THERE'S A PARTY BELOW. Dignitaries. People of significance. Businessmen. Investments, his brother would say in the hoity tone he's carried these past months since their father died.

Kiernan would rather become acquainted with the plum drapery, pulled close, hushing the wafting sounds of conversation, and feel the chill from the frosted glass of the window seep through his shirt.

He sips the wine he'd stolen before hiding away. He will not attend this atrocious gathering without imbibing.

The drapes are yanked aside and he has an apathetic expression awaiting the deadly glare he anticipates.

His brother does not disappoint, his skin golden under the candles flickering in the chandeliers overhead. He's trimmed his dark hair recently. The curls they share with their mother are nearly gone. Kiernan's touch the tips of his ears.

Dante is feigning proprietary, so he does not entice a quarrel like Kiernan knows his brother is hungering for, grey eyes enraged. He leans closer and whispers severely, "Can you not behave normally for one evening?"

He thinks this over pensively and concludes, "No. I cannot."

"You are a headache."

The words settle and decay in his stomach. He's not normal. He knows this, and his brother knows this. Bringing him to a party and expecting that truth to change is inane.

Because he'd rather stare at a wall than socialize. He'd rather hide under a table than feign a smile. And he'd rather stand behind drapery than witness his brother acting proper.

Dante's expression gentles. "Stay..." He takes hold of the drapery. "I will deal with formalities."

Kiernan blinks at him, coldly. He would have anyway, but he appreciates the sentiment. "How courteous."

"This man—"

"Is affluent, I know," Kiernan finishes, sipping his wine.

The proprietor of this beautifully luxurious home on the waterfront, with fetching housekeepers and uniformed employees, is a mystery. He arrived in the city like a tempest. His wind of endless wealth has quickly purchased most of the businesses in the East district.

Lately, his avaricious gaze has landed on the West district, and thus their flourishing steel manufactory.

His brother is not partial to their late father's legacy of operating as a cutthroat, but he's a shrewd businessman and can see opportunity. They've been invited tonight to cushion a deal. His brother intends to double his profit.

Dante nabs the wine glass from his fingers. He gives Kiernan's glare a look of warning. "Ah, no, no, silence. I will not have you stumbling around and making a fool of us." He casually sips the wine, and frowns. "That is awful."

Kiernan spreads his palms against the cold glass of the window. "It's considered to be extravagant." That's what he heard an aristocrat in a frilly blue dress declare.

"It's appalling," Dante whispers. He gives Kiernan a lingering glare that says, behave. "Remain here."

His brother closes the drapes.

Kiernan shifts, and splays a palm against the cold glass, staring down at the moonlit fountain of white stone. He knows his brother thinks just as others do. The glaring word that he's plagued by, shut-in.

He's neither damaged nor unwell. He knows for certain. His mother was the same. She scarcely spoke and was prone to peculiar tendencies that, to others, were bizarre. To her and him, it's their normalcy.

His father found it most reasonable that he stay on their property. Not that he didn't leave when his father was off on one of his many business ventures. He's wanted for nothing in his life, but still, he wants. Something more than the fortune his brother aspires.

He's met men who don't care if he stares at a wall after socializing or finds comfort in listening without contributing. Occasionally, he has a taste for danger, and they accept that too.

None of those men he'd go as far to call his closest companions are here tonight. They're carousing at the taproom on the border of the East District, across the canal.

He runs the tip of a finger down the dewy glass of the window and wonders if he could manage to creep away from the party without anyone noticing. He'd drink himself into a stupor, so that come dawn, he would not hear Dante's lecture over the pounding in his ears.

The delicate creak of the drapes being pulled aside has him sighing. He's anticipating his brother, wanting to parade him for others to gawk like he's a kept pet.

It's not his brother.

It's a man with styled brown hair and dark finery that accentuates his tawny skin. He's significantly taller. It's not difficult to be. Kiernan is taller than most women he's met but shorter than most men. He's tolerated this truth with some resentment.

They meet gazes, his heart beating wildly, and a near-violet gaze takes him in curiously. He's never seen someone's eyes that color heretofore. The flickering candlelight seems to make the intriguing hue more pronounced.

