Kingmakers, The (Vampire Empire Book 3)

by Clay Griffith Susan Griffith

  Adele laughed loudly. “No. I don't recall anything insulting. In fact, you hardly ever speak vampire.” She reached out to him. “I'm sorry for keeping the secret so long.”

  “On the contrary, you shouldn't have told me now. We're still leaders of rival houses. Don't give away all of your secrets to me.”

  She grew serious, and her face clouded. “But we're together. We shouldn't keep secrets from one another.”

  Gareth considered her words in thoughtful silence.

  “Why?” she pressed. “Do you have secrets you're keeping from me?”

  “No. But you're different. You must protect yourself from any eventuality. I don't matter.”

  She eyed him with mock suspicion, trying to play it off as a joke, but even so, some of the hurt was real. “I'm not sure I can believe you. Perhaps you're lying to me now to cover your secrets.”

  “Perhaps, but I'm not.” Then he blurted, “No, I do have one last secret. My true name.”

  “Gareth isn't even your name?”

  “It is. But my kind are born with a name in our language. We don't use it; it's secret. We believe that knowing someone's true name gives you power over them. At least, that's the tradition; it's largely forgotten now.”

  Adele sat quietly watching the reflection of her diamond tiara sparkling from its place atop her rigidly ordered curls. She tapped her fan against her knee.

  His brow wrinkled in question. “Shall I tell you?”

  “No,” she answered.

  “I will happily tell you.”

  “No, don't.”

  “Why?” Shadows flashed across his angular face as light from passing streetlamps slipped through the edges of drawn shades.

  “I don't ever want to know the last mystery about you,” she replied softly.

  “As you wish.” Greyfriar smiled and laid a steady hand over her nervous fan. “At least you'll know that the power you have over me has nothing to do with my name.”

  The muffled din of cheering from outside increased, and the clomping of the mounted columns of White Guard around the carriage grew louder. A colored card showed on the wall, triggered by the footman riding outside to indicate they were nearing the opera house. Adele searched her small clutch for a mirror and checked her make-up. “How do I look?”

  “Magnificent.”

  “Thank you.” She smoothed the lap of her gown. “I used to hate dressing up. And I wouldn't want to do it every day, but I quite enjoy it now. Maybe because I have someone to do it for.” She glanced up at him.

  “It suits you. You carry yourself like an empress. And you do attract my attention, though vampires are always drawn to high fashion naturally.”

  His deep laugh calmed any last nerves as the carriage rocked to a stop. There was a whistle at Adele's side and she picked up a small speaking tube. The footman's voice came from outside, “Are you prepared, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes, Gregor. You may proceed.”

  The carriage door swung wide and the blare of countless trumpets filled the air. Greyfriar stepped out to screams of excitement. He paused at the foot of the steps and turned to offer his hand to the glittering empress. The footman posed with mute annoyance as Greyfriar handed Adele down to the red-carpeted walkway, which extended across the sidewalk and up the many steps to the portico of the Grand Macedon Opera House where a line of brass horns blew an earsplitting welcome.

  Adele appeared in a pale yellow gown, accented in magenta. It showed her olive complexion to wonderful effect. The skirt was voluminous, but her waist and bodice were tight, and sparkled with intricate gem work. Her strong shoulders were bare under a magenta silk stole, appropriate for single women, if daring for an empress. Long opera gloves above the elbows completed the elegant ensemble.

  Adele glided up the steps with a grace that thrilled her; managing vast gowns had always been a challenge. Greyfriar followed just behind her shoulder, scanning their surroundings constantly, an all-seeing sentinel. Her White Guard stood at attention, lining her path. Captain Shirazi acknowledged her with a brief nod before returning to his duty.

  On the portico, she turned with a brilliant smile to wave at the multitudes, most of whom would never set foot inside the Grand Macedon in their lifetimes. Adults held children aloft to catch a glimpse of their empress and her mysterious companion.

  Adele then entered the vast building of sparkling chandeliers, bold mosaics, marbled columns, dark but intricately carved woodwork, and a veritable jungle of green plants in massive pots and cisterns. There facing her across the spacious lobby was the interminable greeting line of tuxedoes, gowns, uniforms, and veils.

