He closed his eyes. Took a deep, ragged breath. Counted the cracks and pops of the firewood, the defeated beats of his own broken heart.
Opening his eyes, he glanced up at Dorian one last time. But rather than the brother who’d loomed large in every one of his memories, now he saw only the girl.
She stood beside the fireplace, dress blackened with old blood. Her face was full and pale once more, but her eyes were still the same dark pits he’d seen at the cabin, fresh blood streaking down her cheeks. The skin had torn away from her hands and feet, exposing the rotting gray bones beneath.
She lifted her hand, pointed a mangled finger at the door. Smiled her grim, twisted smile.
Leave him, Prince,her dark whisper echoed through his head.It’s what you do. It’s what youalwaysdo…
Gabriel turned toward the door, but couldn’t bring himself to take another step. His muscles twitched, his legs aching from the effort of holding back, his head full of whispers and ghosts, everything inside him burning for the freedom that existed on the other side of that door. Dying for it.
But still, he couldn’t leave.
In the quiet darkness of his own mind, his own broken heart, he recalled the silent vow he’d made the day Colin had reported on Zachary Colburn.
Never again.
Never again would he abandon his family, no matter how bad things got. No matter how deeply his brothers made him ache.
He turned back toward the fireplace. The ghost girl was gone. Dorian stared into the flames, the bottle of scotch dangling loosely between two fingers.
Gabriel took another breath. Tried to brace himself for whatever Dorian would throw at him next. An insult? The bottle? Another blur against the wall, finally tearing out his throat?
But the anger seemed to be receding, and when Dorian finally spoke again, his voice was soft and vulnerable, as broken as Gabriel felt on the inside.
“After you left New York, I spent the next fifty years convincing myself I was better off without you.Allof you.” Dorian ran his hand along the mantle, his head bowed toward the flames. “Colin with his obsessive thirst for knowledge, so much like our father it bloody terrifies me. You and your reckless scheming. Your temper. The way you look at me as if I’m supposed to have all the answers. Malcolm and his superiority complex. That smug, Malcolm-knows-best way he always…” Dorian closed his eyes and brought the bottle to his lips. Took a deep drink. “But then Father died, and all of you just… You returned to me.”
Gabriel reached for his bourbon again, not sure what to say. He’d spent the last fifty years doing much the same, telling himself he didn’t need his family. His brothers. Trying like hell to bury his memories of them under a pile of drugs and booze and blood and death.
“Getting you back,” Dorian said softly, “getting myfamilyback…” He shook his head, then finally turned to meet Gabriel’s eyes again, his own glazed with emotion. “It’s a cruel thing to be given a gift you didn’t even realize you’d wanted—needed—only to have it taken from you the moment you’ve finally come to accept it. Losing another brother… I can’t go through it again, Gabriel. Iwon’t.”
You won’t,Gabriel wanted to say. But how could he know that? How could he make that promise? All of them were living on borrowed time. Immortality didn’t protect them from that. In fact, being vampires only seemed to bring death that much closer.
“Gabriel, you need to know…” Dorian returned his gaze to the fire, his words weighted with guilt and shame. “Malcolm’s death was… I never meant for… He didn’t even…” His voice broke, shoulders tight from the effort of holding back whatever darkness, whatever despair threatened to break free.
Gabriel approached him slowly. Put a hand on his shoulder—the only show of affection he dared. “It wasn’t your fault. Mac just—”
“Don’t,” Dorian whispered, but this time it wasn’t an order. Just a sad, desperate plea that punched a fresh hole through Gabriel’s heart. “Please, Gabriel. I… I can’t. I just can’t.”
Gabriel felt Malcolm all around him then, a sudden overwhelming presence rising like smoke, filling the room, filling his lungs, filling his every cell. Malcolm’s voice—that stiff, self-satisfied tone. The scent of him—expensive cologne hiding the hint of bergamot beneath. His laugh—the real one, the rarest one. And there, right before he faded again, came Gabriel’s last memory of the man, standing inside Bloodbath among the carnage, his fist deep inside Charlotte’s chest, one breath from tearing out her heart.
Dorian and Gabriel sat in the chairs before the fire and finished their drinks in silence, each lost in his own memories, his own unanswered questions.
His own guilt.
When Gabriel finally drained the last of his bourbon, he looked at Dorian, let out a heavy sigh, and said, “I need to tell you what Duchanes said about Viansa. About who’sreallycalling the shots on this demon plot.”
Chapter Seven
“Azerius.”
The name echoed through the study like a phantom, the first word Dorian had spoken in the long moments since Gabriel had given his full report.
“We’re not sure if Duchanes is helping him or trying to mount a defense for his inevitable arrival,” Gabriel said now, “but either way, I saw the look in his eyes when admitted who was pulling the strings. I believed him, Dorian. Azerius wants out, and apparently, he’s got Viansa doing his dirty work. If he succeeds…”
Gabriel didn’t need to spell it out.
“How is this even possible?” Dorian asked.