He doesn't know what to do. He's being stared at, but he feels imperceptible like the frigid window at his back has swallowed him whole and he's become one with the glass. Is he invisible? Can the man see the fountain below? Or the trees at the edge of the property, swaying with every gust of wind?

The man smiles.

Kiernan grasps the open drapes and slowly closes them again. He blinks at the plum fabric with a fast-beating heart.

He hears a delighted laugh, and then a lightly accented voice asks, "May I question why you're hiding in my curtains?"

His curtains? He knows this accent. It's the same one his father had attempted to rid himself of tirelessly. And that means this man is the foreign enigma that's swept into the city with a hefty fortune.

Kiernan shoves harder against the window, his palms flat against the glass. He debates slipping through the slit in the side of the drapes and fleeing. He's not averse to sprinting to escape socialization, as he has before.

But there's a reasonable possibility this is the mysterious man who's requested them tonight and who his brother is going to be meeting within a few hours.

Offending their potential benefactor would be ill-advised. Dante would do worse than lecture him if he dared. His brother is a gentleman, but he can lose his composure like nothing else when finances are concerned.

Kiernan might be a man of nineteen, but he's felt the bite of his brother's wrath. It's the crack of a cane that left him hobbling for days.

He reluctantly drags the drapery aside. The man has remained in the same spot, smiling affably.

"Forgive me," Kiernan says. "I was feeling faint and thought the cold glass would relieve me." A lie. But where he lacks social graces, he makes up for in his talent for mendacious matters. "My brother was due to return, but I stress he may have been waylaid."

The man hums thoughtfully. "Forget about you?" His gaze has never left Kiernan's' face. He feels stripped beneath the weight of it, as if the man's eyes have touched him everywhere.

"Your name?" The man smiles. "I make it a habit to know the guests I invite into my abode."

"Kiernan Moreno," he says politely and shivers at the spark of recognition in the man's regard. "You know my brother, Dante."

Conceivably the man believes that he will also be involved in their commerce tonight. He will not be. His brother would never jeopardize their futures and fortunes with his presence.

"Ah, yes." The man extends a hand, and Kiernan tolerates the amicable handshake, playing the position of a refined businessman. "I heard he had a brother, but from his description, I did not perceive you to be so young."

"I am not young, good sir."

The man frowns. "Forgive my discourtesy."

He has to concentrate on keeping his expression polite when he's feeling quite contrary. He's been misperceived for being much younger, many times. If he trimmed his hair and grew some, which isn't probable, it may avail the mortification.

Kiernan lies, "No, you haven't offended me."

"Then I am pleased."

Kiernan doesn't care, usually.

Once, a woman tried to lure him for the sole reason that she thought he was no older than sixteen. The way this man said the word, however, prickles him with apprehension. Just like that woman, he has the ravenous look of a predator gazing at its next meal.

Though, possibly, it's the candlelight, wine, and forced socialization that is stressing him into paranoid delirium.

This isn't like any handshake he's had because there's no give for him to partake. There's no shaking, only stillness. The coolness of the window doesn't pierce the hot flush rising from his neck, to overtake his face, making breathing strenuous.

He tries to pull away, but he's in the hold of a statue.

The man lays the fingers of his other hand atop their clasped palms. "Mercalli Errico."

Kiernan forces a smile. "It's a pleasure."

Mercalli enunciates in Italian, "Lovely." The soft praise was not meant for him to comprehend. He could pretend the man meant the gilded framing of the window or Kiernan's finery, but those violet eyes have never left his face.

They gaze at each other in silence for a few tense moments, and Kiernan takes in a breath of relief when he's able to draw his hand away from Mercalli's warm palm.

He's quiet, but he's always been terribly impulsive and foolishly says in fractured Italian, "Lovely? I have never been dubbed lovely heretofore. Dashingly handsome, and quite a few have said I'm a cretin, but that's usually after I shamelessly take all their money."

Mercalli listens to the entirety of his frivolous rant with wide, enthusiastic eyes. His Italian is satiny and natural as he inquires, "Take their money, how?"

