Dorian pulled her close, and she buried her face against his chest, warm tears soaking his shirt. “It’s all right, love. It’s not her.”
“I thought… Just for a minute, you know?”
“Wherever Sasha is, wemustkeep the faith that she’s unharmed, and that we’ll find her very soon.” He pulled back and cupped her face. “Can you do that for me? For Sasha?”
Charlotte nodded resolutely, blinking away the last of her tears.
Certain she was all right, Dorian turned and knelt before the cage, his stomach twisting at the sight.
He had no idea how long they’d been there, but they were both emaciated and broken, cowering before the flashlight beam. They didn’t have the strength to break free. Didn’t have the strength to even try.
The first time Dorian had encountered the grays, he and his family were living under House Kendrick’s rule. The vampire king—Evie’s father, George Kendrick—ruled his sirelings with an iron fist. He kept his own cages of brutalized grays—a personal petting zoo whose captives were regularly trotted out to torment the new Redthorne slaves. Sometimes, he’d set them loose in the woods, allowing them to chase Dorian and his brothers while he watched from atop his favorite stallion. Other times, he’d use them as a warning.This is what becomes of the Kendrick sirelings who disobey me.
He’d forced Dorian to torture them. To make them bleed. To make them suffer.
Only then would his brothers receive fresh blood. Only then would the Redthorne vampires be allowed to survive another day. Another week. Another year.
And through it all, his father watched in silence, never once criticizing the king’s methods. Never subjected to them himself.
To Dorian, the grays had always been monsters.
But now, looking at these poor, broken creatures through the rusty bars of the cage, how could he see them as such?
They weren’t monsters. They werehim—what he would become in his purest form, absent the magic of a bonded witch and a steady diet of fresh blood.
With a deep sigh, he rose and grabbed the wooden chair, shattering it against the floor. Picking through the broken pieces, he dug out the sharpest, gripping it in a tight fist.
“Turn around, love,” he said, and Charlotte did as he asked.
Kneeling once more before the cage, he staked one, then the other, swiftly ending their misery. They vanished into a pile of ash, falling on his shoes like the season’s first snow.
“It’s done,” he whispered.
Charlotte joined him at the work table, and together they searched through the pile—pages of handwritten notes and sigils, ingredient lists, spells.
Witchcraft.
Dorian picked up a cracked leather grimoire and thumbed through it. There was a dedication spell engraved on the inside cover; its author had signed her name in blood.
“Jacinda Colburn,” he said, tossing the book onto the table as if it burned his skin. “Duchanes’ bonded witch.”
“The one who made the poison that nearly killed you?” Charlotte asked sharply. “And the resurrection amulets for the grays?”
“It would appear this is her laboratory. One of them, anyway.”
“Why would Jacinda do such a thing?”
He recalled what Duchanes had said the night he’d attacked Dorian and Charlotte in Tribeca.
Witches can be rather clever when sufficiently motivated…
“I’m… not sure she had a choice,” Dorian said. But before he could further speculate on Jacinda’s motives, his cell phone buzzed.
“It’s Cole,” he said, scanning the text.
No deal yet. Apparently Estas is having a party tonight. I’m invited, but you two ain’t.
“Um, Dorian?” Charlotte said. “We’ve got a problem.”
