Chapter 9
We wade through the masses, bathed in drowsy magenta light, guttural moans sounding from darkened halls as girls reapply lipstick in heart-shaped mirrors that hang from the ceiling. I wait for the expected prickle of deviant proximity, but all I can feel is the residual buzz from Deacon.
“So you hired a real prostitute for the night?”
“Had to. The Manor checks all the confirmation numbers with their approved escort services to make sure no nonmembers sneak in.”
“Wait.” I stop short, fear snaking through me. “Where is she?”
He narrows his eyes. “Partying at Fever Dream with Ward.”
Oh. “That was…smart.”
“I’m a smart guy.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
He doesn’t need the ego stroke. Every corner we turn, someone new whispers his name.
“The White Stag’s here,” a woman squeals under her breath.
“Who’s he with?” her friend asks. Someone else murmurs to the man thrusting inside her, “Stag just walked in with some goth-looking tart.” And it isn’t just the women.
Everyone stares—with excitement that he’s arrived, jealousy of his beauty, and morbid curiosity.
As Deacon keeps his eyes forward like a hawk on the hunt, all eyes seem to fall to him.
But I can see the inklings of a smirk playing on his sensual mouth.
How he enjoys the way his power allows him to experience the world.
How people are drawn to him whether they know he’s the White Stag or not.
I wish I could say I didn’t get it—that he wasn’t ruggedly handsome or built like a god—but they don’t know what he’s capable of.
They don’t know the depths of his cruelty. The blackness of his soul.
And I swear I can feel the plumes of Deacon’s bulging peacock feathers as he finally whispers, “How does it feel to know everyone here wants to fuck your date?”
I’m about to tell him it feels like they all need a lobotomy when a bearded guy in a cable-knit sweater grasps Deacon’s hand warmly. “My man,” he says. “Didn’t know if I’d be seeing you tonight.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Deacon says. “Lance, this is Jenny.”
The nod to our first encounter when he almost killed me does not go unnoticed.
I scowl at him before Lance takes my hand in his and brings it to his mouth.
I realize, as he’s kissing my knuckles, this guy is Sophia’s phone background.
He’s the heartthrob star of some reality show she loves.
I cannot wait to tell her he frequents sex parties at the Manor.
“If I may be so bold,” Lance says coolly, “you’re very beautiful. How about I make you come?”
I blanch, something my pale skin is not accustomed to, and swing my head to Deacon as if to say What the actual fuck?
“Don’t look at me,” he shrugs. “Your body, your choice.”
Absolutely my least favorite person in existence. “Maybe some other time,” I tell Lance.
“I’m counting on it,” he says before walking away graciously.
I glare at Deacon.
“What?” he asks.
“I’m with your brother.”
“Oh, yeah.” But he’s already distracted, flagging a server for another drink.
Past slick bodies moaning into one another’s mouths and women screaming out performative, bellowing climaxes, I wander under the pools of carnal gold and moody red hoping to feel something.
I get the occasional tingle from low-level deviants—a recently turned vampire licking a pinprick of blood off a man’s finger, a man I can tell is a lycanthrope masturbating into a corner—and marvel at the specificity of my new power.
But no sign of Finn or Reid or even a Brood.
When we nearly topple over a couple fucking at the bottom of the stairs I make a sound of revulsion.
“Judgy, judgy,” Deacon tsks.
“It’s sick.”
“It’s consensual.”
Deacon Graveheart, the champion of consent? “Maybe that is, but still. There’s a lot of illegal stuff going on here. Poppy, cocaine, human darts. I’m pretty sure I saw someone being waterboarded for sexual gratification.”
“Perhaps. But there was no valet for my bike.” He gulps down the rest of his drink in one smooth swallow. “And I think that’s the real crime.”
“You’re so full of shit,” I seethe. “You’re here to save your brother. There has to be some code you live by. Have you really never thought about doing the right thing for reasons outside yourself? Even once?”
“I have,” he says, scanning the room. “When I’m trying not to bust.”
“You sound like a serial killer.”
Deacon considers this. “I guess technically I am one.” Another reminder that as soon as I am able, I have to end this guy. “Certainly spent enough time with Jack to know the basics of the craft.”
“Jack…” But I get there before he has to explain. “Of course. Jack the Ripper.”
“He was a class fucking act, that guy.”
“I know why you do that.”
Deacon raises one brow in playful interest. “I’ll bite. Do what?”
“All those little jokes you make.”
“I never joke. Not with you at least. We aren’t friends.”
“You know what I mean.” I go back to wading through the mass of people if only to get the weight of his full attention off me. “Like about Genghis Khan and King Arthur. You’re compensating for something. Loneliness maybe. Pain. Fear.”
