Page 9 of Threads of Crimson

It wasn’t my job to police my kind. That was a reminder that I’d been giving myself much too often in the last weeks. One that was becoming increasingly harder to remember as I found Mordie sitting outside of Benji’s home multiple nights this week.

If it wasn’t for Benji’s roommates, and the fact he seemed to be somewhat of a homebody, only leaving his house after dark on the nights he went to Velvet Vein, I’d have found out Mordie’s intentions. Tonight, however, when I’d already decided it was time to confront him, he’d been absent.

As I prepared for the swift run home, I growled in frustration, detouring to the back entrance of VV and slipping inside. I couldn’t just let this asshole stalk Benji.

“What the fuck?” Ronan yelled as he rounded the corner, heading for Damien’s office, but found me.

Straightening my sleeve, I regarded him like the servant he was. “I’m here to see Damien.”

“The hell you are.” He stalked toward me.

Within a breath, I pushed into his space, my chest against his. He was taller, broader, but that meant nothing in our world. I was older, wiser, and it had been centuries since I’d allowed myself to be anyone else’s bitch—unlike him.

“You may be Damien’s lackey, but you don’t speak for him, and I wasn’t asking your permission.”

He growled, grabbing my arms. I snorted, shaking him off like the mosquito he was, then stepped around him and opened the door to Damien’s little haven.

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?”