“We appreciate powerful allies in these tumultuous times,” Phoenix says smoothly, diplomat-like. “And we don’t have to tell all of our secrets on the first day. We barely know each other.”
She shoots her grandfather a significant look—pointed, challenging.
He glares back silently for so long I don’t think he’ll ever respond.
Finally, though, he turns back toward us, putting on a smile that’s clearly disingenuous. Too practiced. Too perfect. “I am Vlad Dracul. Welcome to our home. We are glad to offer sanctuary to your family.”
Vlad Dracul. Of course. I suppress a grin. The actual Vlad Dracul. Or perhaps a descendant? Hard to tell with vampires and their naming conventions.
He makes a quick gesture with one pale hand, and a man from behind him scurries forward obediently. Instantly.
“I’m happy to take them—” Phoenix starts, gesturing her arm toward the imposing building behind her.
“You will stay here,” Vlad says, voice gruff but clearly authoritative. Brooking no argument.
I don’t miss the twitch of Phoenix’s mouth at being ordered around—irritation flickering across her features before she schools them back to neutrality. But she nods, tilting her face toward the ground in submission.
There’s some sort of fascinating power play happening between these two. A struggle for control, for authority. Usually,it would be the sort of thing that would fascinate me. Delight me, even. I love watching hierarchies crumble and power shift.
Right now, though, I only frown seeing it, because I don’t like my consort and I being caught in the middle of a vampire family power struggle.
Too many variables. Too much we don’t know.
My family is usually raucous and loud no matter where we are—arguments and laughter and constant motion. But we’re all quiet and on guard as we follow Vlad’s ‘son’ out of the courtyard.
The courtyard itself is impressive—ancient cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of feet. High stone walls on all sides, easily thirty feet tall, topped with what looks like modern razor wire incongruously mixed with medieval battlements. The fortress is a blend of old and new—medieval architecture updated with modern security.
We pass through a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands and enter a corridor. The transition from outside to inside is stark—the temperature drops immediately, making Lauren shiver against me. The air smells of old stone and older blood. Not fresh. Decades old, maybe centuries. Soaked into the very walls.
The corridor is dim, lit by electric sconces designed to look like torches. Stone walls on either side, worn smooth in some places, rough-hewn in others. The floor is flagstone, our footsteps echoing despite our attempts at stealth.
Finally, we enter the main fortress proper—wood and stone construction, timber beams across high ceilings, tapestries hanging on walls. Medieval but maintained. Clean. Organized.
Are all the other twenty or so men in the courtyard really Vlad’s sons? I can tell they’re vampires by scent—all that cold, preserved wrongness. But we have so little information on these creatures. We don’t even know how they’re created. Born? Made? Some combination?
“We will send someone to the local town for food,” says the man leading us—another reminder, as if we needed it, that our hosts don’t eat.
Which makes me curious about how they meet the needs of their peculiar dietary requirements. Do they hunt? Keep blood bags? Have willing donors? The possibilities are numerous and mostly unpleasant.
“Here is our guest wing,” the man says once we reach an inner corridor branching off from the main hall. He gestures ahead down a hallway lined with heavy wooden doors. “You have your pick of five guest suites. Father suggests you rest for the evening. He and Phoenix will meet you, Layden, to discuss security concerns in an hour.”
“And me,” Abaddon adds firmly. “I am the patriarch of this family.”
The man looks like he wants to argue—his jaw tightens, eyes narrowing—but finally nods with obvious reluctance. “And you, then. But the rest of you—” he looks us all over briefly, dismissively, “—can rest until we meet again in the morning to discuss the details of your stay.”
Like we’re children being sent to bed.
Kharon nods, already moving. He puts a large, glamoured arm protectively around Ksenia’s shoulders and heads toward the closest room, obviously only wanting to get his wife and newborn daughter somewhere safe to rest.
It’s understandable. The woman just gave birth in a helicopter while fleeing through a dragon dimension. She looks ready to collapse.
I don’t know much about human females and their biological processes, but I understand that birthing another being is generally quite an ordeal. Especially under those circumstances.
Normally, I would be feeling that familiar flutter inside—excitement at all the possibilities of this place. The potential formischief, for chaos, for finding out exactly how these vampires tick and what makes them scream.
But I find myself also experiencing some strangely mundane protective feelings instead.
The need to keep Lauren safe overwhelms everything else. Even my curiosity. Even my usual hunger for excitement.