“I’m not in pain,” Deacon replies with ease. “And I’m certainly not lonely.” As if on cue he winks at a beautiful redhead who licks her lips at him. “Everything I’ve told you is true.”
Why am I arguing? “Fine. Whatever. You were best buds with Jack the Ripper. Cool.”
Another floor, another herd of horny people who are not Reid nor Finn. At this rate I’ll have endured this vile-a-thon for no reason and my psyche will pay the price for years to come.
“Okay, you want to hear an actual joke?” Deacon asks. “What do Vivienne and the underworld have in common?”
“What?” I deadpan, turning away from the crowd to face him.
He stares down at me, a foot taller than I am. I have the errant thought that those beautiful Siberian husky eyes deserve residence in a less evil skull. “They’re both too hot to be so fucking awful.”
Strike that. A less moronic skull. “Gee, thanks.”
Deacon chuckles, pleased with himself. Motions to a server for his third drink. I’m about to call it a night and shut down this entire ridiculous operation when I feel it. A crackling beneath the scar tissue in my back. The sound of snapping claws inside my head.
Finally.
“He’s here.”
A shift ebbs through Deacon. No more smirk. “Reid?”
“Finn. Follow me.” We weave through partygoers until the radar in my spine leads us to a closed door down a narrow hallway. One of the back rooms. I press my ear to the wood and hear a woman’s moans.
“I can’t tell if he’s in there. Maybe another room past that? But no Reid, I don’t think.” Disappointment lands heavy on my shoulders.
Deacon unleashes a single claw and slices the antique door handle clean off. With an infinitesimal push, the door creaks open and we both peer through the crack.
Inside, lit by a low chandelier, a naked woman lies chained to a bed, mouth gagged with silk, eyes blindfolded. There’s a sheen of sweat on her skin as she writhes and strains, moaning. A fully clothed man who is not Finn touches her between her spread legs.
My blood turns to ice. “We have to stop him—”
Deacon yanks me back. “It’s not what you think.” His voice is huskier than I’ve heard it yet, despite an entire evening surrounded by every sex act known to man. Perhaps I can just hear it more clearly, his face so close to mine, the whiskey and black cherry on his breath.
But he’s right. Only a moment later the man brings his hand to the woman’s lips, removing her gag. “Taste yourself,” he instructs.
“No,” she moans, shaking her head. “Please don’t make me.”
“Red?” he asks.
“Green,” she replies quietly.
He shoves his fingers between her lips as she sobs.
Something wanton and needy pumps through my blood. I rear back, lips pressed firmly together. “Finn’s obviously not in there,” I say, though it comes out tight and wrong. “Maybe it was another door down this way.”
Deacon shuts the door and strolls easily after me as I try to follow my new aeon senses and shake off the unfamiliar feeling that came with what we witnessed.
Jealousy, maybe? To be bound and tied and told what to do.
Shadowy, private desires I’ve never shared with anyone pulsing low in my belly.
I try to imagine Reid touching me like that—taking away my control—but I just can’t conjure the image in my mind.
When we slept together he was nothing but gentle and passionate and selfless…
“It’s not something to run from, you know,” Deacon says after a few minutes pass.
My cheeks grow warm and I’m grateful for the dim light of this empty hallway.
“That darkness in you,” he clarifies, when I ignore him.
Mortification descends on me, heavy and oppressing, as I realize he can probably scent my arousal. If that’s true, he can likely scent the shame too.
“I have no clue what you’re talking about.” I think it comes out halfway believable.
“That urge to fight, and fuck, and slaughter. To hurt and be hurt. All that delicious wanting,” he purrs, mouth far too close to my ear. “You’re alive. What a fucking gift.”
My skin tingles once more as we near the end of the corridor, and I’ve never been so grateful to be near certain danger. “Do you ever shut up?”
“It’s not a burden to be what you are, Vivienne. You might even enjoy sex if you let yourself give in for once.”
His words nearly knock the wind from me. How many times had I wondered if I had a piece missing…some reason why I never felt fully satisfied with anyone, even myself.
“Your hunting too,” he continues. “Languishing in the kill, rather than resenting the calling or doing it all for duty instead of sport.” He shakes his head. “No wonder you’re miserable.”
“I’m not miserable. I—” I bite my tongue. Bigger fish. “Finn’s in here.”
“You said he was in the one with the bondage couple.”
“I’m still getting used to this new ability, okay? It’s not a perfect science. But I’m telling you, he’s in here.”
“Alone?”
“Yes,” I hiss, moving for the handle. “At least, without any other deviants.”