Dark Debt

by Chloe Neill

  Tonight, limousines lined the neighborhood’s streets. Brody plodded along in stop-and-go traffic, his frustration evidenced by occasional grunts.

  “Eyes on the road,” Ethan said when Brody checked the rearview mirror again to catch a glimpse of me.

  I bit back a smile, but gave myself a mental high five for being utterly fly.

  “She just looks so . . . fancy,” Brody said, which deflated my ego just a bit.

  “Fancy,” I decided, wasn’t the equivalent of “astoundingly beautiful.” And the dress had been too much work to get into for anything less complimentary than the latter.

  “She can hear you,” I reminded him. “And she outranks you. Eyes on the road.”

  “What did you say to me last night?” Ethan murmured with amusement. “Down, girl?”

  I made a vague sound as Brody reached the front of Reed’s house, where a human in a black shirt, vest, and pants opened the door.

  “Stay close,” I told Brody. “Find a spot, no more than two blocks, and keep your phone on.”

  “On that,” he said, and merged back into the slow crawl of cars after Ethan and I had disembarked. I tucked hair behind my ear, adjusted the dress so it fell properly around my feet, noticed Ethan’s soft smile.

  “What?”

  “You think you don’t fit here, Sentinel,” he said quietly, offering me his arm as we strolled the red carpet through lines of reporters who’d gathered to snap photos of the rich, famous, and infamous. “But you fit better than many of them, because you know exactly who you are.”

  The lucky photographer who snapped me after that compliment got a grand smile for her trouble.

  After several slow minutes of walking, we reached the front door, where a petite girl with dark skin and hair piled in a voluminous topknot stood with a clipboard.

  “Ethan and Merit,” he said. “We’re guests of Joshua Merit.”

  She scanned the list, nodded. “Welcome to the Reed house,” she said, and gestured us inside.

  The house opened immediately into an enormous two-story room, with marble dominating the first floor, including a large marble staircase bound in curvy marble balusters that marched to the second floor. The second floor formed a balcony around the first, surrounded by a railing of thick, dark wood.

  The house’s décor matched its large scale. Baroque furniture, paneled walls, heavy sconces, all of it oversized. There was something Old World about the tone, but the effect was jumbled, as if Reed had simply plucked items at random from an antiques store.

  Adding to the heaviness, the furniture had been draped in jewel-toned silks and was speared with tall candelabras and dripping pillar candles. Reed had even hired performers. A couple in teal silk jumpsuits juggled painted clubs. Dancers in velvet ball gowns and harlequin ensembles, their identities concealed behind papier-mâché masks with large dark tears painted beneath diamond-shaped eyes, danced in pairs through the crowd. Most of the guests wore black, which offset the deep burgundy, gold, and crimson velvets of the performers’ costumes.

  “And the theme is,” I murmured, glancing around, “Venetian masquerade.”

  “Very theatrical,” Ethan said.

  “It is.” A man in a black jumpsuit spun past us, his face covered by a mask with round eyes and a beaklike nose.

  And a little creepy, I added silently. Very Eyes Wide Shut.

  And very Venetian. That’s a medico della peste, he said. It’s based on a mask that was used by doctors to protect them from the plague.

  It’s disturbing.

  Some find that to be part of the appeal, Ethan said, but sidled closer as the masked man circled us, his eyes trained on us like a ballet dancer even as his body spun.

  “That was creepy,” I said as he finally moved away.

  “It was,” Ethan said, grabbing two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. He handed me one, then tapped his glass delicately against mine. “Sentinel, I’ll say it again: You look ravishing.”

  Because I agreed with him, I shared his smile. “You have excellent taste. And I’m not just saying that because we’re dating.”

  “But it doesn’t hurt.”

  “It doesn’t hurt,” I agreed, and sipped. The champagne was smoky and peachy at the same time. An odd combination, but it worked. I hadn’t yet seen a snack tray, but the drink gave me hope they’d also be good.

  “Do you see him anywhere?”

