“Hell, Tristan,” he cursed. “If you have something to say, just bloody say it. It irritates me no end when you sit there looking like you’ve been sucking on a lemon.”
“Regulus wouldn’t have allowed any vampire to be slaughtered by a witch,” the knight said. “Your hold over the London vampires is hangin’ by a thread. You have to keep them in line and not drag them into a four-hundred-year-old personal revenge plot.”
Nye’s eyes narrowed in warning. “Don’t you think I know that? This needs to end swiftly, and they can make that happen. I can’t canvass the entire city alone before the next body appears.”
“And if they find out your harborin’ a human woman, they won’t be happy.”
“The Six won’t talk,” he snapped. “Isobel is here for a very good reason, and you know it. Now more so than ever. The Unhallowed will use her against me if they find out she means…” He closed his mouth and tightened his grip around the arm of the chair. “No matter what happens, she’ll be hurt, and I’d rather it be by my hand in this house where she can keep her life.”
Tristan eyed him, and if he thought Nye’s concern over Isobel was more than it should be, he didn’t mention it. “Well, you had better deliver on your promises. Otherwise, the entire London vampire community will be at your door clamorin’ for your head.”
“Get out,” Nye snapped, thoroughly annoyed at the knight’s barrage of home truths.
Tristan rose to his feet, inclined his head, and retreated out of the study, leaving Nye to his own devices.
He sank back into the armchair and stared at the dying flames in the fireplace, his mind swirling with the weight of his predicament.
Regulus spent his entire vampire life hunting and destroying the Tuatha hybrids, and not once had he delegated the task to another. What did that say about his successor if he sent the whole city after his own problems? Not much and he’d already done just that…but there was the fact that Nye and the original Six had spent a great deal of time hunting Aya, the Celestine hybrid, for him, too. Was this any different? The Unhallowed had declared open war against all vampire kind as far as he was concerned. Perhaps he had made the right call.
Nye couldn’t shake the feeling he’d just failed his first real challenge as leader of the London vampires.
Only time would tell if things would come crashing down.
Isobel stood in the foyer of the mansion, feeling like she was the last human being on earth.
The house had been a hive of activity the last two nights, and she had no idea what everyone was so worked up about—not that they’d tell her, anyway. Since the incident at breakfast the other morning, she’d seen Nye a total of zero times.
Apart from Tristan checking in on her yesterday afternoon, she may as well be in solitary confinement.
Annoyed at feeling like she was confined to the bedroom, she decided she’d go out and see the world, meaning she wanted to inspect the treasure trove of art that hung all over the walls.
The one that had caught her eye was before her, the canvas mounted in a golden frame with a hand-painted nameplate at the bottom. It didn’t bear the artist’s name, but it had the title of the work, The Dream of Human Life. History said the artist, Michelangelo, had only drawn the image by hand. A sketch on paper was all that future generations had. He’d never actually painted it…only his followers after his death had committed the image to color.
Staring intently at the brushstrokes and studying the application of gold leaf, she was sure of it. It was a Michelangelo. An original. He’d painted the entire ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Rome, which included the famous image of The Creation of David. He’d sculpted one of the most iconic marble statues in human history, David, and here was a piece painted by the master’s own hand, a painting history said had never been created, hanging in a vampire’s house in Hampstead, London. It was criminal.
“Don’t they know what this is?” she whispered, completely aghast. If it went up for auction, she was sure it’d fetch upwards of ten million pounds. Just for this one! When Gabby got back, she’d have to tell her how rich she really was.
A thump from outside pulled her attention and she turned, staring at the giant door that taunted her with its inability to grant her freedom.
When no other sound followed, no knocking or doorbell ringing, she hesitated. She waited a moment, silently debating on whether she should open the door or not.
Tristan said no vampires could come inside unless invited by Gabby. If she couldn’t get out, did that mean the house was impenetrable to other humans, too? She didn’t know if it extended to witches and other creatures as well or if it was just vampires. Wait, how many other supernatural creatures were out there? Aed was one of the Tuatha fae, so fairies were a thing, an extinct thing, but they were real at some point. Werewolves? Were they a thing?
She’d been walking around her whole life among these creatures blissfully unaware and totally safe, so what was different now that she knew? Nothing. It was the uncertainty in her own mind stopping her.
Deciding she’d take the risk, Isobel stepped forward and took charge.
Opening the front door, she found a dagger embedded into the wood. A piece of parchment was stuck beneath it, like the knife was some kind of over-the-top drawing pin. What the hell? That explained the thud.
Swinging the door further inside, Isobel narrowed her eyes when she realized the paper was blank. It made no sense. Who would knife the door with a blank note? These people were bloody crazy.
Raising her hand, she went to stroke the paper, wondering if touch would reveal anything.
“Don’t touch that.”
Her gaze collided with Nye’s as she turned, her fingers still poised in the air. Her heart did a flip in her chest and she flinched, knowing he heard everything. No being covert about stupid, unobtainable crushes in this house. At least this one she could pass off as being startled.
“What is it?” she asked.
