by J. C. Staudt
Quim hasn’t mentioned Gamma Hegemii in years, and I’d forgotten all about it. Part of his mother’s soul is in that star, and despite his rocky relationship with his parents I think he’s always felt a certain attachment to it. So to hear him say he’s sold off a part of his own mother, probably to some archangel or cherub with a rambling heart… it breaks mine.
“You did what?”
“You should’ve told me, Cade. You should’ve told me you paid him off. The sale went through yesterday. I called Trezzo just now to tell him I had some of his money. He laughed and said somebody must have a messed-up sense of humor to pay my debts without telling me.”
“Can you get it back? I’ll buy it back for you. Who’d you sell it to?”
“You’ve done enough, Cade. You’ve done enough.”
A pause. Click, and the line goes dead.
Chapter 16
I don’t try to call Quim back. I could pressure him for the name of the person he sold the star to. I could track that person down and offer to buy it back at any price. That won’t fix what I’ve destroyed. I’ve done some rude and inconsiderate things to my best friend over the years, but this one trumps them all.
Ersatz wasn’t wrong to suggest I pay Quim’s debt. My mistake was wussing out and not telling him about it. What makes me feel even worse is that selling the star probably yielded him less than a third of the quarter-million he owed Trezzo.
Back at the apartment, I find Ersatz pacing the top of the bookshelf. He’s knocked everything onto the floor and worn a footpath through the dust. His eyes are bloodshot, his countenance stark and grim. “They won’t leave me alone,” he says, without bothering a hello. “They haunt me every time I close my eyes.”
“Just a few more hours. Once I get the information the sidhe wants, we both get freed. That’s the deal. That’s what’s going to happen.”
“You didn’t make a deal,” he snaps. “There is no deal. We are at her mercy. She can do whatever she wants with us.”
“But she won’t. The hags are under her protection. If she doesn’t free us, my only recourse is to kill Lady Wygella and her sisters. Elona won’t risk that.”
“We’re going to die. We’re never going to sleep again, and our dreams will devour us.”
“I’ll fix this, Ersatz. I’ve screwed up everything else, but this, I can fix.”
The wait for nighttime takes forever. I’ve never been this tired in my life, yet I pace the living room the way Ersatz has been pacing the bookshelf, forcing myself to stay awake, refusing to sit or lie down. I have no idea how I’m going to make it through a late-night meeting; I can only hope the presence of so many vampires will keep the adrenaline pumping.
The details spin through my head. I can’t let myself forget a single one. Tonight has to go perfectly. I lay out my clothes on the bed with the Trillion of the Bloodless beside them. A hot shower makes me want to sleep, but I slap myself and rehearse everything again.
I’ll show up to the opera house in the Maserati wearing the Cade-sized suit I wore to Calyxto’s Fae Council hearing, with the Trillion around my neck. I don’t want to crutch on blood magic, but if there was ever a time when I needed it, that time is now. With Ersatz preoccupied inside his own head, I lock myself inside my office. I need a strong mixture; a powerful concoction with a stable base. I might sacrifice some versatility and resilience, but a blend of elf and werewolf blood tinged with one part centaur—because if I need to escape I’ll have to run fast—should do the trick. Durlan never did find me that vial of demon blood.
I find a bare spot on my right thigh, bring the needle close, and stop short. The Trillion. It will silence my pulse and stop me from sweating, but will it mask the scent of blood that isn’t mine? Can vampires smell injected blood? I slide the cap onto the needle and put the syringe in the mini-fridge. I won’t risk failing my mission by doing something stupid.
I put on my suit without a necktie, leaving my collared shirt open to the third button. Before leaving the apartment I tuck two residue pills into my shirt pocket and rub some wendigo dust onto my fingers, using it to cast my illusion spell. I lengthen my canines, eliminate the tired bags beneath my eyes, thin out my nose and cheeks, and morph my eye color into a pale yellow flecked with gold. When I hang the Trillion around my neck, my image disappears from the hall mirror and my shadow vanishes from the floor.