Kiernan has to consider the word he's looking for pensively. He bites at his bottom lip, and a grin grows on his face when Mercalli smiles at him with amusement. He settles for whispering, "Larceny."

Mercalli's smile broadens. "You're a pickpocket? How curious."

Kiernan gives up looking for the right words and settles for English, not overlooking the way Mercalli lours slightly. "Nothing of the sort. I cheat at cards."

Mercalli maintains his Italian. "Extraordinary. We will have to play."

"I will cheat."

"Please do. I would enjoy having you take my money."

"Tomorrow evening, then?"

Kiernan frowns.

Mercalli smiles. He switches back to English. "We will play cards."

"That's a generous proposal..."

"I won't take any buts, not after you've piqued my interest." Mercalli's smile never falters, but there's something dark flaring in his violet eyes.

"Cheating at cards?" He laughs. "I must witness this trick."

Kiernan smiles. "Then, I will show you." He can't deny that the thought of taking this man's money willingly without the threat of reprisal if he's found out is not tempting. "Another time. My brother requires my presence tomorrow and the next day thereafter."

Mercalli hums. "The Dalston? Do you know of it?"

When Kiernan shakes his head, Mercalli continues, "It's an establishment near the canal on the west side. I'll have someone provide you with the particulars."

"Why?" Kiernan asks warily.

"For cards."

"I'm not—"

"Interested in making a small fortune?"

He is generally interested in such things. It must show on his face because Mercalli grins and says in soft Italian, "I'll make you a wealthy man. You only ought to indulge me for one evening."

"Why?"

Mercalli shrugs. "I'm a man who is seldom interested, and I find you interesting."

Is it that simple?

Kiernan whispers, "Tomorrow?"

"Evening, yes."

Mercalli frowns at Kiernan's glances around his form. After looking over his shoulder and laughing softly, Mercalli turns back with an inquisitive smile. "Whoever are you looking for?"

The balcony is quiet. Everyone is below enjoying the gathering. He's searching for signs of Dante. Once he concludes his brother is not hiding in the shadows, he says, "I'll gladly take your money."

"Splendid," Mercalli replies, smiling widely. He laughs. "Alas, I must attend to my guests. I cannot favor you, or there will be rumors, and my wife will assassinate me."

Mercalli shifts to depart but delays and takes Kiernan's wrist in a delicate hold. "It was lovely meeting you, Kiernan."

Kiernan nods with a courteous smile. He peeks out from behind the drapery and watches Mercalli descend the curving staircase to the party below.

With a deep inhale, Kiernan flattens his back against the cold glass of the window. His fingers slowly curl around his wrist, skin tingling in the wake of Mercalli's touch.

He blinks awake and groggily lifts his head away from the pillow he'd been suffocating himself in without realizing it.

He hasn't dreamt of when he was human or his brother in a long time. He dreams of Mercalli often.

There's an insistent knock on the door of the hotel room that matches the painful pounding in his head. He ignores it.

His unwanted dream replays in his mind. Vivid. A memory. That was the first night he'd met Mercalli. He went to the Dalston. It turned out to be Brothel, which was later revealed to be owned by Mercalli, but that was becoming true for almost every business in the city at the time.

The Dalston, however, was the vampire lord's favored hunting ground.

Even with his friends at his back, Kiernan knows now that he never stood a chance walking in there that night.

He hardly recalls their faces. Peter, with his orange hair and boyish impulsiveness that often got them into trouble. Stoically handsome Benjamin and his brother, Eric, with his light blue eyes. Eric was careful, always. Perhaps, if Kiernan had listened to Eric's vehement protests that night, they would have survived.

He doesn't have time to let his rising misery and longing for those he lost settle. The locked knob jiggles. He'd flipped the tumbler and connected the chain before he lost his senses early this morning.

He doesn't know who's been told he's in the city. It wouldn't be surprising if someone tried to assassinate him. His presence is usually only needed when he's working as Gabriel's fist and tends to stir the churning mess of the Underworld whenever he steps foot out of Fawnhill's gates.