  With her secretary at her side to announce names, the empress passed down the line, shaking hands, acknowledging bows and curtsies, secretly delighted as all eyes locked on Greyfriar, who went with her but did not acknowledge anyone, like a guardian angel or vengeful spirit.

  Adele paused to speak to the two blue-haired colossi of the Phoenix Society. Lady Tahir was accompanied by a devilishly handsome young man who did not bear a family resemblance. Mrs. General Alfred Cornwell (ret.) was with her husband, the grey-whiskered General Cornwell, whose head quavered slightly, but who was resplendent in a uniform adorned with medals of the Burmese Campaign.

  “General,” Adele said, “most delighted to see you. I have the frequent opportunity to greet your wife, but I believe I have yet to make your esteemed acquaintance.”

  “Thank you, Majesty,” the old gentleman replied briefly, then stopped talking, which caused his wife to smile, but when he opened his mouth again, her eyes flew wide in alarm. “And may I say, as a military man, well done in Grenoble!”

  “Thank you, General.”

  He carried on in a muttering baritone. “I daresay those boys gave the vampires what for when you showed up, let them know what they're fighting for, so to speak.”

  Mrs. General Alfred Cornwell (ret.) went ashen, horrified that her husband had just referred to the empress as some sort of barracks pinup, giving the boys at the front a bit of home. She touched the general's ribboned sleeve and tittered nervously, signaling that his time with the monarch was at an end.

  “And, if I may,” he persisted, pointing a knobby finger at the delicate young empress, “all the chaps at the Polo Club are bully for you. Every man jack of us wishes he'd been at Grenoble.” He clenched a quivering fist and flecked his bushy mustache with emotional spittle. “If only I wasn't so blasted old! I'd join up in a second!”

  Mrs. General Alfred Cornwell (ret.) was breathing raggedly from the fear that her hard-earned position in society had been undone in a few blustery words from her demented husband. Lady Tahir, who typically was so attached to the general's wife that they finished one another's sentences, subtly turned herself away in order to distance her social status from the plummeting stock of her former friend.

  Adele took the old general's rough hand. “We thank you for your kind words, General. We wish you were able to be at Grenoble as well. Your service to our father is sufficient to earn you praise and rest. If the men of the army in Europe are half the men you and your comrades were in Burma, we daresay the vampires stand no chance.”

  General Cornwell's lip quivered until he tightened his jaw manfully. He bowed deeply to her.

  Adele looked at the confused Mrs. General Alfred Cornwell (ret.). “And the women behind our men at the front are what make Equatoria the great empire it is. We thank you for your service.” She then glanced at the equally confused Lady Tahir and said with an impeccable straight face, “And your ladyship, I am so glad to see you with your son.”

  “My…son? Oh yes! Quite!”

  Adele moved on to receive the remainder of Alexandrian society. She tried to hurry so the opera could begin. The Greyfriar was reputed to be an epic of more than four hours. It had been slated originally to premiere in the autumn, but the outbreak of war made it seem temporarily frivolous. So the season was put off until the empress gave permission for social life in the capital to beg
in again. The delay gave the creators of the show time to add an unprecedented fifth act in which Greyfriar leads Equatoria to victory in the vampire war.

  At the end of the receiving line was the director of the Imperial Opera Company, who greeted Adele, then led her and Greyfriar to the door of the royal box. Soldiers were positioned outside along with Adele's social secretary with her agenda. The door opened, and she heard an expectant hush from the house. As she entered, the crowd rose, turned toward her expectantly, and applauded. Adele went to the curved rail of the box high above the sea of people and acknowledged the uproar.

  “God save Your Majesty!” came a shout above the din.

  There was an audible rush of surprise at the exclamation. Adele looked for the source, but it was lost in the shadows. That outburst would be in the papers tomorrow, she thought. A public expression of faith, even at so bland an event, was cause for comment. Add to that her reputation as a religious acolyte, and it would become a topic of pointless debate across the coffeehouses and tearooms of the city, as well as the cloakrooms at Commons.

