Vermilion Lies Read online

  Table of Contents

  VERMILION LIES

  Acknowledgments

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  VERMILION LIES

  The Order Of The Senary

  L.D. ROSE

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  VERMILION LIES

  Copyright©2019

  L.D. ROSE

  Cover Design by Trident Graphics

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN: 978-1-68291-881-4

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  For Megan.

  Thank you for the endless encouragement

  and belly laughs.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, to my husband for his constant support and patience when it comes to my writing endeavors. You’ve never stopped believing in me and I could never repay you for all you’ve already done. You’re everything and I love you.

  To my awesome editor, Char Chaffin, and everyone at Soul Mate Publishing for making another book in this series a reality. Thank you for putting up with my crazy schedule and my crap in general.

  To my fabulous beta readers: Debbie Christiana, Kari Miller, Kasidy Manisco, Kym Vilums, Molly Somogyi, and Monique Hopkins. Your feedback and guidance are priceless and I’m grateful for each and every one of you.

  To my Ghouls at DEVOUR THE NIGHT on Facebook for being my favorite creepy family and my wicked paranormal kindred. I heart you all!

  And as always, to you, dear reader, for picking up this novel and diving into another installment of this wild, dark world I’ve created. I truly hope you enjoy Dax and Cindel’s story.

  -- Freedom is the power to choose our own chains --

  Jean-Jacques Rousseau

  ONE

  Central Park

  Manhattan, New York City

  Three Years Ago

  The frigid air hit her lungs for the first time in years.

  And God, it burned.

  Cindel burst from the stone stairwell and dashed for the nearest tree. The ground felt ice-cold underfoot, even through the soft boots Alek had given her last winter. Little did he know she would escape him in these leather shoes, gathering the courage to finally act after months of deliberation.

  Or had it been a year now? Who knew? The days all but blurred together inside this godforsaken prison.

  Her chest seared as she inhaled deeply, leaning on the tree to catch her breath. Her fingers brushed the frozen bark, the texture rough and chafing her skin, but she didn’t have time to marvel at the flurry of new sensations assaulting her senses. The Metropolitan was heavily guarded and she’d been lucky to make it this far without being caught.

  Male voices rumbled in the still air and she covered her mouth with her shaking hand to stifle all sound. Crouching behind the thick trunk, she tugged the hood of her cloak over her face to ensure her fiery red hair didn’t reveal her identity. Three Temhota soldiers sauntered by, talking and chuckling quietly, their backs and belts loaded with weapons.

  She would never survive one of their bullets.

  Besides, they wouldn’t shoot her. Only return her to that monster of a man she’d once loved.

  Waiting until their footsteps faded, her heart drumming a staccato against her ribs, Cindel focused through the scattered trees to the road beyond. East Drive. She tried to conjure up the image of the map she’d memorized, finding it tucked beneath one of the multitudes of paintings within the museum’s American wing. The paper was aged, fragile, likely from decades before the rise of the strigoi across New York City, when humans actually toured the museum of fine art.

  Now, it was nothing but a pretty veil over the horrors lying within.

  Go. Do not hesitate.

  Adrenaline surged in her veins as she pushed off the tree, sprinting from one tall trunk to the next. At every point, she stopped, listened past her roaring pulse, and continued onward at the answering silence. Once she hit the stretch of battered asphalt, she remained hidden behind the tree line edging the road, springing from trunk to trunk without the slightest idea of where she would end up.

  All that mattered was getting as far away from here as possible.

  Cindel spotted the Obelisk across the way, its sharp peak spearing the black sky. She hardly remembered what the stars looked like, but not a sparkle shone in sight. Clouds covered the park in a dense pall, the dark intensifying to the point where it felt tangible. Menacing.

  Foreboding.

  Moving faster now, she stopped and ran, stopped, ran. Every movement sounded deafening in her ears, the rustle of her cloak, the soil yielding under her feet, her breath rasping the air. Every gust of wind whistling through the bare trees blared like a siren. When she reached 79th Street—yes, that’s it—she looked both ways before crossing, as if a car had actually driven past here in the last fifty years.

  Additional voices echoed in the night and she glimpsed more men striding on East Drive toward her. For a moment, she thought they’d spied her, but when she frantically pushed deeper into the woods, they didn’t follow. Panicked and trying to concentrate on moving south, Cindel ceased her tree-hopping and broke into a run, plumes of air billowing from her mouth in a steady stream of mist.

