"You still can't kill me."
Deacon Frost's voice carried absolute certainty.
From an ordinary vampire clawing his way up through blood and betrayal to the man who now stood beneath only thirteen pure-blood elders and above every other vampire in New York, he had earned the right to speak with that level of confidence.
If he lacked that conviction, he never would have dared to dream of overturning the vampire council he viewed as rotten and obsolete.
In Queens, Locke listened to the naked arrogance and smiled faintly.
"So you agree, Mr. Frost?"
"Of course," Frost replied smoothly. "But I also have a condition."
Locke leaned lightly against the counter. "Let's hear it."
"I will come alone. Agent Underwood should do the same."
Locke didn't respond immediately.
Brown and Debbie, standing nearby, began signaling frantically at him. Brown's eyes widened in disbelief. Debbie shook her head almost imperceptibly.
Go alone?
To meet the leader of New York's vampires?
That wasn't negotiation. That was volunteering as a main course.
But Locke only gave them a brief sideways glance before turning back to the phone.
"Fine," he said calmly. "I agree."
"Excellent."
Frost didn't hesitate. "Seven o'clock tonight. The abandoned hangar beside Kennedy International Airport. It's a deal."
"It's a deal."
The line went dead.
Miles away, inside a high-rise luxury apartment, Deacon Frost lowered the phone and turned toward the vast French windows. Manhattan stretched beneath him, gleaming in the midday sun. Traffic shimmered like molten metal on the streets below.
After a moment, he spoke without looking back.
"Quinn."
From a shadowed corner of the living room—carefully chosen where sunlight couldn't reach—a figure stepped forward.
It was the same grotesque vampire Locke and Brown had once trailed in that dim nightclub weeks ago. But now the arrogance was gone. In its place was submission so complete it bordered on worship.
Quinn lowered his head and approached Frost from behind.
"Master."
"You heard the conversation."
Frost finally turned, his gaze cool and assessing. "Go to the warehouse. Prepare two million in cash. You'll accompany me this afternoon."
Quinn hesitated—just for a fraction of a second.
Hadn't Frost just told the agent he would go alone?
But he swallowed the question immediately. Eternal life was worth obedience. Questioning his master was not.
"Yes, Master."
He turned to leave.
"Wait."
Quinn froze and spun back, bowing again.
"Yes?"
"I heard Blade burned you again the other night."
Quinn's jaw tightened despite himself. "Yes… Master."
The humiliation lingered.
He and Blade had crossed paths many times. But the reality was simple: he was prey, and Blade was the predator. Five times now, Blade could have killed him. Five times, he hadn't.
Instead, Blade severed a limb and set him ablaze.
It wasn't mercy. It was mockery.
Frost studied Quinn's expression with mild contempt.
Everyone in New York's vampire circles knew Quinn was his subordinate. Blade wasn't tormenting Quinn. He was making a statement.
Slapping Frost in the face without ever touching him.
After a long silence, Frost raised his right arm. His fangs slid down with a faint click as he bit into his own wrist.
Blood welled instantly.
"Open your mouth."
Quinn's eyes widened. For a second, he couldn't process what he was seeing. Then understanding hit.
He dropped to his knees immediately, head tilted back, mouth open in reverence.
Frost's blood dripped down.
Quinn swallowed greedily.
The effect was immediate.
Power detonated inside him like a contained explosion. Heat surged through his veins. His muscles tightened. His senses sharpened. The world seemed clearer, more vivid.
He trembled as the transformation rippled through him.
Five minutes later, Quinn remained kneeling—but now his body hummed with strength he had never felt before.
He stared at his hands in disbelief.
He had advanced.
From C-tier to the peak of B-tier potential.
And for the first time, the thought surfaced without fear: next time he faced Blade, it wouldn't be one-sided.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Frost's polished black shoes.
"Thank you, Master."
Frost looked down at him without expression.
"Before we leave this afternoon," he said coolly, "find a way to let Blade know about tonight."
Quinn blinked, confused. "Master?"
But the instant he met Frost's gaze, the question died.
"Yes, Master."
"…Leave."
Quinn exhaled in relief and scrambled to his feet. He backed toward the door with head bowed, then turned and exited the room.
When the door closed, Frost remained still for several seconds.
He had elevated Quinn's strength to its maximum safe threshold. No further without risk.
Reward and pressure.
That was how control was maintained.
Vampires weren't mindless beasts. They were predators. If not reminded of their place, they would eventually turn and consume their master.
He understood that better than anyone.
After all, he was already planning to consume his own.
Frost turned back to the French windows and pulled the curtains wide.
Blazing midday sunlight flooded the apartment.
Where any ordinary vampire would ignite, Frost stood unbothered.
He lifted his right hand and lightly touched the ring on his finger.
That ring was his greatest secret.
His greatest confidence.
It allowed him to walk beneath the sun as though he were human.
He stared out at the skyline, bathed in light, and allowed himself a faint smile.
He would rise like the sun at its zenith.
And before long, he would become the only sun in vampire society.
Those who followed him would prosper.
Those who opposed him would be reduced to ash.
The Elders had ordered him not to provoke the Sentinel Special Service.
Fine.
He wouldn't.
He wouldn't kill.
He would let Blade do it.
A soft chuckle escaped his lips as sunlight reflected in his pale eyes.
"Tsk."
...
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