Ersatz is so lost in his sleep-deprived dementia he barely acknowledges my farewell.
I weave the Maserati through traffic until I hit weekend party gridlock. I arrive at the opera house half an hour early and spend fifteen minutes hunting for a parking spot. I’m tempted to take a cat nap in the back seat, but I know what’ll happen if I do. Poise. Confidence. Posture, I remind myself as I exit the vehicle and crack my spine straight like a military man at attention.
The night’s performance is nearing its third act as I climb the opera house stairs toward the meeting room and follow a crowd of well-dressed aristocracy down the adjoining hallway. A woman in a tight black dress is waiting outside the door at the end of the hall, stopping each guest in turn to gather their credentials. I wait in line until it’s my turn.
“And you are?”
We lock eyes. She’s very beautiful. I stifle the urge to give her a friendly smile. “Nikolai Vosmik of Tenebris.”
She doesn’t break her gaze. She’s testing me. Gauging my strength. Probing my defenses. “Vosmik,” she says, glancing at her datapad. She swipes her finger across the screen. “Here you are. Go right in.”
A massive conference table surrounded by high-backed leather chairs spans one end of a spacious boardroom devoid of decoration. There are no refreshments of any kind to be found. Not even a blood bar—if that’s a thing. Bummer. I’ve been so nervous I forgot to eat before I came. My stomach grumbles in regret. I’d pictured vampires drinking scarlet smoothies with tiny beach umbrellas and stirring olives in martini glasses brimming with thick red blood. Which goes to show, I should take vampires more seriously.
Conversation abounds between clusters of allies, while enemy factions cast dirty looks across the room at one another. Many of the smaller covens in the area are aligned with either the Hallowed or the Ascended, with sporadic holdouts maintaining their independence. Elona Anarian didn’t bother telling me whose side Tenebris was on, so I hesitate to strike up a conversation and offend the wrong crowd. I stand alone and try not to act human.
I recognize a few of the vampires here from Carmine’s charity banquet a few months back. Carmine. I haven’t thought about her or her stupid boyfriend Steve in days. I’ll investigate his nocturnal dalliances once Ersatz mends the spellvault silver. I doubt my dragon will get much work done until I’ve freed us from our dream-slavery so he can take a nice long snooze.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” says a smooth masculine voice.
I turn to find a tall blond vampire glaring at me through fierce lilac eyes. “Sebastian Bordeaux.”
“Nikolai Vosmik.”
Sebastian nods. “I am pleased Tenebris saw fit to lend its support.”
So Tenebris is aligned with the Hallowed. Good to know.
“I trust you are prepared to share your recent stratagem for the benefit of our rivals.”
“Indeed,” I lie.
“We must tread with care. I will be counting on the lesser covens to weigh in. I hope I can count on you.”
“You can, Lord Bordeaux. I must compliment you on an exquisite venue.”
“Have you seen one of our plays?”
“Not as yet. However, I hope I soon will. Once things settle, I imagine.” Talking like this feels forced and odd to me, but Sebastian Bordeaux doesn’t bat an eye.
“Our entertainers are unmatched in the region. Everyone does a wonderful job, from the ticket salespersons to the singers to the orchestra. I pride myself on running the finest opera house in the state. Do notify me when you plan on attending. I’ll arrange special seating for you and your guests.”
&
nbsp; “I certainly will.”
Sebastian turns his attention toward the entry. In walks none other than Ponytail McGee—Felix Mottrov of Mottrov Multinational; son of Giga Motts; half-brother of Irys Montrovia; and ostensibly a high-ranking member of the Ascended, if the coven didn’t kick him out in punishment for his father’s betrayal. In Felix’s wake comes his gray-haired companion Xender Ozul, the elder vampire who was with him at Gutter Sharks the night of the fatal poker game which claimed the life and unlife, respectively, of Roger Tarpley and Lord Strix Montrovia. The two vampires get a cold reception; no one leaves their current group to engage them.
