I was radioactive.
And broke.
So, I’d taken a leap. I’d walked into a bank and signed my life away on a loan to buy a bar sight unseen in a town far, far away from my society, Trystan, and even from my family.
I’d desperately needed a fresh start.
I couldn’t buy a new mattress, not until the bar started making profit. So, it was time to triage and come up with a plan that eventually earned me a new bed, new furniture, and a new life.
First, I needed to sanitize the bar. Possibly with bleach. Maybe with a little fire. Then I needed to convince the town council that I was a serious business owner and not a walking scandal in stilettos. Hopefully, that led to me making money, preferably before the loan interest started strangling me. And lastly, do not cry.
Thirst hit me, so I made my way back downstairs, in search of something to drink before retiring for the night. I didn’t expect much, but maybe I’d get lucky.
As I crossed the floor, the chandelier above suddenly jerked and swayed, even though there wasn’t any breeze. I paused, then glared up at the dusty light fixture. My first ghost, perhaps? It’d sure taken them long enough to make an appearance if so.
“If you drop on me, I will melt you down and turn you into earrings.”
The chandelier instantly froze, confirming my suspicion.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I muttered.
Eyeing the chandelier, I tucked behind the bar and searched the shelves. Miraculously, I found a single bottle of dark red liquid, and when I popped the cork, I was relieved to find it smelled more like bloodwine than poison. Thank goodness.
We vampires were an interesting breed that way. We didn’t require food, but we could enjoy a drink now and then, so long as it was paired with blood. Without that key ingredient, any form of liquid sustenance we put in our mouth was little more than ash on our tongues.
I poured a generous glass, lifted it in a silent toast to the empty room, and took a sip.
It wasn’t bad. A little sharp, a little aged. Like me.
“To fresh starts,” I muttered. “And questionable decisions.”
Somewhere upstairs, the plumbing creaked and groaned like a disgruntled monster.
I smiled into my glass.
The ghosts could complain all they wanted.
I’d survived far worse.
Chapter
Two
LUCIEN
Some called The Crimson Veil a lounge. I called it leverage.
Everyone who stepped through its doors owed me something—status, loyalty, secrets. Sometimes all three. Entry wasn’t a right here. It was a privilege, and one I never granted lightly.
The desperate climbed over each other for a chance to be seen here. The powerful came to remind themselves—and everyone else—why they mattered.
As for me? I watched it all unfold from the upper terrace with a drink in my hand and a smile on my face.
Because I was a St. Germain. The eldest son of the oldest vampiric bloodline in town. The heir to a legacy so long-standing, even the witches whispered our name with care. My reputation was the sort that didn’t just open doors. It built them.
The Veil thrummed tonight. My staff moved like clockwork, polishing every glass, setting in place every velvet rope, wiping every surface. They were my worker ants, if ants wore black silk waistcoats and cufflinks worth more than the average rent in town.
I demanded—and exacted—perfection.
