Page 1 of Distinctly Daray (D’Vaire, #43)

T he shrill sound of the alarm woke Victor Antonov-Daray. With a yawn, Victor rolled over and shut the noise off. He tossed the covers aside and straightened out the hot pink sleep shirt twisted around his five-foot-five frame as he unerringly walked in the dark to the light switch. A sense of peace settled in him, and he smiled.

In the first eighteen years of his life, Victor had tried to conform to the expectations of his biological family. It hadn’t worked. Even though he remained a dutiful son who visited his parents and eight brothers and sisters regularly, the small house his parents owned had never felt like home. None of the Antonovs had accepted him.

But his first job had changed everything. A trio of sentinels and a bookworm imp-necromancer hybrid had hired him to be their housekeeper. It still amazed him. Victor had been a kid with zero experience, but they’d trusted him.

They weren’t ordinary people. The hybrid was the ruler of the Order of Necromancia, and one of the sentinels ruled his race too. As for the other two sentinels, they’d been honorably guarding Arch Lich Chander Daray since the man was in his teens. Surprisingly, they’d opened their home and their hearts to Victor.

Decades later, Victor stood in a gorgeous bedroom he’d spent years decorating to perfection. It represented him fully. Bold slashes of pink and aqua dominated the bohemian design. The Antonovs had never been invited inside. They wouldn’t have approved. It was too loud. Too fantastical with the gauzy drapes of fabric, iridescent beads, and plethora of pillows in bright patterns. The truth was, it was far too much Victor for them.

As for the Darays—who now numbered twenty-five people, animals, and companions, all living in the condo—they praised Victor for choosing things he loved. The Darays were the family Victor had always wanted. It was why he’d asked to take Chander’s last name the day he was handed an immortality potion by a highly successful group used to rewriting the laws of magic. Given the name Sorcery D’Vaire by the rulers of the Council of Sorcery and Shifters, the nearly fifty-person unit had given Victor a lifeline he hadn’t expected.

As a Russian Blue shifter, Victor should’ve lived roughly two to three thousand years. Instead, he’d share eternity with the extensive D’Vaire clan that included the Darays Victor adored. It was a gift he couldn’t repay, but Victor tried not to dwell on his inability to give back. His focus was on being the best damn housekeeper on the planet.

That thought in mind, Victor pivoted on one bare foot, made his bed, and rushed into the bathroom he’d created for himself. It was as bright as his bedroom, and he’d painstakingly searched for the perfect tiles to accent his choice of glass sinks in green and a coppery brown. Efficiency was ingrained in Victor, so he stripped and showered swiftly.

He was eager to tackle his daily list of chores. It was barely springtime in Las Vegas, the city the Darays called home, which meant the heat of summer loomed on the horizon but wasn’t yet forcing him to close the windows during the day. Victor had floors to scrub, so he slipped into a terrycloth robe and ventured to his closet to find a suitable outfit.

Like the rest of his living space, it was awash with color. Victor grabbed a pair of green lace undies from the dresser he’d added mismatched drawer pulls to and wiggled into them. A few years ago, Victor had stumbled upon a small business specializing in men’s lingerie. For a single man determined to stay celibate until he met the other half of his soul, he probably spent far too much of his paycheck on cute underwear, but Victor didn’t care.

He enjoyed feeling sexy.

Victor grabbed black leggings from a perfectly stacked pile and paired them with a short-sleeved pink shirt knotted at the waist. It matched his toenails. He planted himself on a teal stool and powdered his nose. After ensuring his brows were sealed down with a clear gel, he added black eyeliner and enhanced his lashes with mascara.

A glittery gloss on his lips completed his look. On his way out of his closet and dressing room, Victor patted the tiara Chander had created for him magically years ago. It was his favorite cleaning accessory, and he’d don it as soon as he finished preparing breakfast for his family.

No surprise to Victor, there were already Darays in the vast space in their large penthouse that included the living and dining areas as well as the kitchen. He’d trained them well, so they were setting the round table for the first meal of the day.

“Good morning,” Victor called out as he sailed toward the kitchen.

He grinned at the men he loved as they returned his greeting. Plucking his apron from the pantry, Victor pulled it on and grabbed ingredients for pancakes from the fridge and cabinets.

