I breathe a little easier at that and follow my brothers down the darkened hallways. The fortress is even more oppressive at night—or is it day? Hard to tell with no windows. Stone walls press in from both sides, lit by those fake torch sconces that cast more shadow than light.
Layden takes the lead, moving with confidence. Obviously knows where he’s going.
Abaddon and I exchange meaningful glances as we walk. Our little brother has some explaining to do, and soon. He’s spent time here—that’s abundantly clear from how the granddaughter looked at him, how he knows the layout. But he also managed not to reveal the secret of who and what he is?
Grandpa Vlad doesn’t seem like the most welcoming sort of fellow. Or the forgiving kind.
Finally, Layden pushes through two massive double doors into a large, vaulted room. No windows here either—of coursenot. The décor is the same suffocating black broken up occasionally by gold accents. Heavy velvet curtains that go nowhere. Dark wood paneling. Oppressive and deliberate.
Several dark, lush couches are arranged in a circle—staging for a performance. And in the center, on a small raised dais, sits Grandpa Vlad in a golden wing-backed chair positioned like a throne.
He’s obviously used to being the presiding power in any negotiation. Expects deference. Demands it.
Already calculating advantages and weaknesses.
“Have a seat, gentlemen,” he says coolly, notable lack of welcome in his cultured voice.
To his right sits his granddaughter, Phoenix, whose eyes immediately warm when they meet Layden’s. She leans slightly toward him—unconscious body language revealing connection.
I clock that immediately. And the position of all the other players in the room.
Several of Vlad’s apparent “sons” are positioned around the perimeter at strategic intervals—hands held loosely by their sides and within easy reach of the bulges at their belts. Firearms, I can tell by the shape. Modern weapons.
Which tells me they’re used to dealing with human rather than supernatural threats. Interesting. And likely good for us.
I prefer to be underestimated in any potential conflict. Let them think guns will help them.
“Tell us the situation,” Vlad instructs his granddaughter, looking at her pointedly after we’ve all taken our seats on the couches. His voice carries command—expecting immediate obedience.
“We’re still waiting for?—”
“I said to begin,” Vlad snaps, voice cracking like a whip.
But then the door opens, and another young woman scurries inside. She looks around at both the room and the assembledvampires with wide, alarmed eyes—prey animal recognizing predators.
She only calms down slightly once her gaze catches on Phoenix, who half-rises out of her seat as if to welcome her before Vlad places a hand on her elbow.
Stopping her. Controlling her.
“Sabra,” Phoenix breathes out, obviously relieved.
I wonder again at the dynamics here. It’s clear Vlad has some kind of hold on Phoenix—psychological, magical, political? And yet she, amongst all of his kin, is the only one seated beside him. Clearly she’s a favorite. Or holds some other sway that makes her valuable despite his obvious disdain.
Power and resentment intertwined. Fascinating and dangerous.
“Sit,” Vlad’s voice cuts through the room like ice on glass.
Sabra sits nervously at the end of the couch nearest Layden. The two of them briefly exchange a glance—recognition, familiarity, something more?
Ah. So she too knows our secretive little brother. The plot thickens.
“Now, as I was saying—” Vlad sounds irritated, looking back to Phoenix with narrowed eyes, “—begin.”
Phoenix takes a deep breath and sits up straighter in her chair. She inches slightly closer to Layden and Sabra—subtle positioning, probably unconscious. Seeking allies against the authority figure.
“Sabra’s mother was a powerful mage who worked with my grandfather,” she says, looking back toward Vlad.
I keep my face carefully neutral, though Abaddon’s eyes widen slightly beside me. A tell he needs to work on.
