by Rye Brewer
I cared little for what he’d done to the family name or even about what he may or may not have subjected our kind to, thanks to his lack of discretion. I barely even cared that whatever he’d done had cost him his life, brother or no.
I cared that his stupidity and subsequent death had resulted in my not being able to get on a plane to America to look for Genevieve. I’d been under virtual lock and key ever since we’d received the news.
Not only did my father need to know his surviving son and heir was safe, but America would be the worst place for me to visit now.
After all, we were no longer a secret. The vampires now knew we existed, when we’d worked so hard for so long to remain anonymous.
“He and his entire crew or gang or posse. Whatever those idiots called themselves,” she whispered, her thin nose wrinkling in disgust. Thin like the rest of her. “All of them. Good riddance, if you ask me, but why did they have to reveal themselves? The last thing we need is a war with the vampires, damn it.”
The door opened a split second after there was a knock upon it. I straightened in my chair and cast a warning look her way, hoping she would remember to hold her tongue while my father was in the room. It was one thing to vent over Dietrich’s many flaws while in my presence—he was a bad apple, no doubt about it, and we’d never really gotten along on a more than superficial level—but he loved his son.
Perhaps even more than he loved me. The squeaky wheel did get the most grease, after all.
To her credit, she rearranged her lovely features into a more pleasant expression. She no longer reminded me of a screaming harpy bent on vengeance.
Now, she merely looked like the dominating, overbearing woman she was.
My father cleared his throat, hands clasped behind his back as was customarily the case when he was about to speak of business. He raised his chin, the light from the window at my back catching the golden glints in his eyes and in the stubble which covered his cheeks. He was normally so well-groomed, too. The turmoil of the days since we’d gotten word of Dietrich’s murder had taken its toll.
“Anton, now that the customary period of mourning for your brother has passed, it is time to discuss what your ascension to his place in the family line means,” he informed me, his tone clipped and almost formal. While we’d never exactly enjoyed a warm relationship, he did not normally speak to me this way unless under a great strain.
I asked myself who was behind this meeting, him or my mother, but there was no sense in inquiring. I knew the answer. She had pushed him into this sooner than he’d been ready to acquiesce. Still mourning his eldest, the one remaining tie he had to his late wife.
She wasn’t the type to wait. She wanted to ensure the safety of her son’s position in the De Clerq line. In the end, as always, she was right—and, as always, I was loath to admit it even to myself. The family line would need to be secured, then more than ever thanks to my late brother’s foolishness. What if one of the other families decided to usurp us as a result of his stupidity? What if they used his indiscretion against all of us?
“You have a duty to this family,” my mother informed me, as though this was the first time I’d ever heard such a thing. As though she hadn’t driven the idea into my skull a hundred times since we’d received word of Dietrich’s death.
Murder.
“I’m aware of the duty you’ve placed upon my head,” I murmured, barely holding onto sanity—much less civility. Not for the first time did my wolf imagine the pleasure of tearing into her neck. If such a thing existed there.
Mother or no, she was a burden I was tired of shouldering.
Thick, false eyelashes fluttered in front of eyes the color of cloudy ice. Eyes so like my own. “I’ve placed it? I have? I believe you’re a bit confused as to the nature of the situation.”
“Margaux…” my father warned, but a wave of her red-nailed hand closed his mouth. As always.
I’d often wondered at the nature of the hold she had over him. It took next to nothing for her to shut him up, and he, the head of a powerful clan of the most powerful creatures imaginable.
“I am under no illusions,” I assured her with a bored sigh, mostly put on for her benefit. “My brother is dead. I am next in line. A responsibility I never asked for and would refuse if given the chance now rests upon my shoulders.”
“How can you say such a thing?” she demanded. “Do you know how many would kill to be in your position? To make their home in this remarkable castle? To be proud of the name which they bear? How much longer will you go on with this childish attitude?”
“I’m proud of my name,” I reminded her. “I always have been.”
“Why, then, do you balk at the notion of upholding what is yours?”
As if she cared one way or another for the De Clerq name. As if it meant anything to her but money and power in our increasingly small circle of those like us. Smaller thanks to the death of my foolhardy brother and his friends. Nothing more than a band of bullies who’d likely gotten what they deserved, knowing the way they thought and the heartless methods they’d always employed to get what they wanted.
Hers was an arranged marriage with a wealthy widower who she’d dazzled beyond all measure. A man whose mouth snapped shut whenever she decided it ought to. Her concern for the family name went as far as her concern for the status of our fortune. How else could she clothe her human form in nothing but Gucci, Prada and another half-dozen top designers?
Perhaps that was what made it difficult for me to take her seriously. Knowing how she’d merely been told who to marry and had acquiesced. That it was the promise of money and a comfortable lifestyle which had inspired her to accept marriage with my father so willingly.
Why would I want to marry a woman such as her when the evidence of what she’d done to my father was so plain? Why, when the mere sound of her voice curdled my blood?