“We should fill Chand’s coffee cup with juice,” Daemon Lord Baxter Daray suggested. Baxter and Benton were the two sentinels who continued to share the duties of guarding Chander. They were also an adoring mated couple. So were most of the men Victor lived with.

“No,” Skeleton Lord Ducarius Daray replied instantly. “The last thing I wish to do is piss off Chand. Especially today.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Victor said. “We’re getting new fallen knights and sentinels today, aren’t we?”

Every year, Chander resurrected new soldiers for both races to defend and protect the Council. Victor thought the job of creating life was remarkable, and he envied Chander his abilities. But Victor was also grateful for the kitty sharing his soul. Although he hadn’t learned to shift until he was eighteen, his cat had been a lovely, calming presence inside him since he was a child.

“Yeah, think about it,” Skeleton Lord Cassius Daray insisted. “What if he gets angry and we wind up with an entire group of sentinels and FKs who are easily agitated and violent?”

Cassius’s other half, Teverild, lifted a blond brow. Although Teverild had pointed ears and could only consume fruits and vegetables, he refused to call himself an elf. Since he’d been born to a tribe that victimized their own people for money, Victor understood his stance.

“You know it doesn’t work that way,” Teverild told Cassius as he reached up and brushed his fingertips over his mate’s lips. It was a gesture of affection between the couple Victor witnessed often, and his heart sighed with happiness at their obvious love for each other.

“Technically, we have never pissed Chand off on the day he resurrects new people,” Skeleton Lord Brynnius Darayvipera pointed out.

Venerable Knight Samson Osdraconis-Daray laughed as he leaned close to kiss Brynnius’s cheek. “Are you sure you didn’t do that the morning I was pulled from the other side of the veil? Both me and my dragon were pretty pissed off for several long weeks.”

Brynnius narrowed his caramel gaze at Samson. “You had every reason to be angry; you were struggling.”

As the first undead shifter, Samson had had a rough journey with his beast since the spell Chander used hadn’t cleared the memory of his dragon. Fallen knights like Samson were supposed to start their lives with no recollection of their past. But Samson’s dragon had remembered the brutal death Samson and Brynnius had suffered. It’d taken weeks of potions and pulling Brynnius’s wyvern across the veil to soothe the dragon.

“Chand has a new version of his spell ready this year,” Cassius replied. “Do you think we’ll get another undead shifter?”

“I hope we get a sentinel,” Baxter said.

“We have a shifting sentinel,” Cassius responded. “Brynn is right there.”

Baxter rolled his sandy brown eyes. “I know that. He’s a Daray. We share a house. But he got his wyvern thousands of years after he was pulled across the veil and only because Chand shadow walked and found Morcant. Without his help, we wouldn’t have a shifting sentinel. I think we need one resurrected like Sam to even the score.”

Archduke Morcant Darayvipera had been born Brynnius’s brother in a previous life, and Chander had used a special tea and spell to visit the place where spirits walked. Morcant had agreed to a temporary resurrection to hopefully pull Brynnius’s beast through with him. Samson’s dragon had needed his wyvern mate. The plan had worked.

Eventually, as Morcant’s time had neared its end, he’d made peace with Brynnius and Samson. Morcant had grown enamored with the Council, and Chander had offered the often-quiet man immortality through resurrection. Victor was happy that the quiet Morcant had agreed; he loved him as much as every other Daray.

“As long as no one has to deal with the shit I had to, I’m all for another shifting fallen knight or sentinel,” Samson said, brushing a few stray hairs from Brynnius’s eyes.

“No one said fallen knight,” Baxter retorted. “We need a sentinel.”

“Perhaps we allow Fate to decide,” Ducarius suggested. “Instead of getting into a ridiculous argument since none of us have any chance of swaying the outcome.”

“Fate needs to focus on giving people mates,” Cassius corrected. “You, Victor, and Vellerynd are all single.”

“My brother isn’t in any hurry to find his other half,” Teverild replied, speaking of his younger sibling, Vellerynd Daray. “But Victor and Duc have already waited too long, for sure.”

Victor shook his head, and he flipped pancakes. “Duc has a few millennia on me. I beg Fate constantly to find his mate.”