Except this is no assassin. He was supposed to meet Gianna when he arrived in the city. He'd forgotten. He'll pretend that it was purposeful to keep face.

Gianna's a subordinate of their coven's ambassador of sorts, Dallas, who keeps the peace when Gabriel's gaze is solely on Fawnhill. Gianna hasn't been a vampire for long—a few years. She's rash and impertinent.

"Oi, dickhead! Open the door!"

More pounding on the door and resounding in his aching head.

He shoves the blankets to the side. He didn't undress. Dizziness overtakes his vision when he rises from the bed. His jeans and once-nice shirt are a wrinkled mess.

A quick glance at his cell phone that's on the nightstand beside a lamp he clicks on to illuminate the clinging shadows tells him that it's just after 10:00 in the evening.

"I can hear you!"

The dark panelled wood of the floor shines against the soft orange light from the lamp. The bed is unnecessarily large, with an oaken head board and a low foot board where he'd draped his jacket before falling into bed after arriving this morning.

The hotel room is meagre, but the building is nice. It has a kitchenette and a sitting area with a darkened flat screen attached to the painted-brown wall, which is bolted but can be swivelled to other angles. Not that he'll be using it.

There's a grey-patterned rug under the couch, an armchair, and a dark wood coffee table where he'd left his holstered gun, and three empty bottles of scotch he'd drank early this morning.

He grabs his gun.

This entire building and the business are owned by Gabriel. Although it's not private to their kind, meaning unsuspecting humans are guests as well, all the employees are aware of the existence of vampires. They accommodate their needs amicably. But that doesn't mean that he's protected here. He'll stay on his guard until he's back in the safety of Fawnhill.

Gianna's still jiggling the doorknob when he makes his way to the door and unhooks the chain. 

He slides the cover of the peephole to the side and peers through.

Her brown hair is tied in a braid. Her white blouse underneath a tight black jacket of glossy leather contrasts with the deep bronze of her skin. She has sharp features and even sharper grey eyes. There's no softness to this woman.

He takes his time to stare intently at her impatient expression. Once he makes sure that she doesn't have a gun pointed at her where he cannot see, he opens the door wide.

"Finally," Gianna snaps and shoulders past him to saunter forwardly into his hotel room. In her flat-soled combat boots, she's slightly shorter than him.

She sweeps her gaze over the room and cocks a slender eyebrow when she sees the empty bottles of scotch. "You didn't show up this morning. I thought I'd come by and make sure you weren't dead."

Kiernan closes the door, turns the tumbler lock of the knob with a soft click, and hooks the chain back in place. He faces her with an expression of practiced apathy. "I was indisposed with an important matter I hadn't anticipated."

Gianna drops herself onto the armchair with a raspy laugh. She grins, flashing white teeth and fangs. "Or you got drunk off your head and forgot to meet me. Please tell me that I'm right. That Kiernan Moreno mucked a meeting to get smashed. That'll make my month." She laughs. "No, shit, it'll make my year!"

"Let's have the meeting here."

Gianna's grin widens. "That's a yes, then."

He doesn't reply because it doesn't need one. The empty bottles of scotch and his perpetual wince from the pounding headache that only seems to be getting worse are telling enough.

He walks to the couch and has to move his luggage to the rug-covered floor before sitting down. He places his gun on the table and waits patiently.

There's a stretch of silence when Gianna blinks at him, and he stares back stoically.

Gianna's eyes widen. "You want me to start? Yeah. Okay." She may be rash, but Gia's strength that makes her invaluable is her ability to flip a trained switch in her mind and fall completely serious. "I'm going to explain from the top. I don't know what you've been told, but it's better that you hear it again rather than miss something.

"Three warehouses owned by the Kimberk coven were attacked in the last two months. September 7th, October 12th and 17th. All in the evening." Gianna takes a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her jacket and places it on the coffee table. "I've written the addresses in order from the first attack onward."

Kiernan stares at the paper. "I'll go to the Sinclairs tonight. I want to rule out that this wasn't their doing." Even with Darren threatening Gabriel over the phone last night, he isn't convinced that Darren hasn't set this up as an elaborate attack.