  I glanced back at Ethan. “Reed or my father?”

  “Either. I’m surprised Reed isn’t making the rounds—and your father isn’t at his side.”

  “What do you know about this Towerline project?”

  “Not a lot,” Ethan said, shifting to avoid the swoop of a juggler snatching an errant baton. “I’ve read about it, seen the plans in the paper. It’s reportedly the biggest deal your father has ever closed.”

  “And he wants Reed as an investor?”

  “That would be my guess. A project that large will take a lot of financing.” Ethan touched my arm, nodded toward the other side of the room. “And I believe we’ve just received our summoning.”

  I followed his gaze. A man on the other side of the room—also tall and lean, but with dark hair and pale blue eyes that matched mine—gestured with two fingers, beckoning me to him in the same fashion he called his servants.

  I managed not to growl.

  “Beware, Sentinel. Humans are the fiercest predators of all.”

  “Well aware,” I said, using one of Ethan’s favorite phrases.

  With Ethan’s hand at my back, we crossed the ballroom.

  “Joshua,” Ethan said when we reached him.

  He offered Ethan a handshake. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Merit,” he said to me, without pleasantries.

  “Dad.”

  Always charming, Ethan said silently, then gestured to the room. “This is quite an affair.”

  “Adrien enjoys a good show. He’d like to meet you. I’ll take you upstairs.” He turned on his heel, headed toward the staircase. My father was undeniably absorbed by business, but for him to act as majordomo for anyone was utterly out of character. And oddly sycophantic.

  The deal must not be done if he’s doing Reed’s business, Ethan said silently.

  My thoughts exactly. But we’d come here for a purpose, so we followed him to the stairs, climbed treads of pink marble warped with age and the wear of thousands of footsteps. Thankfully, going up was a lot easier than going down, so Ethan didn’t have to bear the burden of my purse.

  Partygoers flowed around us with masks and champagne flutes in hand, the entire effect dizzying, like walking uphill through a waterfall of people.

  The second floor opened into a long gallery flanked by marble columns, the walls marked by oil paintings in gilded frames: landscapes, still lifes, portraits. As with the first floor, his taste seemed to vary in everything except size. They were all enormous, which made their subjects seem that much larger.

  Our Mr. Reed does not care for subtlety, Ethan said, our footsteps silent on the undoubtedly priceless runner that covered the marble floor as we traversed the gallery.

  There were fewer guests in this room, which felt more like it belonged in a medieval castle than a businessman’s home. The few men and women who’d sought refuge from the crush downstairs stood in intimate clusters, faces hidden by demi-masks.

  The end of the gallery was marked by a set of wooden doors.They opened and a man strode out, closing them quietly behind him again. He was a big man—tall and wide—with a rounded crown of silver hair surrounding a shining bald dome. He walked toward us with heavy, steady steps, and looked very unhappy about whatever had gone down in the office.

  “Sanford,” my father said.

  “Joshua,” the man said with a nod, th
en carried on behind us, leaving the faint smell of cigar smoke behind him.

  Sanford? I asked Ethan silently. His face rang a bell, but I couldn’t place him.

  Sanford King, Ethan said. He was arrested last year for racketeering, bribery, extortion, and some manner of other financial ills. He was acquitted, as I recall.

  The arrest apparently hadn’t hurt his reputation if he was getting private meets with Reed at the man’s own gala.

  We reached the doors, the apparent inner sanctum, and my father knocked. A moment later, the door opened, and a tall man in a black suit glanced at my father, then us. Bodyguard. He had the square jaw and broad shoulders for it, and the buzz of steel from the gun I guessed was holstered in a shoulder harness.

  “Joshua Merit,” my father said.

  The door closed a bit while the guard did his checking, then opened again. The guard looked each of us over as we entered, then closed the door behind us and took his post again, shoulders back, hands clasped in front of him.

