“Chief? A word?” she asked.
Sam nodded. “Help yourself,” he told Edon, motioning to the pink box of doughnuts on the table.
Ara followed the chief back into his office and shut the door. “What the hell?”
Sam shrugged his shoulders. “He’s been helping out Venator squads all over the world, specializing in Nephilim activity. Thought you’d be best for him since you’ve been following him around anyway.” He grinned, clearly enjoying himself.
“So why’d he spend three days sniffing around taking the vampire history tour, then?” she asked, annoyed.
“Ask him. Nostalgia? Curiosity? I fought next to him in the War. He’s a good guy. I trust him. You’ll learn to.” Sam attempted a real smile this time. “C’mon, Scott, be a team player for once.”
“Fine,” she said, gritting her teeth.
Ara stomped back into the room where Edon was finishing his breakfast. “Let’s go, wolf, but if you call me angel again, I’ll strap a collar around your neck so fast you won’t have time to beg for a dog biscuit,” she said.
“Woof, angel. What’d I ever do to you?” he asked, feigning hurt.
She considered punching him in the face but stopped short.
He stood up, wiping crumbs from his mouth with a napkin. “Come on, Scott, let’s start over,” he said and offered his hand to shake.
She took it warily. She could already tell he was going to be just another pain in the ass.
As the chief liked to say, New Coven, same old shit. She was a Venator and there was work to be done. Nephilim were back in New York, and now there was a bloody pentagram in the sewers below Canal Street.
Ara felt invigorated, her heart pumping, her fingers itching, ready for whatever monster their investigation would turn up. She would hunt them. She would find them. And, if necessary, she would kill them, even if she had to walk that dog along with her to do it. She would uncover the secrets of the darkness and bring the truth to light.
2 KING OF NEW YORK
ONE HUNDRED LAPS and he wasn’t even tired. Oliver Hazard-Perry pushed off the shallow end one more time and took a deep breath, one that took him across the seventy-foot-long Olympic-sized pool without having to take another. He burst up at the other side and sent a spray of water splashing against the glass windows. Pulling himself out in one smooth motion, he grabbed one of the extra-long Turkish cotton towels that were rolled and stacked pyramid-style on a nearby bench. He dried off and wrapped the soft cloth around his waist, shaking water from his hair. The pool water was warm and salty on his tongue, but easy on his eyes—no harsh chemicals here, only pure, filtered saline. Better than the ocean, an improvement on the ocean, its designer might argue.
The water wasn’t the only thing easy on the eyes.
Oliver walked over to the windows, which boasted a rarefied view of Central Park and the city skyline. From where he stood the rambling park looked like a delicate bonsai arrangement, a lush green square bordered by a vase made of skyscrapers, while the Empire State Building loomed in the background, a grand and stately dowager. It was a view only available to the residents of what the tabloids dubbed the “Power Tower”: 13 Central Park West. Home to the richest and most connected people in the world, where lavish apartments sold on the market in the high eight-figure range, although the latest sale to a Russian oligarch was rumored to cross into the nine-figure threshold to the tune of a cool one hundred million. The building was also home to the Regent of the Coven, the head of the vampire community, one Oliver Hazard-Perry. Nice guys finish first, Oliver thought, savoring the view. People who said that thirteen was an unlucky number had no idea what they were talking about, either. As far as Oliver was concerned, this tower proved thirteen was the luckiest number in the lot.
It was a little after dawn on Monday morning, and he had the fitness center, a veritable fitness mecca—with its gleaming and brand-new exercise equipment (the latest in stationary cycles, treadmills, and elliptical machines), hot yoga and pilates studios—all to himself. The bankers had already left, getting their workouts in before catching the London markets; trophy wives and trainers wouldn’t fill in till after ten, rock stars appearing around noon. So for now he savored the quiet stillness. Oliver walked away from the windows and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. He’d been a skinny human teenager, but he was almost thirty years old now, and to put it bluntly, he was ripped. He used to slouch, but now he stood tall and proud. His chestnut-brown hair was cut short to the scalp in a Caesar cut, and his warm hazel eyes had taken on a steely glint. The immortal blood running through his veins took his senses to a whole new level—he still couldn’t believe how much he could see, how much he could hear: The flutter of a hummingbird’s wings looked slow to him, he could hear whispered conversations down hallways through locked doors as if he were in the same room. It was overwhelming sometimes.
