wearing suits, none which looked like hotel staff, stood guard. The cold hand of panic reached into her throat, and for an instant she worried they might stop her at the door and take her into one of the back rooms. But she couldn’t turn around now—one of them had spotted her. So, she walked up to him, and after only a cursory glance, he waved her through.

  “Go inside, first door on the left,” he said, in a stone-cold voice.

  She nodded and walked past him, heading through the revolving door and into the Old Greystone. The air was warmer in here than it was outside, and carried on it a hint of pine. Piano music floated softly over the PA. Hotel staff stood at their regular posts—reception, the concierge, hotel security—but besides them, the lobby was dead. There were no guests checking in late, no one sitting in the dim lobby, no one in the adjoining bar.

  Cyanide found the door on the left labelled Conference Room and walked toward it, but her movements were closely watched by everyone present; as if they knew something she didn’t. …. She pushed the door open, not wanting to give these people any of her attention and feeling entirely underdressed in her boots, jeans, and top, and stepped through into a huge, dimly lit room.

  The room was void of chairs, tables, and caterers. There were, however, men and women present, most of them wearing suits and gowns, others dressed casually, much like Cyanide. One by one, every person in attendance turned their head to look at Cyanide, and it was almost like something out of a horror movie. She craned her head around the room, unsure where to let her eyes rest, but the moment passed, and the people watching her turned to resume whatever conversations they had been having.

  She stepped deeper into the room, now, keeping her eyes open for anyone she might recognize—Daniel, Pixi—but saw none of her usual brood, so she allowed herself to make a circuit of the room. A stage and podium had been set up. Behind it was a curtain, and hanging from it were large banners adorned with the colors and crests of many of the great vampire clans of Ashwood. Corvallis, Julien, Lichten, Amore, Knight.

  The Amore banner alternated between scarlet red and black, and had a large, flaming heart resting on a silver shield. Corvallis was deep purple, inlaid with gold, and emblazoned with the head of a screaming, black crow, also sitting on a shield. The Julien banner was mostly gold, and had a Roman Centurion’s helmet on top of its shield. Each had scrollwork above and below the crest, and words carefully written into them in languages she couldn’t understand.

  The other two were the banners for clan Lichten, and Knight. The Lichten banner was black and gray, and the crest was that of a shield with a grinning skull on it. The skull’s canines were enlarged, and written into the scrollwork above and beneath the shield were German words she didn’t understand. This was Count Rufus’ clan.

  The Knight banner was white and gray, and it also had a shield on it. On that shield was the head of a horse, like the classic chess piece, rearing against a bright, yellow sun run through with a sword. There were words written into the scrollwork here, too, and while they were in Latin, Cyanide seemed to be able to understand exactly what they meant: “Swords in the night.”

  Seeing her clan banner displayed there, proudly, for everyone to see, filled her with a kind of pride she had never before experienced. Or if she had experienced it, she had forgotten how it had felt until now. It was the kind of pride that could make the skin prickle and tingle, and fill a person with warmth.

  “Inspiring, isn’t it?”

  Cyanide snapped her head around in a hurry, and there was Angel, resplendent in a gorgeous, red and gold kimono.

  “I startled you,” Angel said, “I do apologize.”

  “It’s okay,” Cyanide said, “These things make me nervous.”

  “They do me as well, and I’ve been to plenty.” A slight smirk crossed Angel’s full, red lips. “As have you.”

  “What?”

  “Your disguise is a good one, but very little escapes my notice.”

  “I’m not wearing a disguise.”

  “Aren’t you? You’re wearing a disguise now as much as you were when we met at my club.”

  “Your club?”

  “That’s right, Heaven is mine, and you are not who you said you were.”

  “And who am I?”

  The smirk on Angel’s face disappeared, and a hard, urgent expression replaced it. She took Cyanide’s arm suddenly and without warning, but also gently. “Your name was once Grace Knight,” she whispered into Cyanide’s ear, “And for reasons I can’t yet understand, you are pretending to be someone else.”

  “I… look, I don’t know what—”

  “I knew who you were from the moment I laid eyes on you at the club.”

  “If that’s true, why didn’t you say anything?”