  Shivers rattled her bones as her cloak slipped back into the wind, flapping behind her like a cape and exposing her barely clothed body. All she wore was a thin nightgown, for Alek never allowed her to wear garments like his men, never permitted her to dress in anything heavy so she could easily be subjected to him. Even the cloak belonged to him, left behind from their last violent altercation.

  Another road came up fast—two, three, four, five—all joining to form a paved star. Not quite the star she’d wanted to see. Cindel hit the brakes
, but her boots slid on a patch of ice, sending her stumbling over the juncture. Tripping into the brush and on to another clearing, she practically collided with the statue at its center.

  Recoiling, she stared up at the monument of a girl sitting on a . . . mushroom? A clothed rabbit stood at one end, a man in a top hat at the other, with a cat crawling over the girl’s lap. She recognized these creatures, had seen this image in a story, the story of Alice in Wonder—

  “Curiouser and curiouser.” A booming chuckle, the sound alarmingly close to her ears.

  She whirled around, coming face-to-face with Taylon Ramsden.

  The General of Alek’s army.

  “Taylon,” she uttered, fear turning her blood into slush.

  He smiled wickedly, baring his knife-blade fangs, fully armed and geared. Lifting a dark brow, he tilted his head in an almost childlike gesture. “Where are you going?”

  She retreated when he stepped closer. “I don’t know.”

  “My dear, we must run as fast as we can just to stay in place.” He circled her like the predator he was, trapping her near the statue. “And if you wish to go anywhere, you must run twice as fast as that.”

  Cindel swallowed hard at his words, cheerful lines from the bizarre novel she’d read over a hundred times. “Stop.”

  He closed the distance between them, halting merely feet away, his obsidian eyes raking over her face as she cowered beside the bronze sculpture. Her bruises still throbbed with their own pulse, but her eyes were no longer swollen shut, her face already healing and yellowed from the beating she’d endured last night.

  The miracle and curse of being a vampire.

  “Looks like he did quite a number on you.” Taylon reached out with a pale hand and she flinched, nearly climbing on the mushroom with Alice. He dropped his arm, smiling even wider, his eyes gleaming with delight. “How could he hurt such a pretty little thing?”

  The warm knives tucked into her garters seemed to tighten against her, reminding her of their presence. She might’ve had a chance to escape anyone, but not him. Not Taylon. He was nearly as powerful as Alek, a volatile force to be reckoned with, and he’d never been swayed.

  She’d witnessed the result of his wrath on more than one occasion.

  Without a doubt, he would deliver her right back to her sire. And she’d likely die for her transgression.

  “You want to be free of him, little Red?”

  He stood inches from her now, bracing his hands on the statue at either side of her, her back bowed away from him in vain. His breath smelled like peppermint, laced with the coppery tang of fresh blood, his body so close his dark power hummed along her skin.

  “Cindel.”

  “Yes,” she hissed, her teeth chattering as she stared him down. “I want to be free.”

  His lips curved, his body stock-still and unaffected by the cold. He didn’t even try to conceal his amusement, his satisfaction obvious.

  “He’ll find you, little Red. If I could track you here, he’ll hunt you anywhere in this city, anywhere in the world. Not to mention you’re bound to him. Your blood will be his tracking device.”

  Taylon’s gaze dropped to her throat briefly, the black satin band she’d constantly tied around her neck now stripped from her skin. She’d torn it off last night after Alek had used it as a leash on her—an ancient symbol of love and commitment exploited as a weapon against her.

  Tears welled up in her burning eyes and she fought back the sob swelling in her chest. “I have to try.”

  Taylon’s lips pursed as he lifted his big hand, cold fingers cupping her vulnerable neck. She reined in a gasp, keeping her eyes locked on him, her throat working as he squeezed gently.

  “Imagine what he’d do to me if he discovered I’d let you go,” he murmured, his thumb grazing her rapid pulse. “He would destroy me, wouldn’t he? Releasing his sweet flower into the wild. He’d go mad. Mad as a hatter.” Taylon smirked, his hand rising to grab her jaw. “But we’re all mad here, aren’t we?”

  What was he doing? Was he going to kill her?

  “Close your eyes, little Red. I’ll set you free.”

  Fear sliced into her heart at the low seduction in his words and she trembled under his grip. Her hands shifted, heading for her knives, and he squeezed harder, the flame of warning igniting the coals of his eyes.

  “If you so much as touch those blades, I’ll rip you apart, darling,” he growled. “If you’re going to survive this big, bad world, you’ll need to be more clever than that.”

  “What are you doing?” she whimpered, despising how weak and pathetic she sounded.

