His plan to unite the families had ended.

Jacoby wasn’t going to kill him, but he might as well have.

“Nice try, Huxford,” Jacoby said after a moment, turning around, Kristof’s blood sliding off his blade. “I know you didn’t want to bring him, and that bastard forced you to. And now, despite your grand plan to unite us in business, you failed. It’s not your fault the kid was a turd. Only a fool would mourn his death.”

Dison swiped at the blood on his neck, the wound still bleeding, but healing. “As much as you loathed Kristof, he was heir apparent to Ivan’s empire. You didn’t have to kill him.”

“Sure I did.” He brushed past Dison. “I did the vampire world a favor.”

“And started a war.”

“I happen to like war! By the gods, we haven’t had one—a good one—in ages. The war with the shifters is nothing more than quietly killing each other one by one. I’m bored.”

Dison glanced down at Kristof’s bones. “I’ll be sure to relay the reason why you executed his nephew was a decision stemmed from ennui. He’ll love that.”

The gun runner handed his guard his sword then went to pick up his shirt. “Tell him whatever you want. I’ll be ready for him. Are you taking the bones with you or do you want me to have them delivered?”

No way was he going to bring Kristof home in a bag. “You killed him. You deliver the remains.”

“Why did you let him take you hostage? You could’ve broken his arm in four places and taken the knife from him. It was the only reason I hesitated. I assumed he would be on the floor in seconds. Keeping that side of you a secret, even though it could’ve cost you your life?”

He drew in a breath. A lot of things about him were a secret. “I didn’t want to fight him.”

“From what I know, it wouldn’t have been much of a fight. The man was threatening to end you.”

Dison shrugged. “He didn’t.”

“Will his uncle come after you?”

“Probably.”

“Well, you weren’t the kid’s bodyguard. I don’t know why he’d blame you.”

You don’t know Ivan Miocic. He turned to leave. “Enjoy your war.”

On the drive back to his flat, he picked up his mobile, dreading the phone call that would set Ivan’s world on fire.

“I need to talk to him. Now,” he told Ivan’s second-in-command.

“He’s out. Where’s Kristof?”

“He’s dead.”

A long pause on the other end. The man didn’t seem surprised. “What happened?”

He relayed a summary of the why and how between Kristof and Jacoby, including how Kristof tried to cheat by pulling a knife to a fist fight. He didn’t embellish or defend either man’s actions.

“Where are you now?” Ivan’s second asked.

“At my flat,” Dison said getting out of his car.

“Stay there.” He hung up.

What the hell? He stared at his mobile for a couple seconds, wondering why the man hadn’t asked more questions, and why he’d abruptly ended the call. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach.

He headed up to his flat and immediately took out his gun, making sure it was loaded. After a shower and tossing his bloodied shirt and jacket in the waste basket, he sat down in his chair by the window facing the street, his gun inches from the armrest.

He expected Ivan and his crew to pull up any minute.

His mobile went off. Unknown number.

His thumb hovered over answering the call and sending it to voicemail. An instinct told him to pick up. “Yeah?”

A pause. “Dison. I have a message from Coury,” said the unfamiliar male voice.

Dison slowly straightened in his seat, brows furrowing. He hadn’t heard from his pen pal in a while, and he never communicated through the phone. “What is it?”

“You’re not safe. Go to the Five Gold Rings Inn. Meet you there.”

“Why?”

“You’ve been placed on a hit list. Get out. Now.”

Dison tossed his old passport, mobile, and any identifying documents in the fireplace. He made certain the flames chewed and consumed the items before he walked away.

Jaw clenched, he pivoted, and strode to his bedroom.

There was nothing left to do, except vanish.

Dison had climbed the social ranks of the British vampire elite due to his intelligence and offering of services very few could match, but had gotten lost in the glamorous, by the money and the influence that put him there.

Nonetheless, his ex-clients were never his allies, or even friends; they had been using him for his financial savvy and keen insight into underworld dynamics, and he’d been fine with that. Moreover, he wanted them to use him. Smart, calculated moves had earned him the position as a well-known finance counselor for the abominably wealthy. It’d also ultimately earned him a life of regret and a fierce will to change everything and start over.