Sometimes, Oliver also wondered how much he had lost when he gained his immortality. His sense of humor, for one; he hadn’t laughed in a long time. He never used to take anything seriously—money and position least of all. But now he was Regent of the Coven, and he had no time for childish games, and there was little trace of the sarcastic teenager he had been. He missed that kid sometimes, mourned him even. He had grown up to be someone else, someone he never quite expected to be.
But this morning, all he could think was how much he loved his new life. He padded out of the room and took a private elevator up to his penthouse. The doors opened right into the grand foyer, where his valet stood waiting, holding up a pristine white bathrobe. Peakes was so thoughtful, with a sixth sense of what his master would require. A skill that had been honed over many years of impeccable service. “Thank you,” Oliver said, as the old gentleman helped him into the lush robe.
“Would you care for anything else, sir?”
Oliver shook his head and dismissed his man. He cinched the belt and, as was his daily ritual, took a minute to appreciate the sculptures and paintings, true masterpieces, that hung on the walls in his living room and lined the staircase. Old masters next to impressionists, midcentury modernists Diebenkorn, Rothko, and Warhol alongside contemporary powerhouses Koons and Hirst. Old masters for a new master, he thought, with some satisfaction.
He had assumed he was inured to the trappings of wealth, that there was very little that could impress him. After all, he had grown up across town, when the Upper East Side was the priciest neighborhood in the city. But the breadth and depth of the wealth at his command was staggering. While detractors would argue that Oliver had assumed the position of Regent through luck, it was all hard work on his part. There were few survivors of the War, and even fewer who did not take the Almighty’s offer of salvation to ascend to Paradise. When Oliver took over as Regent he had assumed that after the near destruction of the Coven, the coffers would be bankrupt, or close to it, as the vampires had scattered or left. He assumed he would have to rebuild from scratch. How wrong he was.
The Coven funds were liquid, healthy, and almost embarrassingly robust. The finance committee had made some very sound investments in the technological sector before the end, hence the ability to purchase this apartment—not just this apartment, but the building downtown that housed their headquarters—as well as fund Venator squads across the globe. So many problems could be solved with money, Oliver mused. So many things money could buy. Peace. Safety. Stability.
Most of the art he was looking at now was actually from the Coven’s private collection, from the hidden Repository archives, where it had been stored for safekeeping for decades and most likely forgotten. Oliver had unearthed these gems and had them restored, and now they were proudly displayed in museums and galleries around the world. He’d had the decency to keep only some of the best ones for his own enjoyment. It was hard to let go of Vermeer’s The Concert, and he had no idea how it came to be in the Coven’s possession, but the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum was so grateful to have it back, he knew he’d done the rig
ht thing.
He had brought the Coven ten years of peace and prosperity, and now it was time to party. Time to bring back a grand old tradition that he had coveted as a human Conduit with his nose pressed against the glass. The Four Hundred Ball, the annual celebration that feted the vampire community and all its glory. Known as the Patrician Ball during the nineteenth century and once held in Caroline Astor’s ballroom, it was traditionally a vampire-only event, and Oliver intended that its return after a long hiatus would mark the reestablishment of the community, to commemorate their victory over darkness, to show the world and themselves that they had not only survived, but were thriving in its aftermath.
That they had something left to celebrate at all.
There had not been a Four Hundred Ball since before the War, and the tenth anniversary of their victory over Lucifer felt like the right time to bring back the party as well as finally perform the ritual for his investiture. The leader of the Coven was traditionally called the Regis, the king of the vampires; his word was law, his every action infallible. But when Oliver had taken office, he had taken the lower title of Regent—he was not yet a king, but a mere steward. That would change on the night of the ball, when the heart of the Coven would be bound to his immortal blood. L’état, c’est moi.