“I have told everyone I am in no hurry to find my mate,” Ducarius argued with a furrow of his brows.

For as long as Victor had known Ducarius, the Skeleton Lord had insisted he wasn’t ready to be paired. But Ducarius was at the top of Victor’s list of people he wished were part of a happy couple. Like most of the Skeleton Lords who aided Lich Sentinel Alaric in ruling the Sentinel Brotherhood, Ducarius had spent much of his life as a skeleton—a state only possible to obtain if a necromancer forced them to complete tasks like murdering the innocent.

Chander and Alaric had broken the bonds between sentinels and necromancers so men like Ducarius could refute orders, but he’d once lacked the ability. It had cost him his flesh, and he’d been forgotten inside the walls of their former magical compound. If Alaric and Chander hadn’t met, Ducarius would still be imprisoned and broken.

The thought hurt Victor’s heart, and he was glad Fate had intervened. But unlike his brethren, Ducarius hadn’t embraced life fully. His bedroom was the same gray as his former cell, and he had to be prodded into trying new things. Most sentinels enjoyed learning, and the Daray Sentinel Complex, where most of Alaric’s men lived, had a long list of novel and ongoing classes.

Ducarius took none of them unless pushed into it against his will.

In the lively household of Darays, Ducarius only took part in family activities or events if they offered him no choice. Ducarius preferred to keep to himself and adhered strictly to his routine of eating, working, and training with his daggers. Sentinels had a notoriously inflexible code of honor, but no one was as rigid as Ducarius.

Victor wanted to hear his laugh more often—to see the Skeleton Lord wearing an unreserved smile and, for once, opting to do something spontaneous. What Ducarius needed was the other half of his soul, and Victor often asked Fate to take care of it. Thus far, the goddess in charge of pairing people and choosing leaders had ignored Victor.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Chander demanded as he sailed out of his first-floor bedroom with Alaric a step behind him.

“Um…” Baxter said, freezing on the spot.

Samson rolled his unique bisque and dark green eyes. “We told you not to do that, Bax.”

“Answer me,” Chander ordered.

Baxter’s shoulders sagged. “Pouring juice in your coffee cup.”

It took every bit of Victor’s self-control not to laugh. Sentinels were incapable of telling lies, so how Baxter thought he’d get away with his prank was beyond Victor. Each sentinel also had a healthy mix of respect and fear for the former leader of the Council, and Victor understood why. Chander was a force of nature, and it was impossible to ignore him when his shrewd pewter gaze fixed on something.

“Go get me a fresh cup, and put that one in the dishwasher. Stop making extra dishes for Victor to put away, and if you do that again, you’ll spend the entire fucking day in a magical black box,” Chander stated as he took a seat at the table.

“Ben would probably appreciate the break,” Teverild muttered.

Daemon Lord Benton Daray shrugged. “I’d miss him.”

“Go help Victor carry breakfast to the table, and behave yourself,” Chander told the sentinel as the two goblins Chander had summoned for Alaric rushed into the kitchen.

Both adorable little guys were roughly a foot tall and had the same blue-gray eyes as their creator. They were also pure chaos.

Rogue Daray grabbed one of his poisoned daggers from where it floated near his hip like a sentinel’s and twirled it in one black, plush hand. His mate, Pizza, wore a T-shirt with his namesake on it and produced a slice of the pepperoni treat with magic.

“Stop filling up on pizza; you love pancakes,” Victor told the little menace.

Pizza shrugged, and Victor sincerely hoped he wouldn’t have to mop up vomit before his morning was over. It was rare, but Pizza sometimes ate so much his stomach literally couldn’t handle it. Incapable of speech, Rogue would let out an unending stream of chirps until Pizza was done retching. It wasn’t a complaint for Pizza, but for the horrid people who’d overfed his other half.

“Rogue. Pizza. Come and eat breakfast,” Alaric stated calmly. The lone person the pair routinely obeyed was the Lich Sentinel, so they teleported to the counter where Alaric had set up their tiny table. They trudged to their chairs with the barest squeak of their sneakers.

Meanwhile, the people-sized table was filling up with bickering men, and Victor treasured the chaos of it. The Darays were his heart, and he loved them. And if he was lucky, someday far in the future, after everyone had met their mate, Victor too would find love.