Over the years, he’d been working—very slowly—to cut himself out. Distancing himself whilst maintaining a constant presence so as not to draw suspicion, finally whittling his client list to a party of one. It wasn’t easy. While most assumed he accumulated wealth for materialistic reasons, he’d discreetly saved it where no one could touch it.

While he could’ve severed ties to this world some time ago, he had his reasons not to.

Ensuring his family’s protection for one thing. A priority endeavor. Now his parents and brother would want for nothing. Making sure Marex Daulton wasn’t executed for a crime he didn’t commit, his second do-gooder task while he still had the resources to do so. Last he heard from his contact in New York, Marex and Nadine were hiding out in Canada, trying to obtain a key to the Centurias.

They were safe. For the time being.

The last item on his list was securing a safety net for himself, but unfortunately, that plan had been accelerated much sooner than estimated.

Fortunately, he had been prepared for a sudden dash.

He sharply shrugged on his jacket, grabbed his duffel bag and walked away from his flat, and life as he knew it. Hard to fathom that his whole existence was reduced to a carry-on: two passports, cash, a map, an address book, some personal items, and a few days’ worth of clothes were the sum of all his possessions. Not even a mobile phone. Anything that could track him was left behind. Funny how he’d spent so much time accumulating material possessions, and now he didn’t care what happened to those things.

Even though he’d never met Coury, he knew he could trust the forewarning. After all, they’d been exchanging sensitive information via letter for about five years now, and everything the guy had passed on, big and small, had turned out to be true. Dison didn’t even know if Coury was a first or last name, it was the only one he’d ever been given. In total, his pen pal was a mystery, but an ally nonetheless.

Finally, he would be able to put a face and voice to the name.

Dison flagged a minicab and caught a ride to the country.

While the cab rocked and bumbled along, he took out the map to discern where exactly he needed to get off to get to the inn, an isolated establishment close to the Welsh border.

An hour later, he told the driver to pull over, hoisted his bag on his shoulder, and began the three mile walk. He didn’t want anyone to know his exact destination.

At last, the inn came to view, its glowing, exterior sconces lighting the way to the flat, stone, two-storied structure. When he walked in, he felt as though he’d stepped back in time. As in, a century back. No fluff or decadence here. Oddly enough, he really liked it. To the left of him was a bar, and to the right, a public space with wooden tables, benches, and tin pitchers stuffed with wildflowers.

“Room, supper, drink?” An older, gentleman in a tailored wool jacket asked from behind the bar.

Dison knew instantly he’d been greeted by the owner.

He paused to assess what he was dealing with. No vampiric or otherworldly scent. Just a human. “All. I was hoping for the sunset suite, if it’s available.”

The owner gave a single nod. That was code for letting the owner he required a few special accommodations. Dark curtains, fresh blood, privacy.

“Ah, I see. Welcome, sir. My name is Harold and my wife Katherine—” He gestured for her to come over, “are here at your service.” He set his hands on either side of a large book and spun it around. “Sign in, please?”

“I’d…rather not.”

Harold slammed the book closed. “Understood.”

No questions, no judgment. What a relief. Looked like Coury might’ve given the innkeeper a heads up in advance or their customer service was just that understanding. He held out his hand. “Thank you. I appreciate your discretion.”

“I hope we’re able to provide everything you need. We’re only a modest inn here.”

“From what I can tell Harold, it’s perfect for me.”

“How long will you be staying with us?” Harold inquired.

“A few days.”

“Very good then.”

Katherine, a thin, lovely woman perhaps in her fifties, escorted him to his room on the second floor, last door at the end. “No one will bother you here. We’re too remote and plain for many visitors. No Wi-Fi or spa,” she told him, handing him the key. “Mostly farmers come here since we’re the only tavern around for miles. The occasional adventurous newlyweds. Try to act like one of us.” At his eyebrow raise, she added, “Desist from joking about drinking their blood, ripping off their limbs, etcetera.”

He chuckled. “You have my word.”

She left with a polite smile, and he set down his bag, turning on a lamp. Sitting down on a chair, he set his head in his hands.

He never felt more alone.