Prologue
The Legend of the Veil
The myths surrounding the creation of the Veil were a dime a dozen, and worth even less.
Some said it was the work of angels who had become lost in the mists of time.
Others said that it was a rip in space made during the big bang.
The current favorite was that Nefri, an ancient vampire with a mystical medallion, created the Veil to provide a little slice of paradise for her clan, the Immortal Ones. According to this particular rumor, it was whispered that on the other side there was no hunger, no bloodlust, and no passion. Only an endless peace.
It was a myth that Nefri, as well as the Oracles that sat on the Commission (rulers of the demon world) were happy to encourage.
The truth of the Veil was far less romantic.
It was nothing more or less than a prison.
A creation of the Oracles to contain an ancient mistake that could destroy them all . . .
Chapter 1
Viper’s Vampire Club
On the banks of the Mississippi River south of Chicago
The music throbbed with a heavy, death metal bass that would have toppled the nearby buildings if the demon club hadn’t been wrapped in spells of protection. The imp magic not only made the large building appear like an abandoned warehouse to the local humans of the small Midwest town, but it captured any sound.
A damned good thing since the blasting music wasn’t the only noise that would freak out the mortal neighbors.
Granted, the first floor looked normal enough. The vast lobby was decorated in a neoclassical style with floors made of polished wood and walls painted a pale green with silver engravings. Even the ceiling was covered with some fancy-assed painting of Apollo on his chariot dashing through the clouds.
Upstairs was the same. The private apartments were elegantly appointed and designed with comfort in mind for those guests willing to pay the exorbitant fees for a few hours of privacy.
But beyond the heavy double doors that led to the lower levels, all pretense of civilization came to an end.
Down in the darkness the demons were encouraged to come out and play with wild abandon.
And no one, absolutely no one, could play as rough and wild and downright nasty as demons.
Standing in the shadows, Santiago, a tall exquisitely handsome vampire with long raven hair, dark eyes, and distinctly Spanish features allowed his gaze to skim over his domain.
The circular room was the size of a large auditorium and made of black marble with a series of tiers that terraced downward. On each tier were a number of steel tables and stools that were bolted to the marble. Narrow staircases led to a pit built in the middle of the lowest floor and filled with sand.
The overhead chandeliers spilled small pools of light near the tables, while keeping enough darkness for those guests who preferred to remain concealed.
Not that there was a need for secrecy in the club.
The crowd was made up of vamps, Weres, and fairies, along with several trolls, an orc, and the rare Sylvermysts (the dark fey who’d recently revealed their presence in the world). They came to fight in the pit for a chance at fleeting glory. Or to indulge in the pleasures his various hosts and hostesses offered, whether it was feeding or sex.
None of them were known for their modesty. Especially when they were in the mood to celebrate.
Santiago grimaced, his frigid power lashing through the air to send several young Weres scurrying across the crowded room.
He understood their jubilation.
It wasn’t everyday that an evil deity was destroyed, the hordes of hell turned away, and Armageddon adverted.
But after a month of enduring the endless happy, happy, joy, joy, his own mood was tilting toward homicidal. Well, perhaps it was more than just tilting, he grimly conceded as a tableful of trolls broke into a violent brawl, knocking each other over the railing and onto the Weres seated below.
The domino effect was instantaneous. With infuriated growls the Weres shifted, tearing into the trolls. At the same time the nearby Sylvermysts leaped into the growing fight, the herb scent of their blood swiftly filling the air.
Santiago’s massive fangs ached with the need to join in the melee. Perhaps a good old-fashioned beat-down would ease his choking frustration.
Unfortunately, his clan chief, Viper, had trusted him to manage the popular club. Which meant no extracurricular bloodbaths. No matter what the temptation.
Buzz kill.
Watching his well-trained bouncers move to put an end to the fight, Santiago turned his head as the smell of blood was replaced by the rich aroma of plums.
