He was ready for them. Ignoring Marcelina and her agony, he swept his gaze over the charging vampires. There weren’t that many. Marcelina wasn’t powerful enough to control more than a dozen children, and with Quinn’s defection, she’d lost not only him, but Garrick. That left only ten vampires, all weak, who rose to defend her.
“Don’t,” Quinn warned, his power crashing over them with that one syllable. “She’s not worth it.” He knew he struck a nerve with that. There wasn’t a single one of her children whom Marcelina had treated gently. But the Sire bond was about more than loyalty. It was security, protection against a world that saw them as monsters. What would they be without that protection? “Get on the floor and stay there,” Quinn said. “I’ll protect you when she’s gone.”
They froze, studying him, and then one by one, Marcelina’s children slid bonelessly to the floor. Some continued to watch, wide-eyed with curiosity, as their Sire twisted in agony. Others stared with eyes that burned red with hatred and satisfaction.
Quinn swung back around to face the monster who’d so irrevocably changed his life. The blue fire wasn’t touching her, but the heat was. Pain marred that lovely face, straining the skin over her perfect cheekbones, drawing lush lips back over perfect teeth. Except those lips were torn and bloody from where her fangs had sliced into them, and her teeth were dripping blood onto the swell of her creamy breasts.
“Whatever shall I do with you, Marcie?” he asked with intentional cruelty.
Her mouth writhed, her lips closing to form a single word.
“Mercy?” he asked. “Is that what you think you deserve?”
She slid off her chair and to the floor, one hand reaching out in entreaty. Her hair was gone. He’d wanted her to suffer that much from the beginning, a blow to her vanity. But he’d spared her scalp, which was only reddened. Thus far.
Quinn’s first instinct was to let her suffer, but he retained enough of himself, enough of the humanity his parents had given him, that he wondered what he’d become to even consider such cruelty. More important than any consideration of cruelty, however, was the simple fact that he couldn’t hold the flames much longer. He was still very young as a vampire, his power far from fully mature. He had to end this.
Focusing once again on the fire inside him, he drew from the very heart, where it burned the brightest. Plucking that brilliant ember from his chest, he tossed it almost negligently at Marcelina. Her face brightened with hope at his gesture . . . and then she screamed in terror as the flames surrounding her went from blue to orange, and her body lit up like a torch. Within minutes, she fell to ashes.
Quinn sank to his knees, exhausted and panting. The fire wasn’t real as most people understood it. It came from his power as a vampire, drawing on the spark of his vampire blood. When he used it, it sucked all the energy out of him, leaving him utterly drained. He hoped it would prove less grueling as he aged, and his magic grew stronger. Fuck. He still had a problem thinking of his new ability as magic, but he didn’t know what else to call it. There were other powerful vampires out there who did know, however. Vampires beyond Marcelina’s narrow little world. Maybe they had a better theory.
He was too tired to think about it now. All he wanted at that moment, all he had the energy for, was to stumble to his room and sleep for a week. But he couldn’t do it, couldn’t show any weakness at all. Marcelina’s children might have supported his decision to get rid of her, but they were still vampires. Their instinct was to attack, especially if their target was a powerful vampire who’d suddenly become weak.
Clenching his fists to his sides, he forced himself to stand and turn around to face the others. “We’ve done enough for tonight,” he said, deliberately including them in the overthrow, though their only contribution had been to lie on the floor and do nothing. “We’re all going to need our strength for tomorrow. We have some decisions to make.”
The others hesitated, but then began nodding, murmuring in agreement. “We should rest now,” one of them muttered. “Dawn isn’t far off,” said another, his words coated with fear.
Quinn waited until they’d all gone to their rooms. He would have collapsed then, if not for Garrick, who pulled Quinn’s arm over his shoulder and guided him to a nearby couch. Easing him down, Garrick said, “Do you need blood?”
Quinn swallowed, his throat dry. “Please.”
“Are you okay for me to run to the kitchen?”
He nodded.
“I’ll make it quick.”
