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I snatched the coin in mid-air. “I win,” I said without looking at it. Being the oldest of three brothers had its privileges—and besides, my Jaguar, my rules.
“Prick,” he said amiably. But he settled his long body into the sleek silver coupe’s passenger seat.
I dropped my sunglasses on my face before exiting the garage. Beside me, Rafe did the same. It was evening, but the sun still hovered above the horizon, enough to bother our sensitive eyes. A dhampir could tolerate more sunlight than a vampire, but our eyes were adapted for darkness, not light.
“Have you heard anything from Zaq?” Rafe asked as I turned the Jag south toward Greenwich Village. “Or is he still in Syria?”
“He left three days ago.” Our middle brother had been in northwest Syria on a humanitarian mission. “I got a text when he landed in Paris. Said he’d be back by last night.”
“So I guess he got the summons, too.” Rafe grinned. “After we find out what Father wants, maybe we can grab us some pretty thralls and go out. Just the three of us.”
I nodded. It had been a while since we’d all been in the same city.
“Unless you have plans,” Rafe added.
“No. I’m free.”
“And hungry, I bet. Blood-wine only goes so far. And when’s the last time you got laid?”
I cut him off with a hard look. “I drink when I need to. As for who and how often I fuck, that’s none of your damn business.”
“Sure, dude,” Rafe muttered, but dropped the subject.
By the time we arrived at the Syndicate’s anonymous brownstone in the Village, night had fallen. Even this quiet, treelined street buzzed with the special energy that was Manhattan after dark.
I pulled into one of the spaces reserved for the Syndicate’s top people. As we exited the car, a curvy woman in a short summer dress dragged her boyfriend to a halt.
“That’s them,” she hissed. “The Dark Angels.”
“Yeah?” He raised a brow, trying to appear unimpressed, but I sensed his spike of fear. He kept walking, but she’d already whipped out her phone.
“Can I have a photo?” she asked me. “Please?”
“Not now.” I went to move past her.
Rafe grabbed my arm and flashed her a grin. “Just one, sugar.” To me, he muttered in a voice too low for humans to hear, “We’re the face of the Syndicate, remember? Father’s orders. Make nice with the humans.”
I ground my back teeth. “Right.”
Somehow, we’d become media darlings—the three Kral brothers. The Syndicate’s Dark Angels.
We were a goddamn hashtag, for fuck’s sake.
I blamed my mom. She’d insisted on naming us after angels: Gabriel, Zaquiel and Rafael. It was her little rebellion against the vampire world. An angel, after all, is a creature of light—a bright, shining being. A vampire’s complete opposite.
“Awesome.” The curvy woman shoved the phone at her escort and inserted herself between us. “Let me guess. Gabriel”—she twinkled up at me—“and Zaquiel.” She winked at Rafe.
My mouth twitched up. But nothing phased my youngest brother.
“I’m Rafael, darlin’,” he said without losing his grin. “The good-looking one.”
I snorted, but in fact, of the three of us, Rafe was the most classically handsome, with the sculpted face of those pretty-boy gods you see in museums.
She chuckled and put an arm around both our waists. “I’m Ceci, and that’s Connor.”
I set an arm on her shoulders and stared unsmiling at Connor. On the other side, Rafe did the same thing, only he smiled.
Connor scowled and took three photos in rapid succession.