Gianna grimaces. "The Sinclairs are in an uproar because they were hit Monday this week. Two days ago. A drug den. All dead." She leans back into the chair casually. "They think it's Gabriel trying to entice a war. If you walk into one of their clubs and start demanding answers, it'll get ugly.

"Dallas has decided it's better that you turn to the human police, who have been investigating on their own, the few that know about us, anyway. Then you can get information legally without having to bash heads and create more strife."

Dallas decided? The vampire likes to believe that the Night District is his territory. It's not. He may have subordinates and loyal informants that give him information on the other coven's dealings, but he is replaceable.

Everyone is, ultimately.

Dallas would do well to not forget this inarguable fact. Kiernan's only met Dallas a few times, and every one of them had his teeth gritted with held-back rage and his fingers twitched for a weapon.

"Fuck, I know," Gianna says in response to his obvious displeasure at her words. She grins darkly. "He wants you to see him tonight. Kill him for me? I'll give you my loyalty for life."

Kiernan stares at the lamp on the nightstand. "I already have your loyalty."

Gianna was an accomplished soldier in the military before she was turned. She never told him the story, only that she was dying in a shithole, according to her, and a stranger saved her with his blood. She awoke to her change, and her maker was dead.

She never saw how he died, but she felt the loss that Kiernan knows intimately.

Since then, she's impulsively turned the men and women that made up her squad and then her ailing grandfather. She was given a choice: join Gabriel, who saw her skills for killing as an asset, or face execution for turning beyond one person without the council's express permission.

She ultimately chose Gabriel.

Gabriel wouldn't have her remain in Fawnhill, not when she had the undying loyalty of three military-trained vampires that would die for her without question. He gave her and her squad to Dallas.

It's a mistake that Kiernan has expressed his concern for, but Gabriel has ignored outright. Gianna is an extraordinary sharpshooter. Dallas stifles her potential.

Kiernan has called on her for backup many times, and she has never let him down. He could have taken her to Fawnhill to work under him permanently, but their deal is that she remains in the city and she keeps a close eye on Dallas's dealings.

Then, in return, Kiernan personally looks after Gianna's beloved grandfather, Chester, who resides in Fawnhill's hospital wing.

Gianna sits forward abruptly, drawing his stoic attention back to her. "Yeah, but I'd really appreciate it if you killed Dallas by making him suffer for hours and hours until he succumbs to whatever twisted torture you've concocted. I'd suggest flaying him while he's alive. You can record his screaming. I'll make it my ringtone."

"No."

She pouts and flutters her lashes. "Pretty please?"

"Still, no."

She sighs and sits back. "Worth a try."

Kiernan frowns. "Why does Dallas want to meet me?"

"He says—" Gianna air quotes. "—you need to show respect for coming into his territory." She drops her hands and grins at his darkening expression. "Yeah. Bastard didn't want me to say that, however. The official statement is: He wants to have you for dinner."

Kiernan grimaces. "That's..."

"Even worse? Yeah." Gianna dramatizes a shiver. "He's so creepy."

"Where?"

"A lounge down on Ninth Street."

Kiernan nods and stares at the glossy wood of the table surface for a few moments before asking coolly, "Does it have windows that face the street?" He looks at her coolly, and her lips are rising into a wicked grin. "Could you get a vantage point on the buildings across without being seen?"

Gianna grins. "Hell, yeah. I'll make it work." She laughs excitedly. "Give me the signal, and I'll blow his head off!"

Kiernan hangs his head, resisting a smile. "It's just a precaution."

"I've got your back," Gianna says, and he raises his gaze at her soft tone. She's smiling warmly. "Don't worry. I'll have eyes on you the whole time."

"Thank you."

Now if only the pounding headache in his temples from his hangover that won't quit would quell by this evening, he'd feel readier to deal with Dallas and his bullshit.

He'll call Gabriel and tell him they may need a new coven liaison. The man won't be happy. Dallas is incredibly loyal and has a decade of experience that is quite valuable. But a heads-up before murdering an important employee is polite.