Chapter 2 #2
The head of the syndicate sat behind his huge mahogany desk, in his obnoxiously throne-like chair, counting a handful of bills with a satisfied smile on his face.
“Lysandro,” he said warily, moving the stack of money into his desk drawer. “What can I do for you?”
Ignoring him, I fixed my gaze on the humans lounging on the couch against the back wall. “Go find something to do, please.”
“You don’t tell them what to do!” Ronan bellowed, rushing in behind me.
Moving toward one of the visitor’s chairs in front of Damien’s pretentious desk, I leveled him with a look that scarier monsters from my past had wilted under.
Damien, however, did not, which was one of the reasons I frequented his fine establishment. Only a vampire who knew they’d done nothing wrong in my approximation could sit before me without withering.
He knew I didn’t care how he made his money, or what he did with it. As long as his donors and humans were treated appropriately, I had no issue paying the yearly dues to frequent Velvet Vein, thereby giving my stamp of approval for those who cared.
“Damien—” Ronan started.
“Everyone out,” Damien said quietly.
Dismissed, the half-dressed donors exited the room quietly, leaving only me, the man I’d come to see, and his lap dog.
“Damien, you can’t just let him barge in here whenever he wants.”
Irritation crossed Damien’s handsome features, and Ronan sucked in a sharp gasp. There was a reason Damien Devereaux was the head of the Vampire Syndicate. By all accounts, he was a good task master who rewarded loyalty, but he didn’t like to be second-guessed or managed in any way.
“Actually”—I raised a finger—“Ronan’s presence might be useful.”
Ronan’s eyes flashed red. It always amused me how those who pushed their nose so far up their Master’s ass were the same ones who got bent out of shape about being told what to do. Vampires, magic users, shifters, humans…all species were the same like that.
“Calm down, Ronan. I need to know where I can find Mordie.”
“Who the hell is Mordie?” he asked through clenched teeth when Damien raised a brow at him, silently directing him to answer my question.
“Mr. Moreaux,” Damien said, chuckling.
“Why are you calling him Mordie?” Ronan asked, hackles going up at me all over again. “You don’t have to like him, but we show our kind respect here.”
Side-eyeing Damien, I asked, “Would you care to explain?”
Still chuckling, Damien sat back in his seat. “He’d been called Mr. Moreaux for decades before you were turned, Ronan, but his birth name was Mordie.”
“Mr. Mordie?” he asked with a furrowed brow. “Why’d he change it?”
“No, his first name was Mordie. I don’t even remember what his last name was, do you?” he looked to me.
I shook my head. “If I remembered every irrelevant detail, I’d go mad.”
Ronan rolled his eyes, looking back to his boss. “So how’d he end up Mr. Moreaux?”
“He thought it made him sound more distinguished.”
“You can’t blame the guy for trying,” I said softly, flashes of some of my own torturous years as a fledgling trying to surface. “You see, his turning was some asshole’s idea of a prank.”
Damien and I exchanged a look.
“What?” Ronan demanded.
“Long story short, Mordie’s wife was cheating on him with a vampire, and when they got caught, instead of fleeing with speed or erasing his memory, the vampire changed him. Thought it would be fun to make the husband of his mistress have to call him Master.”
Ronan’s face scrunched up like he’d sucked on a lemon.
“Exactly,” I said, pointing at his expression. “Despicable behavior, and because of it, his own Sire put him down. Which then left him with Mordie.”
Picking up my story, Damien continued, “Instead of sparing him and giving him an easy second death, he decided to allow him a continued existence, but you know how we are.”
Ronan nodded. Along with our vampiric rebirth and the new abilities it gave us, came beauty. When one of our kind was unattractive, it generally meant that their essence itself, their soul if you will, was dark. Black beyond repair.
Except in the case of someone like Mordie, who’d been turned older, after his body had naturally already started breaking down on him.
Had he been allowed to live a normal human life, he’d have died within a handful of years based on how…ineffective his turning was on his natural appearance. It made this existence hard for him. Was it terrible that we were such a vain group? Yes. Was that likely to change anytime soon? No.
“He’s been up to behavior that I’m…concerned with,” I said. “I’d like to have a chat with him.”
Damien frowned. “We’ve heard chatter, too. Ronan will be issuing a warning the next time he’s in. You know I take the safety of our donors seriously.”
I inclined my head.
Ronan grabbed the back of his neck with both hands and stared down at me. “Why are you so worried about him?”
Standing, I said, “That’s my business.” Passing him, I made my way to the door and then turned. “Do me a favor. The next time he’s in, let him know I’d like to have a word with him.”
Damien stood up. “Lysandro, I can’t have others worried about you giving them their second death here.”
“I don’t think it’ll come to that.” I flashed my fangs. “I think I can right his wrongs with nothing more than a chat. If that ends up not being the case, no one will ever know.”