  Gratefully, for the moment, the crowd was instantly distracted by the appearance of Greyfriar at her side. Opera glasses snapped up to multitudes of faces as men and women sought a closer view of the mystery man.

  Adele kept her expression neutral and settled into her seat. Greyfriar joined her, and the director handed them both hardcover copies of the evening's program with an unctuous, “We fervently hope you enjoy the production.”

  “We're sure we will since the program is already a hit,” Adele replied as Greyfriar pored over the pages of the playbill, taking great care to turn the fragile paper with his gloved hands. “Well, shall we get started?”

  “Indeed. I should hate for the war to conclude before the opera.” The director laughed but noticed the deadpan look on the empress's face. He sobered instantly and straightened with a look of terror at his faux pas. “We shall begin momentarily.” He withdrew, bowing until the door was shut by soldiers, leaving Adele and Greyfriar alone with only several thousand of Equatoria's elite looking on.

  The Grand Macedon was a lush and magnificent venue, larger than Algier's La Premiere, but considered a second to it still. Two levels of ornate private boxes along the sides and two balconies in the rear overlooked the floor that sloped toward the orchestra, where the conductor was mounting the step behind his podium. An audible hush swept the hall as the maestro tapped his baton, then raised it. Held it. And down it came with a thunderous percussion beginning the prelude. House lights began to drop. Conversations in the private boxes wound down with handshakes and waves and promises to speak later.

  Adele saw Greyfriar scanning the theater, but not out of concern for security. He was clearly fascinated by the melee around him, the movement and the sound. He rose from his seat for a clearer view of the orchestra as rows of arms pistoned in unison over violins and many fingers played piccolos and oboes.

  “Look at that,” he said in wonder. “Look at their hands. They're all moving in harmony.”

  “Shh.” Adele gently guided him back to his velvet chair. She took his hand and squeezed. With his other hand, he was mimicking the fretwork of the violinists. She couldn't draw her gaze away from him, caught up in his excitement and wonder.

  The prelude thundered on with dramatic crescendos, achingly beautiful passages, and hints of darkness. After a few minutes, the music calmed, the footlights brightened, the grand drapes parted, and the curtain scalloped up to reveal characters spread about the stage on a stylized set resembling the deck of an airship. A rosy spotlight hit a young woman in a regal gown and cloak.

  Greyfriar sat forward. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” Adele replied, and then suppressed a delighted squeal as a man wearing a martinet's uniform and turban came downstage toward the beatific princess. “It's General Anhalt!”

  The music rose and the actor portraying Anhalt extended his arm and sang in Italian, “Your Highness would be safer below. It's getting dark. Vampires are very unpredictable.”

  Greyfriar laughed a bit too loud as Act II began with Cesare alone onstage. The villain was a massive figure, broad chested, swathed in black and, like all the vampires in the production, brandishing long yellowish claws from his fingertips. He also sported a long black beard. He said, “Looks a bit like Senator Clark.”

  Adele had to stifle a guffaw behind her fan.

  Gareth scanned the cast list. “Where is Senator Clark? Isn't he in this show?”

  “No. They never use him in plays about us. He complicates the plot.”

  Gareth laughed again.

  The onstage Cesare began to sing in a rumbling growl, “Behold, I am Cesare. I am the death of humankind. Bring me Princess Adele.”

  Flay entered stage left, a tall beautiful woman with long black hair, clad in black robes. Princess Adele followed with her hands chained but her head unbowed. Other vampires, all in black, crouched or scurried around the stage, up and down the backdrop, in and out of torchlight. It was an extraordinarily disturbing effect and gave the real Adele chills to watch.

  Cesare launched into an aria about vampires and their destruction of human culture in the north. It was a boastful, arrogant litany of vampire successes, not at all untrue, if a bit long. The scuttling vampires around him provided a mournful, unsettling chorus.

  Greyfriar asked, “Where's Gareth? Just Cesare?”

  Adele whispered, “There's no Gareth.”

  “I'm not important?”

  “No one knows Gareth…yet. They know Cesare. And Flay. They're the villains. And besides, the opera is named after you. The Greyfriar. That's you.”

  “Is it?”

  Adele turned toward him. “Isn't it?”

