Horror descended on the room like a pall, and for several long moments, no one spoke, each of them sinking into their own gruesome visions of Chernikov’s new reality.
Dorian’s mind flashed back to the people he’d seen in the camera views. Tourists, bagel vendors, carriage drivers, immigrants from every country in the world, museum-goers, celebrities, drunken revelers, students, billionaires, musicians, hopeless wanderers.
Vampires, shifters, witches.
Children. Grandparents.
All of them doomed.
Dorian rose from his chair and fixed another round of drinks.
“Chernikov isn’t ready to give up on bringing in new demons, either,” Isabelle said when he passed her a fresh gin and tonic. “Apparently he’s been ranting about some sort of ultimate weapon that can create vessels out of humans without contracts. My friend didn’t know specifics—just that he believes he’ll have access to it soon. Which only makes the rest of his plans that much more terrifying.”
Dorian exchanged a glance with Aiden, and from the look in his friend’s eyes, he knew they both shared the same thought.
The Blade of Azerius.
Terrifying didn’t even begin to cover it.
“What of the other supernaturals?” Charlotte asked. “Won’t you guys be immune? Isn’t there anything you can do?”
“Some of us might be able to resist the demon magic,” Dorian said, “but at that scale, and paired with the technology, it’s hard to say. We’ve never been exposed to anything like it. Demonic energy has always been kept in balance by the dark witches.”
“So they’ve all gone rogue?” Charlotte asked.
“Not all,” Isabelle said. “There are plenty of dark witches who know how to toe the line—witches who appreciate the balance of light and dark, and can delve into either without losing themselves.”
There was a hint of pride in her tone that spoke to Dorian of a much deeper knowledge—and a much greater power—than he’d suspected, despite her earlier expressions of interest in the darker arts.
Dorian caught her gaze, and a new understanding passed between them.
A new trust.
Isabelle Armitage was a formidable witch. One he was grateful to have on their side.
“Chernikov has been involved with the Redthorne line for centuries,” he told her now, deciding it was time to let her in—fully. “Based on what he’s told me—reading behind the lies, of course—and additional information we’ve recently discovered in my father’s personal effects, I believe Chernikov has always wanted to be king. Not just of the demons, but of all supernaturals and humans alike.”
“What information?” she asked.
“Nikolai Chernikov helped my father slaughter House Kendrick in England—the first play in what I now realize is averylong game.” He sipped his scotch, resuming his position next to Charlotte. “As long as vampires remained the most powerful of the supernaturals, Chernikov knew a demon would never be recognized as a king—not without an army backing him. So he needed my father to ascend and come to America, where he could establish the Redthornes as the ruling supernatural family, and install Chernikov in a position of power. Together, they forged the Shadow Accords, carving out territory for demons, establishing just enough ground rules to keep supernaturals from killing each other or revealing us to the humans. And then, he bided his time.”
“Sounds like his time is coming,” Aiden said grimly.
“He still needs the weapon,” Dorian said. “All the tech in the world is still just that—tech. And tech has multiple points of failure.”
“But we have no idea what the weapon is, or when he’ll acquire it,” Isabelle said. “At this point, it’s just a rumor passed on from dark witch to dark witch. Frankly, we don’t even know if the weapon exists, or if it’s just another trick Chernikov conjured to keep his own people in line.”
“It exists.” Dorian drained his glass, then rose from the chair, extending a hand to the witch. “Isabelle? How would you like a tour of the crypts of Ravenswood?”
Chapter Twenty
The eerie magic of the Book of Lost Souls illuminated the dim cavern as Isabelle inspected its pages, her eyes shining with the same endless curiosity as Colin’s.
“I thought it might be a demonic grimoire,” Colin told her. “But I’ve only a passing familiarity with demonic symbology.” He looked even more wild and disheveled than when they’d seen him earlier, and the blood bags Dorian had brought him remained untouched.
Dorian fought back his worry, reminding himself that Colin was a medical doctor—one who’d been practicing in one form or another since they were children spying on their father. He certainly knew how to take care of himself.
“You’re not far off the mark,” Isabelle said. “Itisa sort of grimoire, as well as a personal accounting.”
