small percentage that had sent Mac away from his castle—which since the show
had become a fucking tourist attraction, with his ghostly but loyal housekeeper, Esther,
standing guard. It had also driven him away from his comfortable penthouse apartment
in Los Angeles after the manager had slipped several disconcerting notes under his
door about his wife’s unusual fantasy—something to do with body glitter and handcuffs.
It was that percentage that had initially set him to wandering like a homeless vagabond,
desperate to find a world without Wi-Fi. Without cable. Preferably without people.
This bar in the middle of the Nevada desert had two out of three.
Good enough.
Not that he was hiding from anything. Vampires did not hide.
Saint, that snarky demonic bastard, would no doubt argue that hiding was all a vampire did. From the sun, from dangerously bitter exes who were angry for being
turned. He’d say that lurking in shadows and huddling in coffins were prerequisites.
“Demons might be exhibitionists,” he’d often smirk. “But vampires are the kinky sharp-toothed
voyeurs hiding in the closet.”
Mac snorted, finished his scotch and mentally corrected his absent friend. He was
no voyeur, and the goal of his kind had never been to stay in the dark—but to hide
in plain sight, saturating the media with fiction and embracing the clichés. That
was the one true way to ensure any “witnesses” would be treated with skepticism. It
was why he’d been upset, but hadn’t taken drastic action when Thomas had decided to
come out. Why he’d believed helping the shifter get his girl wouldn’t cause any lasting
harm. Hell, at the time, he’d had several vampires begging him to be on “the show”,
so he’d assumed he was making the right call.
Deception and misdirection had always been key to the vampires’ survival, and even
as Mac scorned that aspect of what he was, he knew he’d practiced both. That was how
he’d continued to remain in his home, to retain his wealth…to survive. The only creatures
vampires were meant to be utterly forthcoming with were their own kind .
If someone had ever asked him to compare the vampire community to a human group? It
would be the mob. If you were a “made man”—in the more literal interpretation of the
word, of course—you were in. And once you were in, you followed the rules or faced
the consequences. Bullshit excuses, even if they were true, were pointless.
The latest rumor he’d heard on the vamp grapevine was that they were no longer amused by Shifting Reality . They wanted explanations. They wanted his head on a platter along with the death of everyone involved in the online
revelation that they hadn’t sanctioned. The one they couldn’t blame on large studios
with exquisite special effects and Hollywood stars.
“Good fucking luck with that.” He tilted his glass in salute, knowing there was no
way they could get their wish without creating a worse public relations nightmare.
This genie couldn’t be shoved, beaten or drained back into its bottle. At least, not
until the spotlight had turned away from them and onto another shiny toy.
Meanwhile, if anyone tried to touch his friends or the women they had finally found
happiness with…there would be consequences. Mac knew as long as he was on the move,
their attention would be focused entirely on him, which was the point. He was the
more appetizing bait. The real traitor.
Two of their hunters had already failed and wouldn’t be trying again any time soon.
Fucking demons for hire—a classless and desperate move in Mac’s opinion. If “they”
wanted him, they could get up off their dusty arses and come for him themselves instead
of hiring soulless thugs.
He swore softly. What was he doing? It would be easier to get it over with, to go
to them and receive their judgment. But damn it, he didn’t want to. Not yet. He wanted
to be
had become a fucking tourist attraction, with his ghostly but loyal housekeeper, Esther,
standing guard. It had also driven him away from his comfortable penthouse apartment
in Los Angeles after the manager had slipped several disconcerting notes under his
door about his wife’s unusual fantasy—something to do with body glitter and handcuffs.
It was that percentage that had initially set him to wandering like a homeless vagabond,
desperate to find a world without Wi-Fi. Without cable. Preferably without people.
This bar in the middle of the Nevada desert had two out of three.
Good enough.
Not that he was hiding from anything. Vampires did not hide.
Saint, that snarky demonic bastard, would no doubt argue that hiding was all a vampire did. From the sun, from dangerously bitter exes who were angry for being
turned. He’d say that lurking in shadows and huddling in coffins were prerequisites.
“Demons might be exhibitionists,” he’d often smirk. “But vampires are the kinky sharp-toothed
voyeurs hiding in the closet.”
Mac snorted, finished his scotch and mentally corrected his absent friend. He was
no voyeur, and the goal of his kind had never been to stay in the dark—but to hide
in plain sight, saturating the media with fiction and embracing the clichés. That
was the one true way to ensure any “witnesses” would be treated with skepticism. It
was why he’d been upset, but hadn’t taken drastic action when Thomas had decided to
come out. Why he’d believed helping the shifter get his girl wouldn’t cause any lasting
harm. Hell, at the time, he’d had several vampires begging him to be on “the show”,
so he’d assumed he was making the right call.
Deception and misdirection had always been key to the vampires’ survival, and even
as Mac scorned that aspect of what he was, he knew he’d practiced both. That was how
he’d continued to remain in his home, to retain his wealth…to survive. The only creatures
vampires were meant to be utterly forthcoming with were their own kind .
If someone had ever asked him to compare the vampire community to a human group? It
would be the mob. If you were a “made man”—in the more literal interpretation of the
word, of course—you were in. And once you were in, you followed the rules or faced
the consequences. Bullshit excuses, even if they were true, were pointless.
The latest rumor he’d heard on the vamp grapevine was that they were no longer amused by Shifting Reality . They wanted explanations. They wanted his head on a platter along with the death of everyone involved in the online
revelation that they hadn’t sanctioned. The one they couldn’t blame on large studios
with exquisite special effects and Hollywood stars.
“Good fucking luck with that.” He tilted his glass in salute, knowing there was no
way they could get their wish without creating a worse public relations nightmare.
This genie couldn’t be shoved, beaten or drained back into its bottle. At least, not
until the spotlight had turned away from them and onto another shiny toy.
Meanwhile, if anyone tried to touch his friends or the women they had finally found
happiness with…there would be consequences. Mac knew as long as he was on the move,
their attention would be focused entirely on him, which was the point. He was the
more appetizing bait. The real traitor.
Two of their hunters had already failed and wouldn’t be trying again any time soon.
Fucking demons for hire—a classless and desperate move in Mac’s opinion. If “they”
wanted him, they could get up off their dusty arses and come for him themselves instead
of hiring soulless thugs.
He swore softly. What was he doing? It would be easier to get it over with, to go
to them and receive their judgment. But damn it, he didn’t want to. Not yet. He wanted
to be
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