By the end of the week, Oliver would have everything he had worked so hard for. Yes, everything he touched, everything he owned, everything in his orbit was rare, beautiful, and expensive, but none more so than the treasure in his own bedroom, the most exquisite jewel in his kingdom. Oliver felt his fangs sharpen in anticipation at the thought. He walked up the circular stairs that led to his chamber and opened its massive steel doors, the same ones as were installed in the Venator offices—one could never be too careful, after all. The curtains and blackout shades were drawn, and the dark room was as cool as a tomb, a proper vampire lair. As a boy he’d liked to feel the sun on his face to tickle him awake, but not anymore. He’d discovered far better ways to be awakened now. There she was, lying in the middle of his custom-made California king-sized bed, buried underneath the covers, the long, tangled locks of her sunflower-blonde hair the brightest thing in the room. Seraphina Chase.
Finn.
His human familiar.
His mortal beloved.
Oliver shrugged off his robe and trunks and slid into bed under the blankets, wrapping his arms around her waist and nuzzling her neck.
“Mmm,” Finn murmured, her voice still heavy with sleep, her face turned to the pillow. “You’re dripping on me.”
His hair was still wet from the pool, and tendrils were brushing against her soft skin. A decade since they’d first met and he was still in awe of her beauty, of the shining pure goodness that was her soul.
“No, I’m not. You’re still dreaming.”
He moved on top of her and she moved with him. “Mmm,” she murmured. “Nice dream.” She began to turn her body toward him, but he stopped her. “Stay like this,” he said, as he put his hands on her arms and pinned them to her side.
“Kinky,” she murmured.
“Not my fault you have kinky dreams,” Oliver said as he pulled the sheets and they fell away from her body.
“Don’t be so sure,” she purred. She was wearing the tiniest slip, a swathe of silk from Paris that cost more than most people’s entire wardrobes, and he impatiently tugged it down, undressing her so that they were skin to skin. This was his favorite way to start his day, when she was half-asleep, when she pretended not to know what was going on, even though she was so ready for him.
She arched her back as if she knew what was coming.
Because she did.
He couldn’t wait any longer, and as he pushed her hands deeper into the bed, he rammed into her body and plunged his fangs into her neck at the same time, all his senses alive and tingling with pleasure as he performed the Sacred Kiss, rocking against her as he drank deeply of her blood. He knew everything about her—every memory, every emotion, every desire, every disappointment. It came out in the blood bond, when he drank her very essence. What he felt for her was beyond love, beyond feeling—they were one soul in two bodies. He was hers and she was his. They had no secrets between them.
She sighed, trembled, groaned, and when he was done he fell away from her in satisfaction. The sheets that wound between them were red with blood, like a crime scene. Thank goodness for diligent housekeepers who never asked questions. Thank goodness for so many things, he thought, closing his eyes.
“Brown sugar on your oatmeal?” Finn asked an hour later, when they were properly dressed and eating breakfast in the wraparound terrace overlooking the park.
Oliver could still imagine her naked body beneath the silk and linen, and he wondered if she was thinking the same of him. “Yes, thanks,” he said, marveling once again at her classic, restrained beauty, from her long, slim neck to her elegant hands. She wore her hair long and loose, and the two bite marks near her delicate collarbone were barely noticeable, with little scarring. He loved those little bite marks and what they symbolized, that she was his, his very own human familiar. He had been a vampire’s familiar once, too, when he had been mortal, and he knew the pull of the blood bond—the all-consuming hunger for one’s vampire mate, the intoxicating agony and delirium.