His lips curled as the violence choking the air was abruptly replaced by a heated lust.
Understandable.
Tonya could make a man drool at a hundred paces.
Strikingly beautiful with pale skin and slanted emerald eyes, the imp could also claim perfect curves and a stunning mane of red hair. But Santiago hadn’t chosen her as his most trusted assistant because of her outrageous sex appeal.
Like all imps, she possessed a talent for business and the ability to create powerful illusions. She could also hex objects, although Santiago made sure that particular talent was only used on the humans who patronized the tea shop next door. Most demons were immune to fey magic, but Tonya had royal blood and her powers were far more addictive than most.
His loyal customers would never return if they suspected he allowed them to be enthralled by the beautiful imp.
Wearing a silver dress that was designed to tempt rather than cover, she came to a halt at his side, a smile curving her lush lips even as her shrewd gaze monitored the hosts and hostesses that strolled through the room offering their services.
“A nice crowd,” she murmured.
Santiago grimaced. Unlike his assistant, he was wearing plain black jeans and a dark T-shirt that clung to his wide chest. And, of course, he’d accessorized the casual attire with a massive sword strapped to his back and a handgun holstered at his hip.
Never let it be said he went to a party underdressed.
“‘Nice’ isn’t a word I’d associate with this mob.”
Tonya glanced toward the tribe of Sylvermysts who were reluctantly returning to their table. The warriors possessed the striking features of all fey with long hair in various shades of gold to chestnut. But their eyes blazed with a strange metallic sheen.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she purred. “There’s one or two I’d consider edible.”
“Your definition of edible is appallingly indiscriminate.”
She turned her head to study him with an all-too-knowing gaze. “Yeah well, at least I haven’t been neutered.”
Santiago curled his hands into tight fists, fury jolting through him. Oh no, she didn’t just go there. “Careful, Tonya.”
“When was the last time you got laid?”
The air temperature dropped by several degrees.
“We’re so not going to discuss this,” he snarled, his voice pitched low enough it wouldn’t carry. Despite the earsplitting music, there were demons present who could hear a freaking pin drop a mile away. “Especially not in front of an audience.”
Foolishly ignoring his don’t-fuck-with-me vibes, Tonya planted her hands on her full hips. “I’ve tried to discuss it in private, but you keep shutting me down.”
“Because it’s none of your damned business.”
“It is when your foul mood begins affecting the club.”
His fangs throbbed. “Don’t press me.”
“If I don’t, who will?” The female refused to back down, the words she had clearly longed to fling at him for days at last bursting past her lips. “You prowl through the halls snapping at everyone who is stupid enough to cross your path. I’ve had six waitresses and two bouncers quit in the past month.”
His jaw hardened with a stubborn refusal to admit she was right. If he did . . .
Well, that would mean he’d have to admit he had been neutered.
Not only sexually, although that was god-awful enough to admit. After all, he was a vampire. His appetite for sex was supposed to be insatiable.
But his general lust for life . . .
Suddenly his enjoyment of pursuing beautiful women and spending time with his clan brothers was replaced by a gnawing frustration. And his pride in running a club that was infamous throughout the demon world was replaced by an itch that he couldn’t scratch.
It was something he was trying to ignore under the theory that it was like a bad hangover—something you suffered through and forgot as soon as the next party came along.
“Hire more,” he growled.
Her eyes narrowed. “Easy for you to say.”
“Hey, you know where the door—”
“I’m not done,” she interrupted him.
His dark brows pulled together in a warning scowl. “Imp, you’re pissing on my last nerve.”
“And that’s my point.” She pointed a finger toward the belligerent crowd that continued to eyeball one another with the threat of violence. “This mood of yours is not only infecting the employees, but the patrons as well. Every night we’re a breath away from a riot.”
He snorted, folding his arms over his wide chest. “I run a demon club that caters to blood, sex, and violence. What do you expect? Line dancing, gin fizzes, and karaoke?”