  The room, an office with several walls of shelves, a large desk, and a sitting area, was spartan compared to the rest of the house. There were a few pieces of décor—a globe, potted palms, a blocky chandelier that might have been designed for a Frank Lloyd Wright house, but they were appropriately scaled and surprisingly tasteful.

  A man stood across the room, leaning against the desk with one ankle crossed over the other, a phone in hand. He was trim but broad-shouldered, with dark, wavy hair and a goatee that had just begun to salt-and-pepper. I’d have put him in his early forties.

  His charcoal tuxedo was immaculately cut, his square face well lived in but handsome, with a square jaw, a deep slash of mouth, eyes the same gray as his suit. He wasn’t unhandsome, but it was the air of utter confidence, the sense of fundamental knowledge and control, that was interesting. He was absolutely certain of his world.

  He hung up the phone, slipped it into his pocket, glanced at my father questioningly.

  “Ethan Sullivan of Cadogan House,” my father said. Apparently, the Master got top billing. “You’d wanted to meet him.”

  Reed shifted his gaze to Ethan, and I caught a moment of surprise, then irritation. My guess? His foundation of knowledge and control had been shaken because he hadn’t known we were coming.

  I glanced at my father, and the question on my face should have been obvious: Why was Adrien Reed surprised we were here? Wasn’t his wanting to meet us the entire point? Or were we my father’s hospitality gifts, to be handed over to the man like a bottle of good wine?

  Regardless of his initial surprise, Reed was practiced. He moved forward, offered Ethan a hand. “Welcome to our home.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ethan said, then put a hand at my back. “My Sentinel and paramour, Merit.”

  It was childish that he’d used my father’s word, but still satisfying to see my father’s wince of impropriety.

  Reed’s nod was brisk, efficient.

  “You have a beautiful home,” I said. “The gallery is very impressive.”

  “I find, as I age, that I prefer intense to dull,” Reed said. “More to less. There are only so many hours in the day, and much to be accomplished.” He glanced at Ethan. “Immortality, of course, presents the opposite problem.”

  “There are more hours to fill, certainly, but more consequence,” was Ethan’s measured response. “One becomes eternally tied to one’s choices.”

  Reed nodded in acknowledgment.

  A door on the other side of the room opened, and a breeze from an outdoor terrace wafted in, along with the bright scent of fruity perfume.

  “My wife,” Reed said, gesturing to the statuesque woman who’d walked inside. She wore a long, sleeveless dress the color of new grass, a gleaming brass belt around her tiny waist. Her eyes were as luminously green as the fabric, her skin sun-kissed gold. Thick blond hair waved across her bare shoulders, one side pulled back by a barrette that matched the belt. She looked like she’d stepped from a 1970s fashion ad, or maybe the set of Charlie’s Angels. Since she couldn’t have been more than twenty-three or twenty-four, she probably wouldn’t have gotten the reference.

  “Sorcha,” Reed said, holding out his hand.

  She walked forward, offered him her free hand, the other holding a flute of champagne.

  “Ethan and Merit, of Cadogan House. They’re vampires.”

  “Oh?” she asked, her tone making it hard to tell whether she was surprised, confused, or disturbed.

  “As I’ve finished my business, I suppose we should join the party again.” He released his wife, gestured toward the door, and fell into step beside Ethan.

  “I understand you’re part of the AAM—the new national organization.” They entered the gallery, the magnate and the Master, and chatted about the departure from the GP. My father and the bodyguard followed, and then Sorcha and me.

  “This is quite a house,” I said to her.

  “Yes, it’s very big. So, you’re a vampire?”

  “Yes. For almost a year now.”

  “Oh. How does that work, exactly?”

  “Humans are turned when they’re bitten by other vampires.”

  “Oh,” she said again. Once again, I couldn’t tell if she couldn’t understand or didn’t much care.

  We reached the stairs and Reed stopped at the top, gestured Sorcha to his side. He signaled a waiter, who brought over a tray of champagne, stood at attention while Reed turned to his guests.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” Reed said, his resonant voice carrying across the space.