Quinn closed his eyes and leaned back on the couch, more exhausted than he could ever remember being. He’d played sports in high school, had kept in shape all through university and law school, had always made gym time part of his routine even when he was climbing the partnership ladder at his law firm. As with everything else, he’d been competitive as hell and played to win. But those activities were nothing compared to this. A few minutes of using his power, and he was wiped out.
“Here.” Garrick’s voice woke Quinn. His nostrils flared at the scent of blood, and he growled, his fangs sliding out hungrily. Grabbing the bag from his cousin, he used his fangs to slice through the plastic, not bothering with the valve, not even caring that the blood was cold enough to hurt going down. He drained one bag, and took the second that Garrick offered, this one with the valve already open. He drained that one, too, and was halfway through a third, before he slowed down.
Pausing to catch his breath, he ran the back of his hand over his mouth. “Disgusting, aren’t I?”
Garrick laughed. “Your manners could use some work, but you got rid of that bitch, so I’ll forgive you this once.”
Quinn looked up with a bloody-toothed grin. “I did, didn’t I?”
“You’re the new master now. What’s your plan?”
“My plan? Shit.” He thought fast. The one thing he knew was that he didn’t want to be responsible for this lot. “I’m going to petition Rajmund down in Manhattan and see if he’ll take us on. He pays lip service to Krystof, but he runs his own city. He’s reasonable and smart, and I can learn a lot from him. I’m no master of others, Garrick. I don’t want it. Maybe someday, but not yet.”
“Someday, though, Q. The need to rule is in your blood now.”
Dublin, Ireland, present day
QUINN THOUGHT about that long ago night as he and Adorjan sped toward Dublin. Garrick had been right. The drive to rule was in his blood. It had been there before he’d become a vampire, disguised as simple ambition. His vampire blood had taken it and driven him to this place and time. Looking back, he applauded himself for choosing Rajmund as their new master. From Raj, he and Garrick had learned all the rules and basic truths of vampire society, things Marcelina should have taught them. He’d been so relieved, at first, to have gotten himself and Garrick out from under her crazy ass rule, that he hadn’t given a thought to climbing any higher in vampire society. But Rajmund had seen the power simmering beneath his skin, and he’d known what Quinn hadn’t—that his vampire blood wouldn’t be denied. That he either had to discipline it or it would destroy him. So, he’d risen in power and skill under Raj’s guidance, coming up through the ranks, learning what it meant to have the power of life and death over people who depended on you.
And then the wars had started, and he’d known his time had come.
“You know how to get there?” he asked Adorjan, completely unnecessarily. Even if the vamp hadn’t memorized the route—which he probably had—the Range Rover had a nav system. Quinn hated to admit it, but he was tense now that he was making the move to Dublin. It made a confrontation with Sorley all but inevitable.
Adorjan didn’t call him on the stupid question. Maybe he understood the reasons for Quinn’s tension. Or maybe his loyalty didn’t permit him to question even that much. He simply smiled and pointed at the nav screen. “Another twenty minutes or so, my lord.�
��
Quinn’s cell rang at that moment. Garrick. He accepted the call. “Garrick.”
“My lord. I wanted to let you know that Casey’s settling things down nicely, but I left Ryan Lopez with him for the next few nights, just in case. Dublin’s close, but not that close. If he needed help, we might be too late.”
“Good idea. You’re on your way?”
“We left twenty minutes ago.”
“Good. We’ll see you at the house, then.”
“You couldn’t keep us away,” Garrick said, his voice all but vibrating with excitement. “This is going to be fun.”
Quinn slid his phone back into the pocket of his jacket. He drew a deep, settling breath and smiled. Fun. He could go with that.