Rather than continuing to wait for a response which she would never receive—and even if she received it, she wouldn’t like what she heard—she continued. “I have several suitable candidates in mind for you,” she crowed.
“Candidates?” I asked, throwing a surprised look my father’s way.
“You need not turn to him for assistance,” she snapped. “Dorian is in agreement with me, as this is the only reasonable course of action.”
“We do need an heir,” was his simple explanation.
“We’re going to host a grand ball in your honor and invite the young women I’ve chosen,” my mother—Margaux was what I called her when I used her name—informed me.
Another fist against my thigh, beneath the table. It mattered not that I was already in love, that I had plans of my own. A life of my own. Damn Dietrich, wherever he was. If there was justice, he was burning.
“What if I don’t want this?” I asked through clenched teeth. I fairly vibrated with barely-suppressed rage.
She blinked. “Don’t want this? You have no choice, so stop wasting both my time and yours in asking silly questions.”
“This is the way things are done,” my father said with little more than the vaguest shrug of his broad shoulders.
I typically called him Dorian. I wasn’t one for the “Mother” and “Father” titles.
“Our marriage was arranged so as to be advantageous for both families,” she reminded me, linking her arm through his. He hardly flinched. “It will be the same for you, and you and your wife will provide heirs to the De Clerq name. As you are meant to do.”
How fortunate for me. It meant nothing that I had no time or patience for the old-fashioned ways of my parents and theirs. It meant nothing that I had only been the official heir for a matter of weeks, once the confirmation of Dietrich’s death reached us.
I was merely next in line.
A buzzing in my pocket snapped me out of the dark rage I was rapidly descending into as I watched my parents—stoic Dorian, smug Margaux—glower down at me from in front of my desk. I retrieved the phone without looking, only
glancing down to see who had sent a message.
An unknown number.
It’s me. I had to get a burner phone. Long story. I’ve returned, meet me at our place. G
All of my considerable self-control not to jump up from the desk and run through the castle. As it was, I struggled to contain my relief and joy, knowing it would be tantamount to suicide if my mother knew I’d just gotten word from the woman I loved.
“This meeting is over,” I declared, standing.
The look of surprise on her face was almost cartoonish. “Who do you think you are, telling your parents when a meeting is over?” she asked.
“I’m the heir to the family name,” I reminded her in the mildest tone I could manage. “And I have matters to tend to. If you will excuse me.”
She opened her ruby lips as if to offer additional argument, but it was Dorian’s turn to silence her. “He is a man of importance. He has business to attend to.”
Yes. A man of importance.
I waited until the two of them were good and gone before locking the door from the inside and slipping through one concealed behind a mahogany bookcase. I sometimes wondered if my father remembered the presence of that door, of the narrow passage which existed behind it. The stone stairs which ran just inside the castle’s southern wall, running down the three floors between my office and the point where castle wall turned to solid rock, coming to an end in the dungeons.
The castle was full of tunnels and hidden passages—as though it had been designed and built by one with a flair for drama and intrigue, one whose life revolved around secrets. I had no doubt that such a thing was true, as the breathtaking old palace had been in our family since the day the final stone was laid, and we did, indeed, boast a checkered and exciting history.
And a bloody one.
At least one terrible, hard-won battle for each of the castle’s hundred rooms, for each of the elaborate tapestries hanging in the banquet hall which depicted those victories over other families, even other creatures not of our kind. Fae, elves, witches, even vampires. The thick, crumbling family history in Father’s library told the stories, too, stories which had given me nightmares as a child.
The dungeons were never used anymore, making them an ideal method for getting from the inside of the castle itself to the outer walls without notice. I knew Dietrich had often used them and the many passages and stairways to which they connected to sneak his friends in and out—mostly women, many paid for the pleasure of their company.
I’d used them to reach the cottages and various outbuildings throughout our vast estate, always more discreet than my older brother. Why hold a gathering or rendezvous inside castle walls where one could easily be overheard? Why be a fool about it?
Stagnant water dripped here and there as I darted through dark, unused corridors between cells separated by rusted iron bars. In more fanciful moments I’d sometimes imagined the howls of pain and desolation which must have poured from those cells in days gone by, when the least sane of my long-dead ancestors had imprisoned men, women and even children for slights both real and imagined.
Each step put me closer to my Genevieve.
Why did she have to be a vampire?
Not that I cared one bit, but the rest of the world felt differently. The rest of my world, especially.
Then again, I might have loved her less if she wasn’t a vampire. Perhaps that was what attracted me to her the most. Her sophistication, her refined tastes, her cleverness, all of them chalked up to a long lifetime spent amongst the crème de le crème of Europe. Her pale skin, shimmering eyes. As though she had been frozen at the height of her beauty, just for me.
And her wickedness. The way her mind worked, so different from anyone I’d ever known. Besides my own, of course.
For while my brother and I had often thought along the same self-interested lines, I was much better skilled at keeping my wants—and the deeds which led to the fulfillment of those—to myself. Just as Genevieve so artfully managed.
And she was back.
