Chapter Seven

TOM TAPPED A PEN on the table as Declan finished up the monthly financial report for Murphy.

“I’d say the boat works will be profitable within two years with this expansion. While merging our existing works with Shaw’s will cost in the short term, it’ll be worth the investment.”

“And Beecham?” Murphy asked.

“We’ll be bigger, not just in holdings but in name. He won’t like it.”

Tom gritted his teeth. Murphy’s refusal to confront William Beecham had become a bone of contention between them. Once Beecham had flat out stated the Shaw heiress was not to be turned—even before Tom had brought it up with his sire—any interest in concession had flown out the window. He wanted Beecham gone. Wanted Murphy to take over. And he wasn’t quite rational about it.

Murphy tapped a long finger on the papers in front of him. “Beecham is… problematic.”

“Beecham’s a monster,” Tom muttered. “And you’d have the support of more than half the immortals in Dublin. You don’t hear what I do among the workers.”

“And you don’t hear what Anne and I do among the gentry,” Murphy said. “It’s not a simple thing, Tom. If I’m to avoid bloodshed, we must tread carefully.”

“There’ll be no avoiding bloodshed,” Tom said. “That’s not how these things work.”

“I have no interest in ruling a city where half the immortal population has been slaughtered and the other half only follows me out of fear.”

“Why not?” Tom asked. “It works. Vampires respect power.”

“They also respect intelligence. A bloody coup is not what Dublin needs right now. Not with all the unrest in human politics and not when the city is finally beginning to prosper. It’s simply not wise. Neither is turning humans who are notable in society.”

It was the closest they’d ever come to speaking of it, though Tom knew his anger at his wife’s failing health had not gone unnoticed by his sire.

Declan was completely silent, and Tom felt an irrational spike of anger toward his brother. If Declan had been the one to marry Josephine Shaw, Tom would barely have known her. He’d not feel this tearing pain at the thought of her loss. He’d not have tasted the joy of her devotion only to have human disease snatch it away.

“Tom,” Murphy said softly, “you knew it would end this way. It was why I forbade you from revealing yourself. It has nothing to do with my trust, respect, or affection for Josephine.”

Tom slammed his hand down and stood. He tried to keep his voice level, but he knew he failed.

“If it were Anne—”

“But it’s not Anne. There is a reason I’ve never allowed myself to become emotionally attached to humans. Added to that, Beecham has flatly denied—”

“Fuck Beecham!” he yelled. “We dance politely around the monster as he runs this city into the ground. He doesn’t care about the people, vampire or human. He’ll drain it like a docklands whore, and don’t think he hasn’t been doing more of that too. Is that the kind of men we are? To give allegiance to a monster like him? He isn’t as smart as you, isn’t as cunning as you, and he doesn’t have the loyalty you’ve built. So why aren’t you challenging him, boss? Why?”

Murphy stood and Tom tried not to shrink from the censure on his sire’s face. It was instinctual, this need to please him. But other loyalties now tore at him, and Tom didn’t shrink away.

“Your wife is human, and she is ill. There are reasons we do not turn the sick, Tom Dargin. And prematurely confronting a rival can lead to disaster. I’ll not upend my plans for sentiment.”

Declan slammed into Tom’s chest and pushed him back before he could reach Murphy with bared fangs.

“Tom, stop!” his brother yelled. “Dammit, man. Leave it!”

He punched Declan in the face, tossing the man halfway across the room before Murphy was on him. He gripped Tom by the neck and shoved him into the wall.

“What do you think you’re doing, Dargin?” Murphy said, his fangs bloody from piercing his own lips. “Stop acting the fool.”

“You’ll kill ’er,” he choked out.

“She was dead before you met her.”

Tom shook his head and shoved Murphy away. He had to leave. If he stayed, he’d do something unforgivable.

He couldn’t change her himself. He knew that much. Any love they had would be twisted by the bond between sire and child. Stories of lovers who’d been changed inevitably led to nothing but tragedy and usually the death of one or both vampires.

But Murphy could change her. Anne could. Even Declan. Vampires he thought of as family. And yet they watched her every night as she withered away. She was failing along with her father. Her breathing was shallower, the smell of sickness around her more pronounced. More, her spirit—the playful, passionate spirit he’d fallen in love with—was withering. The haunted love in her eyes was enough to drive him to madness.

The water in the air drew to his skin as he walked, attracted by the rush of his anger and pain.

She couldn’t die. If his sire refused to change her, then they would leave Dublin. Once her father was gone, he could convince her. He could go to Mary Hamilton in the north. He knew Anne wasn’t unsympathetic. She loved Josie too. Tom thought Hamilton might turn her if Tom pledged himself to her service. She’d love to steal one of Murphy’s top men.