They weren�t low-level demons looking to make a name for themselves. These pricks swore allegiance to Nikolai Chernikov, the most powerful, most ruthless demon in the city. One whose organization had been growing like a cancer, kept in check only by a mysterious, centuries-old agreement with a vampire who�as of this morning�was no more than a pile of dust and memory.

Augustus Redthorne. Their father.

Malcolm stood, brushing the filth from his hands. "Remind me again how you�ve got things under control?"

"I spared a human soul from eternal damnation. I got a hot meal out of the arrangement. And no one had to die." Forcing a smile, Dorian kicked Metalhead�s boot, unleashing a watery moan. "I�m calling that a win."

"There are other ways, brother." Malcolm reached over to swipe an errant streak of blood from Dorian�s cheek. "Legal, consensual ways that don�t involve provoking enemies." He licked the blood from his thumb, then grimaced. "Ways that don�t taste like utter shite."

Dorian turned away from the unwanted touch as well as the unwanted lecture. "Not for me, there aren�t."

It may have taken him a few centuries and more nightmares than he could count to learn the lesson, but now it was as firmly embedded in his psyche as his own name.

He didn�t feed on fresh humans for the same reason he didn�t fall in love�dalliances with both had made him weak and stupid. Mistakes he wouldn�t make again. Foul as it was, fresh demon blood offered the same nourishment as its human counterpart without the nasty side effects: arousal, euphoria, complete and utter obsession�

Just thinking about it sent Dorian�s mind into a dangerous spin.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Eventually, word would reach Chernikov, and�Shadow Accords violation be damned�this incident would come back to bite Dorian in the ass.

But that was a problem for another night.

Tonight, he had an annoying brother to ditch, a rare painting to acquire, and an equally rare bottle of single malt scotch to crawl into before he jerked himself off to sleep, putting the last twenty-four hours swiftly behind him.

"My apologies," Dorian said, already making his way out of the alley. "I�m nearly late for an appointment. Are you staying at Ravenswood? Perhaps we might catch up another night."

"An alliance makes sense, Dorian," Malcolm said, jogging to keep up.

Stopping at a newsstand, he bought a bottle of sparkling water and a pack of mints, downing them both in quick succession. Neither relieved the sharp tang of demon blood from his senses.

Unsurprising. In Dorian�s experience, there was only one sure-fire cure for that. But it�d been far too long since he�d had the pleasure of burying his face between a woman�s thighs, and he doubted tonight would end any differently.

"With Father gone," Malcolm continued, "and no witch bound to our line�"

"Careful, brother. In this city, even the gargoyles have ears."

In truth, Dorian was less concerned about spies than he was about entertaining his brother�s endless quest for power. Dorian was the eldest; these decisions were his to command or ignore as he saw fit.

Malcolm had always struggled to remember it. Which was a fine oversight while he built his empire in the bayou, but less fine when he brought his aspirations north.

They walked in tense silence for the last two blocks, then Dorian spotted the blood-red awning marking the entrance to The Salvatore, a massive double-tower, thirty-story apartment building on Central Park West. The auction would take place in the penthouse, with the bidding set to begin in half an hour, and he definitely needed a drink first�a real drink. It left precious little time for chit-chat with Malcolm.

Thank the devil�s cock for small favors.

He stepped through the opulent glass-front entry, hoping Malcolm would fuck off back to Ravenswood and spare him the headache of further spectacle. But even that was too much to ask, and his younger brother followed him into the lobby, footfalls echoing on the gleaming marble floor.

A doorman inquired about their business, but Dorian sent a wave of compulsion his way, and the man returned to his station, content to let the vampires pass.

"There are but four of us left," Malcolm said, trailing him to the elevator bay. "Four royal vampires standing against an entire city of demons, witches, and lesser bloodsuckers who�d sell us to the highest bidder without a second thought." JrNovels.com