Chapter Seven
THE NEXT NIGHT found Quinn once again seated at a huge desk—though this time the desk was real, not a dining table making do. He had a laptop in front of him and far too many piles of paperwork stacked around him. In this case, however, the files he was studying were the result of some of Garrick’s world-class hacking skills . . . which meant Quinn wasn’t supposed to be reading any of them. Garrick had managed to crack Sorley’s security, which he’d derided as “pitiful,” and Quinn now had an open invitation to peruse any of Sorley’s computer files that interested him. He was making good use of it, mostly on his laptop. The paper copies were only backup, in case the Irish lord unexpectedly discovered he’d been invaded and managed to block them. Garrick assured Quinn that it wasn’t likely to happen, and, if it did, there’d be no way to trace it back to them.
Quinn’s deep dive into Sorley’s finances was turning up what he’d expected. Sorley’s businesses throughout Ireland were just as illegal as the smuggling operation in Howth. In fact, he had several other very similar ops, including a substantial smuggling business moving through Dublin’s main port. Even worse, from Quinn’s point of view, was that Sorley’s partner in the Dublin venture was one of the city’s most violent gangs.
On the good news front, the Irish lord’s various businesses brought in plenty of money, even though he didn’t seem to share it with the Irish vampire community at large. Sorley had to be paying his accountant a substantial bribe to keep that particular fact from the other vampires, including the lord’s inner circle, most of whom lived in the big house in the Donnybrook section of Dublin. Sorley paid them a modest salary, but he could have afforded to pay them much more. He should have. A good vampire lord shared the wealth with his subjects. Sure, the lords lived better than regular vampires, but that was because they were the ones taking all the risks and fighting all the battles. But they also invested in their own people, their own territory.
Sorley wasn’t doing any of that. He wasn’t only a bad lord, he was a bad businessman. The latter indictment might have offended Quinn even more than the first. In his world, there was no excuse for sloppy financial management. His fingers itched to draw up a vicious memorandum and shoot it off to Sorley and his accountant, but he reined in the impulse, just as the sound of raised voices drew his attention to something happening outside.
He slid his chair back and stood, all of his senses going on alert. Sorley had given Quinn permission to take over Howth, with the implicit understanding that he would remain there. Quinn had pretended to go along, but he’d had no intention of doing that. Howth had never been more than stepping stone, a way to test Sorley’s mettle. What he’d learned had moved up his timetable substantially. Sorley was weak. Not in power, but in discipline and intent. Quinn saw it, though he thought it probable that Sorley didn’t. The Irish lord had spent too many decades sitting in his fancy house in Donnybrook, never venturing beyond the nearby suburbs.
But while that made him weak, it didn’t make him stupid. Within the confines of Dublin, Sorley knew everything that happened. Or almost everything. He’d missed Quinn’s acquisition of the Dublin Ballsbridge property, which had gone through long before he’d ever left the U.S. Though that might be because Quinn had acquired it under a false identification he’d established years ago, and Sorley didn’t have the imagination to consider that possibility. Nonetheless, Quinn had known that once he moved into the house, it would be only a matter of time before Sorley himself, or one of his thugs, took notice.
Quinn sent a thread of power winding along the hall and down the stairs ahead of him, wanting to know who’d come knocking on his door. From all the yelling, he assumed it wasn’t Sorley. The Irish lord wouldn’t be standing in the yard arguing. He’d have blasted his way in without caring who got hurt along the way.
Garrick’s voice rose above the others, and Quinn felt the blast of power as two master strength vampires squared off against each other. He quickened his pace down the stairs. Garrick could hold his own one-on-one against almost anyone, short of Sorley himself, but from the sounds of it, whoever that was out front had brought more than a few fighters with him.
The doors were already open when he reached the front of the house, and he could see his vampires lined up outside with Garrick in the middle. Giving him a telepathic whisper of warning, Quinn moved up behind his cousin and touched his shoulder. Garrick stiffened briefly in protest, as his protective instincts came to the fore, but Quinn pressed harder, and his cousin stepped aside, letting Quinn pass through to stand in front of his fighters. Vampire lords led from the front. At least, the good ones did.
Seven vampires faced him in a cluster, with one vamp braced ahead of the others. He transferred his glare from Garrick to Quinn, his look of confusion melding quickly into one of sneering disdain.