  A hush fell over the room. Guests turned toward Reed, moved toward the stairs to watch him.

  “I’d like to thank you all for coming to our small soiree tonight. I hope you’ll enjoy the beverages, the food. You’ve all been generous, and I hope you’ll consider being generous one more time. You’ll see men and women with baskets in the crowd. Please consider making a donation.”

  The plague doctor danced through the crowd with two other masked friends, all of them carrying reed baskets, pausing occasionally as guests dropped money inside them.

  The entire event had been theatrical, so when two men in harlequin masks jumped suddenly from the balcony and landed in the middle of the marble stairway, I thought it was part of the act.

  But when they pulled gleaming katanas from black scabbards and the subtle vibration of vampire magic filled the air, it was obvious this wasn’t part of the show.

  It was an attack.

  Chapter Seven

  DRESSING DOWN

  Ethan, I said silently, and he nodded, his body tense and ready to spring forward.

  “We come for Sanford King,” said the vampire on the right, katana pointed at the crowd. The humans talked and gestured nervously, looking around for the man who’d been called out. Unfortunately for him, Sanford wasn’t difficult to spot, being nearly a head taller than everyone else.

  “I believe you’re at the wrong house,” Reed said, voice booming and quieting the crowd again—except for the shuffle of cell phones as cameras snapped, messages were sent, and calls were placed.

  This would need diplomacy, I thought, pulling my phone surreptitiously from my bag and sending Brody and my grandfather a message: VAMPS W/ SWORDS AT REED HOUSE TO HARM SANFORD KING. CPD DISPATCH PROBABLE.

  “We’re at precisely the right house,” said the vampire on the left.

  They moved down the stairs, one tread at a time, their swords extended and blades gleaming silver. With each step, the crowd moved backward, away from danger.

  Sanford King might have been a criminal, but he wasn’t a coward. He pushed through the humans and moved into the clearing, looked over the men. His face had gone crimson, sweat beading on his brow. “I’m Sanford King. The fuck do you want with me?”

  “You’re a killer,” said the vampire on the lef
t. “A criminal. A parasite on the city. You deserve to die. Tonight, we’ll handle that.”

  They began to circle King, lions preparing for an attack, the gazelle cornered and nervous between them. Criminal, coward, or otherwise, Sanford was human, and didn’t look like much of a match for the well-armed vampires.

  Ethan and I simultaneously stepped forward to assist. But before we could take the stairs, Reed held up a hand, and his voice was low and threatening.

  “Do not even think of drawing your weapons in my house. I will not have any more armed vampires here.”

  Ethan showed his teeth but stayed where he was.

  His house, his rules, Ethan said silently. Until we deem otherwise. Stay ready, Sentinel.

  Reed snapped his fingers, and his bodyguard pulled his gun from a shoulder holster, gripped it in a two-hand stance, and began moving carefully down the stairs, barrel pointed toward the vampires.

  “On the ground!” he yelled when he hit the first floor.

  The vampires ignored the order. As King disappeared into the crowd again, the vampire on the right launched forward, swinging his katana with a move the bodyguard barely evaded. But avoiding the strike left him off-balance, and the second vampire executed a perfect side kick that connected with the bodyguard’s wrist, sending the gun into the air and then skidding across the floor.

  The bodyguard didn’t seem worried. “Fine. You want to play it that way, we’ll play it.” He lunged for one of the vampires, who neatly sidestepped the move, sliced upward with a strike that caught the bodyguard across the chest. He hit his knees, but it was a feint—when the vampire moved closer, thinking to finish him off, the bodyguard grabbed him by the calves, pulled him to the ground, attempted to muscle him into a hold.

  The bodyguard was big and muscular and outweighed the vampires considerably. But they were faster, more efficient, more athletic. The vampire flipped, squirmed out of the bodyguard’s hold, and jumped back to his feet, but he’d lost his katana. The bodyguard picked it up, grasped the handle with both hands, began to wield it like a foil, with pokes and thrusts that weren’t well suited for the blade.