Dark Obsession (Vampire Royals of New York #3) - Sarah Piper Page 0,36
they got sloppy—hence the missing nipples.”
“Thank you,” Aiden said. “Vindication never felt so good.”
“The weight balance feels off too,” she said. “There’s just something odd about the whole thing. Where did you say you bought this?”
“I didn’t.” Dorian picked it up for a closer look, squinting as if that might help him decipher the evidence as easily as Charlotte had. “It wasn’t a purchase. My father stole it from House Kendrick in the 1800s, right after he slaughtered them.”
He and Colin told her the story—as much as they knew of it, anyway.
“So, tracing back the known ownership line,” Charlotte said, tapping her lips, “Kendrick is the first one duped. Then your father, who promises to retrieve it for Chernikov but instead keeps it hidden in a coffin in your backyard. Two-hundred-some years later, your father passes away, and suddenly Chernikov—along with another demon kingpin—are both vying for it again, to the tune of twenty million dollars each.”
“That sounds about right,” Dorian said.
“But in all that time, no one thought to have it authenticated?” she asked. “No one even questioned it?”
“Apparently not,” Dorian said.
She shook her head, still puzzling through the mystery. “The odd balance, the sloppy workmanship, the strange history, the insane wire transfers… It’s almost as if… Oh, fuck me.”
Charlotte’s eyes suddenly blazed with a look of sheer wonder and excitement that rivaled Colin’s the day they’d found the demon book. Then, before Dorian could utter another word, she grabbed the sculpture from his hands, lifted it over her head, and dropped it onto the floor, smashing it to bits.
Chapter Fourteen
“Brilliant!” Aiden laughed. “I can’t tell you how badly I’ve wanted to do just that.”
Dorian glared at her as if she’d lost her mind. Which, obviously, she had. “Bloody hell, woman! Forgery or not, that statue was our only bargaining chip with—”
“The statue wasn’t the bargaining chip, Dorian.” Charlotte crouched down and retrieved something from the rubble—a long, slender object wrapped in an old cloth, dusty with clay.
When she got to her feet again, she swayed.
“Charlotte?” Dorian reached out to steady her. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, just… just a bout of vertigo. Combined with a big helping of déjà vu.” She took a breath and shook her head. “It seems to have passed. That was… weird.”
“Has this happened before?” Colin asked, immediately snapping into doctor mode.
“No. Probably just a head rush.”
“Or a side effect of your injuries.” Concern tightened his brow, and he held up a finger, asking her to follow it with her eyes. “Any other symptoms these past few days? Dizziness? Headache?”
“Honestly, I think I just got up too fast. I haven’t eaten anything yet today either, so that’s probably not helping.”
Colin sighed, but his eyes held only warmth and kindness for his newest patient. “Charlotte, as your unofficial vampire doctor, I insist you take better care of yourself, lest I be forced to put you on bedrest under the watchful eye of my brooding brother.”
“Gabriel?” Dorian teased, wrapping an arm around Charlotte’s waist. “As if I’d allow him to darken her doorstep.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “I’ll grab something to eat as soon as we get back upstairs.”
With a reassuring smile for them both, she slid out of Dorian’s hold and brought the bundle to the stone table, where she unwrapped it with a delicate touch.
“Holy shit,” she whispered, her eyes widening again as if the day just kept getting better and better.
“What is it?” Colin asked.
Cole peered over her shoulder. “Some kinda dagger. Old as shit. Good for stabbing, though. Nice and pointy.”
“Old as shit,” she repeated reverently. “And yes, definitely good for stabbing. A lot of stabbing, if the history is to be believed.”
“What history?” Dorian asked.
“Our demonic pals aren’t after the Mother of Lost Souls, guys,” she said. “They’re after the blade of the Bessmertnym Soldat—the Immortal Soldier.”
“Fancy name for a rusty old relic,” Cole said.
“This relic allegedly killed some of the highest ranking generals in Napoleon’s Grande Armée during the Battle of Borodino,” she said. “Not to mention scores of secret police, government officials, thieves… It’s hundreds of years old. Thousands, maybe—its origins were never confirmed.”
She lifted the blade, still partially wrapped in the cloth, and passed it to Dorian for a closer look. The others crowded in around him.
“It’s falling apart,” he said, noticing all the notches in the blade.
“Considering its age and the method of storage, it’s actually quite well preserved,” she said, her eyes still sparkling at the find. “It was forged in the shape of a raven’s wing—the notches