Page 22 of Exes, Hexes, and Strategy
Vincent DeMarco backhanded the vampire who’d just delivered his report and sneered in disgust as the man sniveled and groveled on the floor at his feet. He’d had one job. One. Watch the coven, report back their movements. Simple.
“Why am I just hearing this now?” he bellowed, his eyes going red with rage and his fangs elongating.
“I – I didn’t th-think it was important, sire,” the man stuttered, covering his head with his arms for protection.
Like that would help, Vincent mentally scoffed. Just to prove the point, he kicked the man in his now exposed ribs.
“I don’t employ you to think,” Vincent snapped. “Get out before I kill you for your incompetence.”
The man began to rise and Vincent none too gently shoved him back to the floor. “I didn’t say get up. I said get out. Crawl like the insect you are.”
Only once the man was gone did Vincent DeMarco settle back in his seat behind his mammoth desk. He drummed his fingers on the slick, black marble surface. So, Nina Errani had enrolled in the Hunter training program, was even now at the training facility in New Orleans with Raphael. He should have known, should have guessed. Raphael volunteering to do something that would benefit Vincent was too out of character for the boy. That paired with the downright respectful tone offered him when the boy called to give his recent reports… Yes, he should have known something was wrong.
The Born didn’t feel love. Not like the humans and shifters. Love was a weakness, and any potential weakness was stripped away at an early age. Only the strong may rule and Vincent considered himself one of the strongest.
The Born may feel a sense of familial loyalty, yes, perhaps even pride in one’s genetic legacy, but that was about it. Vincent had felt that pride once, but that was a long time ago, back before Raphael had been poisoned against Vincent, first by his mother’s acerbic tongue and then by that incompetent nursemaid Vincent had mistakenly left in charge of the boy. Too late, he’d realized his error. He hadn’t spent enough time with Raphael during those early years. Having no real interest in children, he’d only had Raphael trotted out for an occasional inspection and to quiz his intelligence to make sure the child was living up to the DeMarco standards of excellence.
It wasn’t until Raphael had been a teenager and Vincent had decided it was time for the boy to begin learning how to control a territory by his father’s side, that the truth had come out. Raphael was sullen, argumentative, disrespectful – worse, the boy actuallycaredabout people – but by then, it was too late. The damage had been done, and no amount of beatings seemed able to bring Raphael back in line. They had only proven to make him secretive. In fact, Vincent had become convinced that the boy had been plotting to kill him.
That, in itself, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Vincent, had, in fact, killed his own father for the power and the territory he could gain from his sire’s death, though he’d been well over a century old – old enough to control a territory – before he’d made the attempt. But that small kernel of pride in his son’s ambition hadn’t meant Vincent would go willingly to his demise so that Raphael could prove he truly was a DeMarco. If his son wanted him dead, he’d have to be smarter than Vincent – andno onewas smarter than Vincent DeMarco. He’d immediately set spies on his son to keep an eye on his movements. Those spies were how he’d discovered that his son had been secretly dating awitchof all things. His lip curled in a sneer of disdain.
So, they thought to pull one over on him, did they? Did that witch actually think he wouldn’t carry through on his threat? He’d show her. He’d show both of them. But first, he needed concrete proof. Not that he needed it to destroy every witch in his territory should the whim take him, but he wanted proof so he could throw it in Nina Errani’s face. Proof that her family’s and friends’ deaths were on her head for defying him. Proof to torture her with before he killed her, for shewoulddie now, and he’d make sure Raphael witnessed her death.
Scrolling through his contacts, he found the name he was looking for. A vampire and former Hunter turned assassin for hire, the man was a shadow, able to move in and out of any territory without detection. Vincent made the call.
“Mister DeMarco. What can I do for you?”
“I have a job for you.”
“Who’s the target?” the man asked, the bored inflection in his voice never changing.
“This is strictly a fact-finding mission,” Vincent cautioned. “I want the pleasure of killing her myself.”
He could practically hear the shrug in the man’s tone. “My price is the same, regardless.”
“I’ll send you the information.”
Disconnecting the call, Vincent sent the promised details through an encrypted email and glanced at the antique grandfather clock situated in the corner of his office as his phone began ringing. Raphael calling in his report, right on time as usual, or rather, right on time as usuallately. That should have been another red flag. Before his departure to New Orleans, the boy had seemed to revel in needling him by letting Vincent’s calls go repeatedly to voicemail, sending texts when Raphael knew that Vincent despised that mode of communication, or calling later than scheduled if he bothered to call at all.
Letting a humorless smile curve his lips, Vincent answered the phone, letting Raphael prattle on with his tales of all the future Hunters he was recruiting to Vincent’s cause. All lies, he was sure.
“Very good, son,” he said. “Very good. At this rate, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon.”
It was both a promise and a threat. Not that Raphael knew that. Nor would he know it. Not until it was too late.
Chapter Fourteen
Rafe eyed the torso-shaped paper target and the neat grouping of holes he’d made, proud of his accomplishment. He still needed to work on the speed of his draw, which as Morgan Rhys had pointed out, with vampire reflexes, shouldn’t be hard with continued practice, but his aim was certainly spot on.
With time in the gun range now over for the night, he removed his protective glasses and ear coverings, released the empty magazine, and placed it, and the gun, back on the designated tray as others were doing. There was some big announcement – or so he had heard – and they were all to report to the dining hall.
“We’re being split into teams,” Logan quietly uttered as he fell into step beside Rafe. “A practice hunt, or, at least, that’s the rumor that’s been circulating.”
“Makes sense,” Rafe replied. “They’ll want to see if we can put what we’ve learned into practice.”
Logan let out one of his trademark grunts. “Knowing my luck, I’ll get stuck with a bunch of assholes.”
“You might end up with me.”