The red gem in the winged iron pendant around Xender Ozul’s neck catches my eye. I’d noticed it in the back room of Gutter Sharks and assumed it was merely a decorative piece. I study the gem from afar and wonder if it could serve the same purpose as the Trillion of the Bloodless. Could Xender Ozul be the investment Elona Anarian was referring to? Has she planted a long-term spy among the Ascended? Maybe the sidhe sent me here to make sure Xender is blending in like he should.
Sebastian makes no reaction to Felix’s entrance, indicating a clear sense of superiority. He turns back to me. “Your instinct may be to view the Ascended as our adversaries. To do so would be a mistake. Felix Mottrov’s inability to control his half-blooded slattern of a sister is no fault of his own. He simply does not possess the will his father did. He’s done himself a favor in excluding her tonight. Our negotiations should prove all the more effective for it. Excuse me while I make the rounds. We’ll be starting shortly. Feel free to find a seat at your leisure.”
This is bad news. With Irys Montrovia absent, this meeting won’t be much help to the Guardians of the Veil after all. As Sebastian moves off to greet his incoming guests, I scan the room and find no sign of Des, either, reaffirming my decision not to talk to anyone unless they approach me first. I take a seat at the conference table to await the meeting’s commencement.
There’s a palpable mood shift when Desdemona Dolman enters wearing a bright blue evening gown with a V-shaped neckline that plunges to the waistband. The man on her arm is a sinewy fellow with a sharp jawline and a shock of medium-blond hair covering one of his pale green eyes. I’ve never seen Des wear anything besides her cop uniform and her urban battle fatigues. The change is astonishing. I find myself staring, and look away. I’d like to go over to her and make a quip about her cleaning up nice, but I’ll save it for later.
Des avoids eye contact with me as she flows through the room. The vampires regard the dhampir with greater distaste than they’ve shown their worst enemies; there’s a latent hatred in their eyes, as if the Pax is the only reason they’re not tearing her limb from limb. I wonder whether she got a spot on the guest list beforehand, or if showing up with her male friend was her way in as a plus-one.
The guests take their seats around the table. A few empty chairs remain, though certain guests opt to stand around the fringes of the room rather than occupy them. Desdemona is one of those left standing, while her male companion takes a seat across the table from me. I assume this is some unspoken rule by which dhampirs and lesser vampires are made complaisant.
An aged woman with noble countenance, wavy gray-brown hair, deep red eyes, and a beauty mark on her cheek takes the chair on one end of the table while Sebastian pulls out the chair at the other end and remains standing. “You all know why you are here. If you don’t, find somewhere else to be. I’ll wait.”
No one moves.
“Let’s keep this civil and dispense with the indignation,” Sebastian continues, taking his seat. “There’s no room for offense here. This is a calculated measure to reestablish our boundaries and return to business as usual. Let me be clear. Blame-shifting will not be tolerated. We become no better than our prey the moment we resort to such tactics. Any questions?”
The noblewoman at the far end of the table speaks up. “There’s more at play here than a simple redrawing of the lines, Sebastian. Your fondness for oversimplification won’t serve you now as it has before.”
“I have declared Pax Sanguinem for the precise reason that our circumstances are not simple,” Sebastian insists. “Our solution will therefore be anything but. Do not assume I intend to make light of our task. My intention is to reinstate the previously established territories and offer restructuring where necessary. The Defiled, for instance, have always held Harrison Charter Township and its surrounds. Yet I’m told cohorts of Exilium have been seen prowling Defiled streets of an evening. Clearly the leadership of the Ascended has fallen into disarray. Or have these incursions taken place with your consent?”
“I have given no such consent,” snaps the woman.
“Yet Gilbert Mottrov held more than four times the number of thralls allowed by prevailing law. Your consent means little when your subordinates neglect to ask it, Moira. We enact limits for a reason. If our numbers grow inordinately, food becomes scarce. We aren’t here to take over the world. We’re here to survive.”