  He stared at the stage.

  Act III drove forward with Princess Adele about to be sacrificed before the gathered British vampire clan. The proud young woman stood surrounded by black-clad figures, including the smug Cesare and sinister Flay. The princess sang a sad call to Greyfriar, whom she believed dead.

  “Is Greyfriar even still in this play?” Greyfriar complained impatiently. “Where have I gone?”

  Adele rolled her eyes and slapped his fidgeting leg with her fan. “Did you ever think the princess could save herself? She may not need a man to do it.”

  “Then why call it The Greyfriar?” he muttered. “All these people paid money for this. I'd be upset if I had paid money for The Greyfriar to hear this much Cesare singing.”

  Suddenly the princess's aria drew to a bittersweet end. As Cesare and Flay closed in around her, a trumpet cried, a spotlight shot out onto a black-cloaked vampire who threw off his shadowy raiment to reveal he was the Greyfriar. Mayhem ensued as Greyfriar fought to reach the princess.

  The real Greyfriar gripped his chair arms with excitement.

  Adele said, “There, you see. He was disguised as a vampire.” She paused. “How odd.”

  The operatic swordsman engaged Flay in a choreographed battle. They moved across the stage and back, leaping, spinning, and twirling with admirable athleticism. Although it was a fight to the death, it was an impressive ballet with two figures, man and woman, closing, touching, and drawing apart.

  Adele sat back in the royal box with an annoyed huff at the almost erotic dance between two characters, but it was Greyfriar and Flay, not the princess. She watched the two colliding, pushing off, lingering together with deep emotional stares. Greyfriar's rapt attention on the duo below added to her aggravation.

  Finally, onstage, Greyfriar struck down Flay and turned on Cesare. The evil prince threw his cape over his face and fled, vanishing into shadows. Swordsman and princess came together in a crescendo and began a song of love and redemption.

  It was nice, but it lacked the passion and physicality of the ballet with Flay. There had been a raw emotion between the two rivals that was lacking in the traditionally proper lovers of Greyfriar and the princess. Not at all satisfying to Adele. The authors had missed the mark.

/>   After their song, Greyfriar and the princess raced from the stage to make their escape from London. In the imperial box, Adele was ready to stand for the traditional intermission, but the music shifted into something new. A spot fell on the body of Flay, and the vampire slowly rose to her feet.

  Flay began the most beautiful and horrifying aria that Adele had ever heard. It was full of passion and heartache and rage. Flay expressed her hatred for the princess, which Adele found enjoyable. Then the aria shifted again and Flay dropped to her knees, and wailed that she loved Greyfriar. They could never be together because of the fact that they were enemies. Flay knew Greyfriar was good and pure and true, something she dreamed but could never be. Flay's last wrenching note faded into tears.

  The curtain dropped on the act. Adele's cheeks were wet and she realized she had crushed her fan in her fist.

  The hours passed and characters came and went across the stage. Finally, the armies of Equatoria surrounded the unassailable walls of a London castle, leaving only Cesare and his chief weapon, Flay, trapped. Greyfriar volunteered to enter the villains' lair, even though it was likely he would be killed. He couldn't bear for one more soldier to die if he could prevent it. With him standing alone, the grotesque set piece for Cesare's castle settled to the stage around him. It was physically disturbing. The lines were uneven. Doors were crooked. Floors slanted. It was disorienting to the audience.

  Adele whispered, “So you're going to win the war all by yourself? Where am I?”

  “Shh,” he replied. “It is called The Greyfriar.”

  She was prepared to say something disgruntled when a burst of sound from the orchestra heralded the appearance of Flay onstage, who attacked the hero. Cesare appeared up from out of a trapdoor in the black floor, delivering a nightmarish aria above the struggle.

  “Typical,” Greyfriar muttered. “Singing while others fight.”

  When the stage swordsman was pushed close to Cesare by Flay, the vampire prince struck and drove Greyfriar to the floor, and his sword went flying. Flay rose up in clawed triumph, preparing for the death blow, singing that if she could never have him, no one would. Cesare bellowed a deep resounding note that rang for a long moment, then ceased abruptly in a gunshot.