He moved forward fluidly and opened the door as far as it would go. Staring at the dagger and the note, he frowned but didn’t reveal a single one of this thoughts.
“Nye?”
He glanced at Isobel. “It’s none of your concern. Go back inside.”
“I am inside,” she said, bashing her fist against the invisible barrier, the sunshine and twittering birds taunting her from beyond. “I’m so inside it’s painful.”
He grasped the hilt of the dagger and pulled, his free hand plucking away the parchment before it fluttered to the ground.
“It’s blank,” she said. “Is it supposed to mean something?”
“It’s not blank,” Nye murmured. “Only supernatural creatures can see…”
“Well, glad we cleared up how plain boring I am.”
Nye seemed to stiffen, his entire body freezing like he was a sculpture in a museum. Then he shut the front door, the wood driving home with a bang, and closed out the world beyond.
“You are not plain boring,” he said, ignoring the moment when she jumped out of her skin at the abrupt slam of the door.
“I’m clueless, though,” she retorted, letting the fear she’d been carrying around since she got here fall away—the fear of being an inconvenience, the fear of being lunch, and the fear of being a useless human being. She just let it go and let the real Isobel shine. “I have no idea what to do or what is going on around this place. I’m stuck here for God knows how long, and I can’t help. I rely on Tristan to bring me food for heaven’s sake! I’m not strong or fast… I’m not supernatural…” She gestured to the paper he held in his hand. “I’m just a plain human being with nothing—”
“You’re human, Isobel,” he interrupted. “Human.”
She rolled her eyes. “Right. Like that’s the answer to everything.”
Nye seemed to creep closer, his expression darkening like thunder. “You don’t know how many of us wish we could go back. How many of us were forced into this life…” His lip curled. “You don’t kno
w.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes widening. “You were forced to become…”
“Go upstairs,” he commanded.
“No.” She almost stamped her foot to punctuate her sentence.
“Isobel…”
“Do you know what that is?” she asked, pointing to the Michelangelo.
“It’s a painting,” he replied, his stature seeming to relax.
“It’s a Michelangelo,” she declared. “An unknown Michelangelo. It’s worth at least ten million pounds.”
He tilted his head to the side. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
Isobel didn’t know. She didn’t know anything. Her life was spiraling out of control, and the only thing she could grasp was history. History, antiquity, and art. The mansion was full to the brim with it, and it was the only thing she understood.
“This I know,” she said, jabbing a finger at the painting.
“I see…” Nye mused.
“And that one behind you, I’m pretty sure it’s an early version of Raphael’s The Three Graces.” The image of three naked women was iconic for its time. The Renaissance was famous for its numerous depictions of a fuller-figured woman, and this one was on the slimmer side but not to the point of the modern ideal of beauty. The Three Graces were goddesses of charm, beauty, and creativity. It was a stunning image even though it appeared to be a study for the final product.
“The ass painting?” the vampire asked, his lip quirking.
“The ass…” She threw her hands into the air. “I don’t understand you.”
“That makes two of us,” he quipped. “You like the ass painting.”
“You’re saying that on purpose.”
“It took your mind off the puny human shame spiral you were riding, didn’t it?”
And just like that, the vampire she’d met back in Oxford was at the surface, the pompous king of the London underworld shoved aside in favor of some harmless flirting. Was it harmless, though? The shame spiral was fast turning into a merry-go-round of another kind.
“What’s the notepaper for?” she asked, nodding to the dagger and parchment he still clutched.
“It’s vampire business,” he replied, his smile fading. “Don’t feel the need to concern yourself with it, Isobel.”
“Seems like nasty vampire business, then,” she spat. “Haven’t they heard of Royal Mail? Learn to lick a stamp.”
Nye’s eyebrows rose, but she knew she was only making herself suffer if she stuck around to argue. He’d never tell her what was going on, let alone allow her to help. So she turned on her heel and stormed away, stomping up the stairs in a whirlwind of utter annoyance.
He’d implied her humanity was precious, that he’d do anything to have the choice…but right now, she couldn’t see any advantage in it at all. She was an outsider and was constantly reminded of it like it was a failing rather than a treasure to be coveted.
Bloody vampires. She just wanted to go home and forget this ever happened. She wanted to go back to how things used to be.
Hurry up, Alex.
Closing the door to the study behind him, Nye placed the note and dagger on the desk.
His head was full of Isobel, and her frustration had begun to rub off on him even though their encounter had lasted all of five minutes. That was how much the human woman had crawled under his cold, dead skin despite his attempts to keep her at arm’s length.
Her talk of the paintings downstairs… She was intelligent and knowledgeable. More than he’d assumed she was, but that was human history. It intertwined with the underworld from time to time but never knowingly. Vampire histories weren’t written down. They couldn’t be for fear of exposure. For whatever reason, Isobel desperately wanted to help, but she couldn’t. It was impossible.
Smoothing down the parchment, Nye studied the meticulously scribed black ink, his gaze following the perfect lines while dread rose faster than he could contain it.
