Dark Deception (Vampire Royals of New York #1) - Sarah Piper Page 0,1
and glory.
In Dorian’s experience, the latter camp never read the fine print.
“Hurt?” The other demon laughed, his long, white-blond hair floating over his shoulders like a ghost. He tossed an arm around the human as if they were best mates. “Not for a good ten years.”
Blondie led the guy deeper into the alley, leaving Metalhead to stand guard near the construction site’s dumpster.
Dorian waited for cover from the sound of a passing ambulance, then approached Metalhead with a friendly smile.
“Pardon me, could I trouble you for a—” He slammed his fist into the demon’s jaw, then hauled him close, sinking his fangs into his neck before the bastard could conjure his deadly demonic hellfire.
Demon blood slid down his throat, saccharine and terrible, like burned sugar poured over hot rubbish. The rancid taste made Dorian’s eyes water, everything in him begging him to retreat, but his hunger made it impossible. Like a living, breathing entity, it took over, stripping Dorian of all humanity, of memory, of understanding. In these brief but bloody seconds, he was nothing but a predator devouring his meal, the demon twitching helplessly in his arms.
The only thing that prevented Dorian from killing him outright—from killing any demon—was the threat of possession. Demonic entities could be banished to hell, but only by a skilled witch. If a demon’s physical body died, the entity itself would slide into the closest available human host—a fate to which Dorian wouldn’t condemn his worst human enemy, let alone an innocent moron in an NYU shirt.
When Dorian sensed the demon’s heartbeat slow to an acceptably near-death rhythm, he unlatched from the artery and turned the limp body around, holding it face-out like a shield as he moved down the alley. Tucked away in the shadows, Blondie muttered his ancient incantations, ready to slice the human’s hand and finalize the blood deal. The smell of brimstone hung heavy in the air. The ritual was nearly complete.
“I believe you dropped something,” Dorian announced, then shoved Metalhead into the surprised arms of his mate. In a blur of speed no demon could match, he rushed forward and slammed them both against the bricks, biting into Blondie’s artery and draining him with an efficiency born of centuries of practice.
Thoroughly weakened and teetering on the precipice of death, the demons slid to the ground in a quivering, moaning heap.
The quick pattering of another heartbeat caught Dorian’s attention, and he turned to find the human gaping at him, pale and shocked. In the frenzy of the feed, he’d almost forgotten about the little twat.
“Well? Anything to say for yourself?” Dorian wiped the blood from his lips, scowling at the taste.
“I… I needed tuition money, and…” He swallowed hard, fingers trembling as he fished out his wallet and handed it over. “Take it. Just don’t hurt me.”
If Dorian hadn’t just fed, his predatory instincts would’ve kicked in, and this sniveling man-child would be an easy dinner—much more flavorful than the demons. As it was, he looked about thirty seconds from pissing himself.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Dorian snatched the wallet, sparing a brief glance at the driver’s license inside. Jonathan Braynard of Tipton, Indiana. He’d just turned eighteen.
Old enough to consent, young enough to give up his best years as a slave of Hell.
Dorian retrieved his platinum money clip and stuffed it into the wallet, handing it back to the kid with a deadly glare.
“Return home, Johnny,” he said smoothly, the kid’s pupils dilating as the vampire compulsion took hold. “Forget this happened. Whatever darkness led you to bargain with demons, that path is closed. You’ve got a new lease on life.” Dorian dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Run along.”
Still shaking, the guy turned and vomited, narrowly missing Dorian’s shoes. Then he took off, stumbling into the sunlit street and out of sight.
“You’re welcome,” Dorian grumbled.
“Dumpster diving, brother?” a voice taunted from behind, achingly familiar, supremely irritating. “What will the neighbors think?”
Malcolm.
Dorian cursed under his breath. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to hear the speech. Nice touch, that bit about a new lease on life.”
“I’ve been working on the pitch.” Dorian tried to hold fast to his annoyance, but his heart betrayed him, and a genuine smile spread across his face as he turned to take stock of the man before him—a man he hadn’t seen in five decades, who now stood tall and confident, with piercing golden eyes and smooth, tanned skin that made him look even younger than Dorian remembered. “New Orleans favors