“My father’s actions were misguided,” Felix cuts in. “He was a fool, blinded by ambition. Let me assure the Hallowed and its allies that we are taking steps to root out this disobedience and put an end to it.”
“You haven’t the authority to make such promises, Felix,” says Moira, rage glimmering in her deep crimson eyes. “The elders and I have made clear our position as to your standing within the coven. Need I reiterate it now, or will the threat of embarrassment be enough to silence you?”
Felix looks poised to speak out, but he holds back, restraint written on his face. “I only wish to do my part toward that end.”
“The elders have no need of your guidance on this matter, nor have they requested it. You may have taken your father’s place at the syndicate, but you’ve a long way to go before you prove yourself worthy of his former station in this coven.”
“A father’s loyalties hold no bearing over those of his son,” says Xender Ozul.
Moira glares. “Neither have I asked for input from your like, Xender. Your sympathies lie so heavy on the whelp, you’ve let them jeopardize your own lowly station.”
“I offer my sincerest condolences in light of Gilbert Mottrov’s treachery,” says Sebastian. “A betrayal from within is a blade in the back.”
“The bloodline runs,” shouts a stern-looking elder with a vein-ridden skull, pointing at Felix.
The room erupts, leading me to believe this is some sort of vampiric proverb. There are calls for Felix’s banishment, the inevitable recourse for one of a traitorous house. Just as many come to his defense, arguing for absolution. Sebastian stands to quiet the noise. “We are digressing from the issue at hand. Our primary concern remains the restoration of the boundaries.”
“It’s time to abolish the boundaries,” proclaims a black-haired woman seated beside Xender. “Let the pledged feed where they please. The greater covens roam far and wide while we remain confined to our meager territories. There is no variation where we hunt. The flesh is stale, the blood tainted.”
“The boundaries are in place to promote harmony between the covens,” says Sebastian.
“Hunting across boundaries isn’t the problem. It’s your insistence on pacifying the minor houses. We won’t stand for it any longer.”
A chorus of voices rise in protest, throwing the meeting into mayhem once again. There you have it, folks. As quickly as it began, the discussion deteriorates into bickering and finger-pointing. I can’t believe I once revered vampires as a higher form of being. They’re holding onto more of their humanity than they’d like to admit, as petty and selfish as a bunch of school children.
Minutes pass. Every so often, a rumble from the opera performance below makes the room shudder. The drama in here is riveting, but I’m way too tired to be riveted. I’m trying to listen out for the sort of information Elona was after, but sleep entices me with its comforting embrace. The basis of the argument is that the smaller covens want more freedom, while the larger covens want to mai
ntain their dominance and are finding the task increasingly difficult in the wake of Mottrov’s coup.
After a time, Sebastian manages to bring the meeting under control. I’m not really paying attention at this point, as the backs of my eyelids are providing me with all the entertainment I need. It isn’t until the room goes completely silent that my mind begins to wander toward the deep end. Silence is wonderful for a sleeping person. For a person who shouldn’t be sleeping, it’s usually a bad sign.
“Lord Vosmik.”
My eyes shoot open.
Everyone’s staring at me.
“Lord Vosmik,” Sebastian Bordeaux repeats.
“Yes. Yes?”
He’s staring at my throat. “I knew there was something odd about you.”
Chapter 17
My mind flies into a panic. Has my illusion spell worn off? Did I do something so human he can’t possibly believe I’m a vampire anymore? Does the Trillion of the Bloodless have a flaw? Most importantly, what am I supposed to do if they’ve found me out? My contingency plan is to run. I’m determining the path of least resistance from my chair to the door when Sebastian speaks again.
“You must forgive us for interrupting your meditations.”
Laughter.
Meditations. Right. I go with it. “I’m finding it hard to center my thoughts with so many voices in competition.”
“As are we all, I’m sure. That jewel around your neck. The setting is made of whispering steel, is it not?”