  He was right. She wasn’t going to survive this.

  “Close your eyes.” His voice snapped like a whip, demanding her obedience. She pressed her lids shut, hot tears slipping down her cheeks to cool on her quivering lips.

  A silent pause stretched between them, an eternity seeming to pass when it was only an instant.

  “Time to break the ties that bind.”

  Pain suddenly lanced into her skull, burying in her brain as she cried out from the force of it, her knees buckling beneath her. He held her up as lights exploded across her vision, fireworks of agony sizzling down her spine.

  “Sleep now, little Red.” He sounded so far away, his tone calm and soothing as infinite blackness closed in around her, engulfing the world.

  “And when you wake, you’ll taste your freedom.”

  TWO

  Jamestown, Rhode Island

  Present Day

  The ocean bellowed its welcome, foaming at the mouth at the sight of him.

  Dax grinned as he took the cold air into his lungs, sneakers sinking into the sand of East Ferry Beach. The wind threw icy mist on his face and he tasted the rich salt of the ocean at the back of his tongue. The barreling dark waves were monstrous, churning from the storm that had passed overnight, and they raced to commit suicide against the shore. The sky was a dismal gray, the horizon a haze of melancholy, but Dax was never happier to see it.

  If there was one thing he missed about Rhode Island, it was the ocean.

  Shifting his backpack onto both shoulders, he pulled his beanie down to cover the dime-sized plugs in his earlobes. It was just above freezing, but he reveled in this temperature, and the lower the thermostat, the better. After all, ice was his element.

  And he would be putting it to good use tonight.

  Climbing a fractured onramp, Dax crossed the empty road. Jamestown had been abandoned decades ago, after Caldre Ballard—the current Sire of New England—and his leeches had demolished the place, leaving nothing but ghosts behind. There wasn’t a human out here for miles, for they’d all fled inland during the Insurgency over half a century ago. The major cities along both coasts were the vampires’ first targets, so naturally the humans had deserted the shores.

  Hell, Dax’s home base in New York City was still having a hard time keeping her boroughs intact, since most of the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Queens had been lost, not to mention all of Manhattan and Staten Island. Most of the Orders were deployed seaside in an attempt to exterminate Earth’s rapidly growing population of parasites, and so far they’d only managed to slow the wave of devastation.

  But the Knights would die trying. Or at least, he would.

  Dax cut across the street toward a condo complex, the ocean’s roars diminishing behind him. His ‘65 Mako Corvette sat alone on the tarmac, a gorgeous slash of metal in the twilight gloom. He brushed his hand along its angular backside like an old lover before he ascended a set of stairs into the rundown development.

  Time to find a place to sleep.

  At least half of the complex had been leveled and the other half stood in shambles. It looked like a category-five hurricane had shredded the area, annihilating everything in its path. De
bris was scattered everywhere, from shards of cedar shingles to chunks of wooden lawn furniture, all decaying with the passage of time. An abandoned leather slingback shoe and a torn stuffed animal lay on the wraparound porch, the last few haunting remnants of humanity. The teddy bear’s guts had been spilled on the hardwood, its single glassy eye watching as Dax passed.

  Dax’s cell phone rang as he veered a sharp right, searching for an intact unit with a balcony view, preferably without gutted teddy bears involved. The Dropkick Murphys’ “I’m Shipping Up To Boston” blared from the speaker and he checked the ID, smiling as Kayne’s name flashed on the screen.

  “Why, ‘ello lad,” he answered in his best Irish accent. “Top of the mornin’ to ya.”

  A momentary pause, or rather, a stunned silence before Kayne’s hearty laughter filled the line. “That was bloody horrific,” he said with his perfect Dublin brogue. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

  Dax chuckled as he stepped over a splintered bench. “Hey, I’m trying.”

  “Quit while you’re ahead, boyo. You at the strand?”

  “Yeah, just got here. Looking for a place to crash.”

  “Fantastic.” Weariness leaked into the Irishman’s voice and he pitched a sigh. “It’s been pretty rough here over the past few days and that bastard Enzo needs to croak. Not to mention, I need a fucking vacation.”

  “This is my vacation.” Broken glass crunched beneath Dax’s sneakers as he peered through shattered windows. “So suck it up, Shamrock.”

  “That’s ‘cause you’re a masochist. Thanks for giving us a hand, it’s not easy begging a gobshite like you for help.”

  “Yeah, well that’s what you get when you throw a bunch of rabbits into a foxhole.”

  “Fuck you very much, lad.”