“So, you’re the American who thinks he can just waltz in here and take over?” the vampire said, taking up a swaggering stance, with legs planted wide and fingers hooked into his low-slung belt.
Quinn eyed him with some bemusement. The vamp had a lot of attitude and enough charisma to get this lot to follow him. He’d observed the dynamics of the group from the vantage of the open front door, and he’d be willing to bet this bunch worked together in a kind of gang. They were probably loyal to Sorley, but Quinn’s guess was that they operated independently, paying tithes to the Irish lord, but otherwise having little to do with him. No surprise there. From what Quinn had been able to deduce so far, Sorley favored that type of arrangement. It wasn’t that unusual among vampires. What was unusual was that this group was apparently operating within the confines of Sorley’s headquarters city.
“I’m Quinn,” he said agreeably, not conceding his motivations or anything else. “And you?”
“Lon Conover, and Ballsbridge belongs to me.”
Quinn tried not to smile at the vamp’s arrogance. Ballsbridge was the Dublin district where his new house was located. “Does it? Odd. Sorley never mentioned you.”
“I don’t give a fuck who Sorley’s mentioned. He might not be willing to fight for Ireland, but I am. And we’re not going to put up with you and your fancy talk sneaking into our town and taking over.”
“The last time I checked, Sorley ruled Ireland. He knows I’m here, because I told him. There was no sneaking involved. And, for the record, I’m as Irish as you are.”
“You want to play games, smart guy? You think you can take me?”
Quinn tilted his head, as if considering the question. “Yes,” he said finally. “I believe I can.” He lifted his gaze with a lazy blink and let a small fraction of his power surround him.
Conover’s pupils widened in involuntary shock before he could hide it, but then he moved his hands from his belt and tightened them into fists. “I beat back your boy there,” he sneered, nodding at Garrick. “And I’ll beat you, too.”
Quinn smiled. That wasn’t true. Conover hadn’t defeated Garrick. They’d barely tested each other’s strength before Quinn had shown up. He didn’t yet know for sure what Conover’s true strength was, but he knew Garrick’s. His cousin wouldn’t be taken that easily. But n
ow that Quinn was in the picture, Garrick’s strength was no longer an issue. Or at least, not the most important one. Garrick and the others would back him up, but Conover had challenged Quinn’s right to this place. And Quinn couldn’t let that stand.
He rolled his head and shoulders, shook out his arms and flexed his hands, all the while grinning at an increasingly pissed off Conover.
“You ready there, sweetheart?” Conover taunted.
Quinn’s grin disappeared, replaced by a look of utter focus as he regarded the other vampire. Sending out a wisp of power, he wound it around Conover, taking his measure. “You sure you want to do this?” he asked, giving the vamp an out as he gauged the feedback he was getting. “We could be allies instead of enemies.”
The only response was a wad of spittle that landed just short of his boots. Disgusting.
With barely an effort, Quinn upped the level of power in his probe. No longer an undetectable wisp, it became a rope, thick and stinging like a swarm of tiny bees, that wrapped around Conover, trapping his arms against his body, tightening around his thighs until he could barely move.
The vampire snarled in surprise, then lifted his head with a howl and snapped the binding, freeing himself with a roar of victory as he attacked Quinn with a pummeling volley of power.
Quinn easily withstood the blow, but he was still surprised at how quickly Conover had broken free. Granted, he’d used only a fraction of his power on the binding, but he’d clearly underestimated the vamp. It was a mistake he wouldn’t make again. None of that showed on his face though, as he studied his opponent, hearing the cheers and jeers of Conover’s vampires, seeing the hatred in their faces, the smug confidence on Conover’s. And suddenly, he’d had enough. Enough vampire bullshit, enough crazy girlfriends trying to kill vampires, enough swaggering assholes who looked at him and saw a mark. Maybe it was time to send a message to every vampire in Ireland who thought Quinn’s American upbringing and Ivy League education made him easy prey.
Quinn (Vampires in America: The Vampire Wars Book 12) Page 20
