“Wehave a demon problem, Nikolai.” Dorian sat down across from him, taking in the demon’s appearance. Mornings didn’t agree with him; his hair was unkempt, his suit wrinkled. Beneath a thin sheen of sweat, the snake tattoo around his neck looked particularly unpleasant.
“No hocus pocus today?” Chernikov glanced toward the doorway as if he expected Marlys to appear, toting her bag of tricks.
“I’m trusting we can both remain civilized this morning. Donotmake me regret that decision.”
“I don’t attack my friends, Dorian Redthorne. Do not makemeregret that decision, either. Coffee?” Chernikov snapped his fingers for the waitress.
Still buzzing from the inescapable rush of Charlotte’s blood, Dorian wasn’t interested in a caffeine hit, but he nodded anyway, figuring the mug would give him something to do with his hands. He’d only been in the demon’s presence a few moments, and already the need to choke him was making his fingers twitch.
The waitress returned quickly, delivering two fresh coffees with nothing more than a smile. When she disappeared back into the main area of the café, Chernikov lowered his voice and said, “You are right. Demon problem is mutual.”
Dorian tightened his grip on the mug. “I presume you heard about the attack at my residence last night?”
“They were not my guys.”
“Then how did you learn of it so quickly?”
“Demon and vampire attack the king. More demons follow. Gray vampires run loose upstate.” He glanced at Dorian’s shoulder, where a spot of blood from the earlier wolf attack soaked through his shirt. “Wolves make error in judgment.”
Dorian continued to glare, but Chernikov only shrugged.
“News travels fast in this city, vampire king.” He grabbed a nearly-spent bottle of vodka and dumped a healthy splash into his coffee, then offered the last of it to Dorian.
Dorian slid his mug closer, accepting the shot. “If the demons taking orders from Renault Duchanes aren’t part of your organization, then whose?”
“You tell me. You must have ideas.”
“I’d rather hear yours.”
OfcourseDorian had ideas—Alexei Rogozin, primarily—but he wanted to see how Chernikov would play this. The demon might claim ignorance, but if not—if he was actually willing to name names—Dorian knew the intel would be reliable.
False accusations? That’s not how things worked in their world.
It wasn’thonor, exactly, but people like Chernikov—like Dorian—didn’t get where they were without adhering to some kind of code. Which was why Duchanes, for all his machinations, would never amount to anything in this city. Even if he succeeded in slaughtering Dorian’s family and usurping the crown, he’d likely be overthrown by his own sycophants the first chance they got.
Such was the fate of every vampire king. Only two things could grant a reprieve—commanding respect, or inspiring fear.
Dorian preferred the former.
His father had made a centuries-long game of the latter.
Duchanes wasn’t strong or capable enough for either.
“I am not the only demon in town,” Chernikov said now. “The others… They’ve become pain in the ass—bigger pain than you know. And the vampires? I thought you had them under control, yet always, they come to me. Favors for this one, for that one. It wasn’t like this with Augustus.”
“Whichvampires, specifically? Duchanes?” Dorian asked, ignoring the dig about his father’s superior leadership skills. “Tell me,comrade. Just how many favorshaveyou granted the house plotting to overthrow the king?”
“I did not come here at ungodly hour to discuss my business practices.” Chernikov shoved a finger in Dorian’s direction. “Vampire mess isyourproblem. Your father would’ve handled it.”
In the span of a heartbeat, Dorian grabbed the empty vodka bottle and blurred into Chernikov’s space, smashing the bottle against the table and pressing the jagged end to his throat. “In case you haven’t noticed, demon, I’mnotmy father.”
Hellfire exploded in Chernikov’s palm, and the demon grinned, a trickle of blood leaking from the eye of his snake tattoo. “I didn’t think Russian roulette was your game, bloodsucker.”
Dorian shoved the bottle deeper into his flesh, holding firm even as Chernikov’s flames licked at his chin, hot and hungry. “Try me.”
Locked in a battle of wills certain to destroy them both, the men continued to glare at each other—a ridiculous competition neither could possibly win.
Finally, Chernikov backed down. With a raucous laugh, he closed his palm and extinguished the flame, and Dorian returned to his chair, pitching the broken glass into a nearby trashcan.