  “No one had seen or heard from you in years; everyone thinks you’re dead. I wanted to know what you were doing there.”

  “Did you find out?”

  “Please, we have no time for games.” Angel tugged Cyanide’s arm and pulled her along the conference room toward a quiet spot. “I have a warning for you.”

  “A warning?” Cyanide asked.

  “The Count is up to something, and you need to keep your head low.”

  Cyanide craned her head around, checking to see if anyone was following their movements. No one was. They were all too engrossed in whatever they were talking about. The guards, too, ignored Angel and Cyanide’s progress.

  “Why me?” Cyanide asked.

  “Because of who you are; who you really are.”

  “What do you know that you aren’t telling me?”

  Angel pressed her lips together. “I can’t tell you more than I already have. You just have to trust me when I say, this entire situation doesn’t feel right, and I’m here to protect you.”

  “I don’t need protection; what I need are answers.”

  “I can’t give you the answers you need, Cyanide. What is happening here, the forces at play, is a dangerous game, and you are a precious piece.”

  The doors to the conference room suddenly opened, and in walked Daniel, wearing a black tux with a silver tie and waistcoat, and he had a beautiful young woman wearing an ornate silver gown on his arm. She had eyes the color of a winter lake, perfect blonde curls to frame her face, and the kind of smile entire armies of men would fall on their swords to get just another glimpse of. That must be Jessica, Cyanide thought, and she watched them as they walked together toward the center of the room to quiet applause and respectful nods—an entrance nothing like what Cyanide had received.

  That was normal; if a vampire couldn’t trace their lineage, they were considered to have no social standing. No one liked throwing the word bastard around, but it was often whispered in quiet rooms or behind people’s backs, as if saying the word alone could spread the stigma to the speaker.

  Daniel’s eyes found hers, and she caught the slight nod he gave toward Angel. She frowned, but he only nodded toward Angel again before having to turn his attention toward the clique of vampires he and Jessica were heading into. She could do little else but watch as they walked, stunned not only by the fact that Angel had been truthful—she was working with Daniel—but also by the fact that she had just seen Jessica for the first time, and she was stunning.

  That Jessica was Daniel’s only vampire child was one of the few tidbits of information which hadn’t been kept from Cyanide after her sudden and inexplicable memory loss. This wasn’t something she had learned from Daniel, though. As far as she had been aware, until a few nights ago Daniel was someone who employed the Dead Wolves to do certain jobs for him from time to time, and as such, Cyanide had kept him at arm’s length. She had learned about Jessica from Neo.


  “If the Count is up to something,” Cyanide asked, “Why has Daniel brought Jessica?”

  “Because attendance tonight was mandatory for every vampire in Ashwood,” Angel said, “Even those who have not yet been presented to the court.”

  “Do you think it’s safe for her here?”

  Angel’s gaze floated across the room to where the last—known—remaining Knights stood speaking to a group of unknown vampires. “I don’t know,” she said, “All I know is the circumstances surrounding the calling of this gathering were entirely unusual, and vampires aren’t known for doing things on a whim.”

  Cyanide dug inside her pocket and pulled her phone out. Neo wasn’t here yet, and she was sure proceedings would start soon. He, more than anyone, needed to be here for that, to show his face despite what had happened to him. Pixi also needed to be here, and she wasn’t in the crowd.

  “Calling someone?” Angel asked.

  “Yeah, I’m gonna head outside and make a call. I don’t want other people listening in.”

  “If they had the capacity to hear us speak, they would have heard far worse than whatever you have to say on the phone.”

  “Maybe, but I still need to make this call, and I don’t want to do it in here.”

  Angel hesitated, though Cyanide wasn’t sure why. The blood hunt had been called off, and this place was swarming with guards and people tasked with making sure vampires, and humans, were all safe. After a beat, Angel gestured toward the main doors. “Go to the lobby,” she said, “The staff there are human; they won’t be able to listen to you speak.”

  Cyanide nodded and headed out, keeping her eyes on Daniel as long as she could before stepping through the conference room doors and into the hotel lobby. Without wasting another second, she found a quiet spot nearby, dialed Neo’s number, and put the phone to her ear.