Page 2 of Our Sins in Shadows (Coven of Sin 2)

Countless questions thrashed in my head, making my skull split with a kind of pain unique to this fresh Hell.

How old was Dagon? Even if what Erik was saying bore a shred of truth, there was no way we could have the same mother. Though, maybe he knew the whereabouts of mine.

With all the stories about Thomas Knight’s three millennia-long domination of man and vampire kind, it wasn’t a stretch to believe that he’d thrown his dick around enough to find more than one woman strong enough to bear his child. This meant Dagon was a half-blood. Why would the Boston Coven support someone like him as king? Was it because he was a necromancer? There had to be more to it than that.

I wondered if the guys knew anything about this.

As much as I wanted to ask them, now was not the time. With Eros still passed out on the van floor, Vincent had gone into a protective, primal state. He crouched in front of me, shielding me from the two men.

“I don’t understand,” Sharpe blustered, pacing back and forth at the van doors. Even with the bright lights swathing his sallow face in shadows, I could make out the way he clutched the eye I’d burned out with the silver from my tiara. Despite how fucked we were, I couldn’t keep the smirk off my face as I honed in on the pain underscoring his labored breaths.

“The bullets were silver. By all rights, he should be dead!”

Erik rubbed his chin. His features remained indiscernible through the dark that masked him, like some kind of movie villain making an early appearance in the film. “You said he’s a hybrid of some sort? One that can shift?”

Sharpe grunted in affirmation. “He grew twice his size at The Warehouse and then again at the old textile plant. He can also turn into a raven.”

Erik let out a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and a growl. “He’s a dark fae. They always have a smaller, familiar form. And when they feed on pain, they can shift into larger shapes. Have you not heard of Count Vlad, the Impaler?” Kneeling forward, Erik plucked one of the bullets Vincent’s body had pushed out of his chest when he’d fed on me, holding it up for examination.

Sharpe paused. “He was a fae?” Clear surprise sharpened his tone.

“Indeed. A cruel and vicious conqueror in life, he had a penchant for feeding on the pain of his mortal conquests. When he was turned into a vampire, all that was left was a lust for blood and suffering, and a swarm of bats. Some say he was Knight’s own progeny, though I don’t believe that.” Erik’s tone turned scathing. “But maybe Knight had a type.”

He rose again, holding the bullet between his gloved fingers, “What Lord Vlad taught me in Romania is that they are immune to silver,” and tossed it back at Sharpe, hitting his chest before the bullet fell to his feet with a clink. “At least you’re not a complete waste of space, Doctor. You were right to question the suicide story Knight’s surviving progeny managed to sell the rest of the Elders. It looks like we just cracked the mystery of how he was made to drink liquid silver. That’s what the old bastard gets for making an unstable hybrid his blood whore.”

“Maybe we should kill him now, with iron,” Sharpe hedged with a slight bite in his tone as he clutched his still-steaming eye socket.

Erik tilted his head in the doctor’s direction. Light spilled over his features to illuminate his profile. His dirty-blond hair was slicked back with a bit too much gel. Once, he might have been handsome, if it wasn’t for the deep scars that marred his pale face. He’d been a warrior long before he’d turned into a vampire, if the faded Norse tattoos peeking from the open collar of his button-up shirt were any indication.

“No. Be thankful the silver didn’t kill him. Need I remind you, Doctor, that the entire reason we’re doing things this way is so we don’t break the treaty with the Elders? If we kill any of them, we’ll be looking at a war we have no hope of winning. Even with Lord Dagon’s special ‘abilities.’”

Unable to hold my tongue any longer, I let an indignant snort tumble from me. “Oh, come on. Surely you’ve already broken the treaty. Hello? You kidnapped us!”

Erik veered his attention back in my direction, darkness concealing him once more, but there was no missing the brittle smile as he spoke. “There is nothing in the treaty about kidnapping, dear princess. We can do whatever we’d like to you, so long as you’re still alive. It’s only if you meet true death by our direct hand that the Elders would bother to lift a finger.”

“He’s right,” Vincent growled. “The only contingency is that they can’t kill any vampire member of a coven under the jurisdiction of the Elders.”

“Yes,” the Boston Coven leader nodded. “The Elders will avoid sending their covens to war at all costs. So unless we murder you directly, we keep the peace. To get Lord Dagon on the throne, we must kill every other eligible heir without doing so ourselves.”

“That’s why Dagon is bringing my father back from the dead. So he’ll do your dirty work for you.”

“That’s right.”

“That’s crazy,” I snarled. “Even if this ritual works and you bring him back, he’s going to cause way more destruction than you’ve bargained for. Even if you can guarantee he’ll kill us, who’s saying he won’t go after you too, Sharpe? Wasn’t it under your instruction that I was released from my prison? You’re the one using me to incite his anger.”

Sharpe sniffed. “Whatever havoc he wreaks will be directed at you and your lovers. How you’ve chosen to spend your time at the manor has assured us of that.”

Both men took several steps back, and Erik waved his hand. A second later, several suited vampires clustered around the opening of the van’s back doors. This time, they weren’t armed with rifles. Now they held heavy iron chains.

Every muscle in Feral’s body went rigid the second he registered their weapons. Pushing me behind him, my spine hit the cold metal of the van’s furthest wall. Eros’ slumped form remained slouched against my thigh, and Feral’s shoulder blades jabbed against my breasts as he shielded me from the enemy, snarling and growling like a rabid, cornered animal.

One of the Boston cronies swung his chain like a lasso and looped it around Vincent’s neck as if he was some wild bull.

The second the metal contacted Vincent’s skin, there was a sickening sizzling sound followed by the stench of charred flesh. He clenched his jaw, and I could hear the gnash of his teeth as he bit back a scream.

I clung to him as it took four men to drag the fae out of the van, like some sad tug-o-war that I had no hope of winning.

We hit the concrete together with a heavy thunk. Vincent twisted to land on his back with his arms cradled around me. Even with his skin burning, the pain making his muscles convulse, he was still trying to protect me.

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