Sometimes he wasn’t sure it had been the right thing to do to Finn, but it was too late now. He marveled over the twist of fate that brought them together. He had been helping his best friend, Schuyler Van Alen or Sky—he called her Sky; he was the only one who called her that—unravel the mystery of her mortal father’s family, which led the two of them to Finn, Sky’s half sister. He still remembered how radiant Finn had looked when they met, a carefree college student with no idea about her link to the Coven. How cheerful, happy, and innocent she had been. She had wanted to be an artist like her father. She had different dreams for her life, but she had fallen in love with him, and he had convinced her to help him rebuild the Coven, to work for the vampires, to serve him, to realize his dreams and give up hers. She had been willing and eager back then, had wanted him as much as he wanted her. But still, he felt a twinge of guilt, mixed with the pride, every time he saw those tiny scars.
He knew the doubts she harbored, her secret fears, and he did as much as he could to assuage them, especially as she had been quiet and withdrawn lately. She was probably worried about the party. As the unofficial First Lady of the Coven, the logistics of the Four Hundred Ball were her responsibility, and for months now Finn had been stressing over every invitation, every menu item, every last detail. He wanted to tell her not to worry—the party would be the most wonderful night of their lives. He understood the pressure she felt was intense. Finn held the highest position in the Coven that a mortal had ever achieved—which some members still found unsettling. Historically, human Conduits were seen as little more than servants, worker bees who devoted their lives to the care of their vampires, and human familiars who gave their blood had no voice or influence in the Coven. Finn was both Conduit and familiar, but as Oliver kept telling the ruling conclave, times had changed, and the vampires would have to change along with them.
“So, you got in really late last night?” Oliver asked, filling his bowl with oatmeal from the silver tureen in the middle of the table.
Finn frowned. “I know… I know. I was dealing with some party stuff.”
“Till midnight?” he asked. “You’re working too hard.”
“Oh… well, when I got home I went for a walk. I couldn’t sleep,” she said, coloring a little. “Don’t worry. I didn’t go far, just around the block.”
He nodded. He knew how stressed she was over the party; he hated to see her so anxious, though. He made a mental note to see about getting his assistant to help her more as he sprinkled his oatmeal with a spoonful of brown sugar and took a bite. He chewed, grimaced, and put his spoon down.
“Not hungry?” Finn asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No.” He shook his head.
“Wonder why,” she teased. “You’re probably full of me.”
“Ha,” he said, pushing the bowl away with a smile. His oatmeal tasted like sand, gravelly and gritty, with very little trace of the sugar he had just heaped on it. While his senses had become heightened, his ability to enjoy food had waned lately. He wondered if it meant there had been something wrong with his transition, as he remembered his vampire friends eating and drinking like mortals, except they never gained weight and they never got drunk. Maybe he’d ask one of the Repository clerks about this phenomenon, though he hated giving anyone a reminder that he wasn’t like them. He wasn’t born a Blue Blood; he was the only living mortal on earth who had been made into one, gifted with immortality by the Almighty at the end of the final battle.
He was, as he had always been, the exception. And now he was going to be Regis. As if they didn’t already have reason enough to resent him.
“Sir?”
Oliver turned to see Peakes holding his cell phone on a silver tray.
“Pardon for interrupting, but you have a call from the Venator chief; he said it was important and insisted I get you on the telephone as soon as possible.”
“Perry here,” he said after taking it with a nod. He listened for a few minutes and frowned. “When? Why didn’t you call me as soon as the day shift checked in? Okay. Next time, keep me updated as soon as you know. Right. Let me know what else they find,” he said sharply.
He slipped the phone into his jacket pocket.
“What’s wrong?” Finn asked, concerned. “Those pentagrams again?”
Oliver nodded. Damn pentagrams. What did it mean? He was still wishing it would prove to be nothing—that it was the work of a random graffiti artist or some Bansky prank. Of course this disturbance would appear now, with plans for the Four Hundred Ball well under way.
The chief had just told him the latest pentagram was made from human blood. Which meant there was a victim, a body. There had been no bloodshed since the War; the only victims were their enemies, like those damn Nephilim the team recently busted. This latest development didn’t bode well.
Vampires of Manhattan Page 2