It was the same symbol that had been carved into that vampire’s chest. The same symbol that was appearing all over the city. Even as he stared at it, he could feel the hint of magic the dagger and the paper were doused in, magic that reminded him of Eleanor… It was a calling card from the Unhallowed.
This was no copycat. This was the real deal, and now they were in more danger than he’d first thought. They were out for his blood, and those who stood with him would be drawn into the fold, no matter what he did. Tristan, Gabby, the Six, the London vampires…Isobel.
Why the parchment was stuck to his front door, written by hand rather than magically with blood, was beyond his understanding. Whatever it meant, it wasn’t good.
Something bad was about to happen, and he had no idea what it was or how to stop it.
For the first time since that day in the woods near York four hundred years ago, he felt completely powerless.
Chapter 7
Nye sat among a pile of Gabby’s grimoires in the study, no closer to finding a reference to the symbol than when he’d first started.
Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the parchment like it would reveal all its secrets if he just looked hard enough. None of this made sense.
He desperately needed the assistance of a witch, but he didn’t want to bring another creature in on this, especially not Sabine. She’d already asked too much for a simple barrier spell, and this would cost him a great deal more. No, this needed to be kept in-house for now. At least until Gabby returned.
There was nothing in the grimoires. Just witches nonsense that he had no way of understanding.
The symbol was undoubtedly Unhallowed in origin, but what did that star shape mean at the bottom? Did it change the intent of the magic? Or was it just their sign for ‘we’re coming for you.’ Right now, Nye didn’t know a single thing and was resigned to wait and see.
“Nye?”
He glanced up from the desk and saw Isobel hovering in the doorway. She had her arms crossed over her stomach, a frown distorting her pretty features. Just by looking at her, he could tell she wasn’t feeling well.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“I need to go to the store.”
“No.” He looked back down at the note, trying to work out its meaning.
“It’s kind of important.”
“No.”
“I’m not a vampire like you,” she hissed. “I’m a woman and things still work, you know. On a monthly basis.”
He blinked at her, confused at her meaning, but slowly, understanding won out. “Oh.”
She pouted. “If I’m stuck here, then you have to go for me.”
Sliding the parchment into the desk drawer, he locked it inside and rose to his feet. “Fine. Tristan is downstairs. I’ll make him go.”
He crossed the room and stepped past her, sensing her uneasiness on the air. Her pupils dilated slightly, and she instinctively shrank away. It was her humanity picking up on his predatory nature. Ignoring the twist in his heart, he clattered down the stairs.
“While you’re at it,” she called after him, “get me like a million pounds of chocolate!”
He found Tristan in the lounge room watching the television intently, and Nye scowled.
It was a medieval style fantasy program that seemed to be all anyone ever talked about, and Tristan was hooked. Why he watched that rubbish was beyond him. Who had time for soap operas when they had much worse and more real threats to handle…like Isobel’s womanly functions.
“Tristan,” he said, picking up the remote and muting the television.
The knight raised an eyebrow at him.
“I need you to go to the supermarket for Isobel.”
“Why?”
“She wants…” He waved his hands around.
“She wants?” the knight prodded.
“Don’t make me say it,” he snapped. “She wants female things.”
Tristan’s lips quirked as he tried to stifle an amused grin. “Tampons?”
“I’m no
t going.”
“I’m not your handmaiden, Nye,” he said with a chuckle. “Besides, Rajesh won’t let me into his shop. You know that. He says one demon is enough. I’m not goin’ all the way to Waitrose for tampons and chocolate for your human houseguest, even if she is Alex’s sister.”
Rajesh was the owner of the off-license down the street. He lived above his shop, and vampires weren’t allowed inside, except for Nye, which meant he had to go. “Right about now, I wish I could compel you.”
“Lucky for me,” Tristan said, not trying to hide his laugh.
He cursed his bad luck and stormed from the living room. If there wasn’t so much going on with stupid little upstart vampires who thought they could rule the roost, then he would be able to send one of the Six to do it. He was meant to be the king, the leader of an entire city and then some, not a maid to a human woman.
But it was Isobel, so he went.
The off-license was two streets away near the Overground train station. The walk was a fast one, Nye’s vampire feet taking him there in record time so he could get this embarrassing errand out of the way as quickly as possible.
He shoved open the door and stepped into the cool, harsh light of the fluorescent-lit store. An electronic beep signaled his arrival to the clerk behind the counter, a little, old Indian man. Rajesh. He’d owned and operated the shop for as long as Nye could remember—about thirty years give or take—and he was compelled to forget Nye and his likeness the moment he left the establishment.
Having a store that sold alcohol close by to Regulus’s mansion had been handy during the last few decades. It was Nye’s own private oasis of booze. Booze was liquid relaxant for vampires.
The shop itself was small, but somehow, three aisles and a bank of fridges and freezers fit inside the space. It was a miniature supermarket with the prices marked up at least thirty percent. People around here could afford the inflation, and it was all in the name of convenience for them on the way home from their dreary daily commute. For Rajesh, it was a goldmine, and one he didn’t mind gouging for every last scrap it was worth.