We’d be together soon enough, the way we were meant to be.
21
Genevieve
By the time I reached the cottage which sat at the outer southern edge of the De Clerq estate, it was nearly dawn and I’d coursed straight there from the runway in Paris.
And I was near complete exhaustion. Had I been much further away from the cottage, I might have collapsed and succumbed to the approaching sun. As it was, I barely made it through the old wooden door with its squeaking, rusted hinges before sunlight began touching the tops of the castle’s many peaked roofs and spires, still off in the distance.
The gothic castle was a monstrosity, the product of an older age.
I loved it and wanted more than I could say to call it my home.
“Genevieve!” Anton caught me in his strong arms before I hit the dirt floor. “Gods above, what has happened to you?”
I could only shake my head, my eyes closing after basking in his beauty for just long enough to confirm that yes, it was truly him. Truly my Anton. The same icy eyes, now warm with concern. The same cut-glass jaw tensed and tightened when he took in my condition. His hands both gentle and supportive as he cradled me.
“So… weak…” I breathed, unable to say much more than that without taking a rest. It had been at least two days since I’d fed, perhaps three. I’d lost track during the last days of my imprisonment.
“You’ll need blood,” he whispered, holding my limp body close to him. His warmth flowed through me, bolstering me, reminding me of what it meant to be loved. I’d missed him so.
“Yes. Blood.” I opened my eyes a crack to find him still frowning, his broad forehead creased with worry.
“I wish I had known you were on your way. I would have stocked up for you. As it is, I have nothing to share, though I’d be happy to let you have some of mine,” he was quick to add, “but we have to get to safety first. We cannot do it here. Where have you been all this time?” As though he couldn’t help but ask, though where I’d been had nothing to do with the dire situation I was in.
I didn’t have the strength to answer and certainly didn’t have the strength to explain everything which had happened to me in the time since I’d left. Not until I had the blood I so desperately needed. My eyes slid shut.
“Damn it all,” he muttered.
I heard the squeaking of hinges once again, but this was not the plaintive squeal of the front door. This was the more muted sound of the concealed door in the floor, the door which led both to the castle and further away from it. All of the cottages which dotted the outer edges of the estate featured such doors, Anton had once explained, all of them linked together through a veritable maze of underground tunnels which crisscrossed the entire breadth of the lands belonging to the De Clerqs. An entire underground transportation system which had once been used to.
He carried me down the stone stairs leading to the tunnel, making sure to close the door behind us before continuing down the narrow passage with its rough, craggy walls and a ceiling low enough that he had to bend his head slightly for clearance. I felt myself fading in and out, exhaustion and a need for sustenance all but paralyzing me.
Relax, now. You’re safe. The thought replayed again and again in my tired brain, a balm to my troubled soul. I could rest in his arms at last. I did not have to be strong when I simply hadn’t the strength to do so.
After a long walk, we reached a small antechamber carved into the tunnel wall—perhaps the chamber itself hadn’t been carved, perhaps it was part of the old cave the tunnel opened up to within another hundred feet. An ancient tunnel, Anton had once told me, somewhere his ancestors had hidden in the days when secrecy from humans and supernatural creatures was paramount. The men would spirit their women and children through the tunnels to the cave so that they might be safe while a battle raged, or a hunting party prowled.
He’d set up a special trysting spot for us there, in that chamber, for times when it w
asn’t safe for us to be in the cottage together. It was little more than a settee, a chair and a washbasin, with candles all around, but it was somewhere no one would find us. He doubted his father even remembered the cave existed, much less the antechamber.
Anton lowered me to the settee before lighting a few candles which provided a soothing glow. I watched through half-lidded eyes as one of his fangs descended to slice open his wrist, which he guided to my waiting lips.
I drank deep, greedily, without taking time to savor the strength which quickly flooded my body. It was his strength, his vitality, which he gave so willingly to me, stroking my hair as I drank. Only the love I bore him was enough to get me to stop, though I still had to force myself to pry my mouth from him.
“Better?” he asked, rising to wash the blood away in the basin.
“Much,” I whispered, watching him with another kind of hunger. But it would be better to wait until I had my strength back, until he could regain some of his after being half-drained. Besides, there was too much to catch up on.
He turned to me, obviously thinking along the same lines. “Why did you go? Why were you gone for so long?”
“You know I was in America.” I tried to push myself to a sitting position but failed, still weakened by my long stretches of coursing both to the airport in New York and from Paris.
“I know.” He perched at my side, pressing my shoulders into the cushions. “Rest. That’s why we’re here, so you might regain your strength without fear of discovery.”
I nodded. “Everything went to hell over there. I was working to secure territory for my brother. I had no idea it would all go so wrong.” I chuckled in spite of myself. “It seems I was not the only one with plans.”
“Why had other plans?”
“For one thing, I made a deal with a shade. He was to assist me, but he double-crossed me, the traitorous fool. Then, Lucian’s own son killed him in front of half the League.”
Anton’s eyes widened. “Lucian, the head of the League?”