I peer at their knees. Have they felt the weight of blood-soaked armor? Of course they haven’t.
The fragrance of the roses in the vases along the walls gives an odd illusion of tranquility. My chin tips up toward the massive stained-glass windows, making the war room feel like a place of worship. Reds and blacks paint a scheme of the landscape of Blackthorn. The vaulted ceilings allow for plenty of nooks for the light to slip into.
The scent of fresh blood in the air has my hand resting on my sword. There! Every pitcher on the large table is full of blood.The smooth, deep red silken surface, filled to the brim, draws my eyes.
My fangs throb, but I’ve long controlled the need to drink in excess.
I stand back as they all clamor towards the table. What about rations and a proper blood diet? We’re taught as kids about overconsumption, which leads to bloodlust.
Consuming too much human blood doesn’t strengthen your magic. It gives you a sense of pseudo-strength. It’s an addictive high.
It seems the nobles were handed different books. Binge all you want; we’ll rehab you and make you fit as new again.
Galen saunters over to the only chair—it’s more of a throne, really. The trunk of a tree was gutted, hollowed, and then carved into a chair. The back of it curls up into braided vines with fresh black roses. I follow the others as we stand around the table. They’re comfortable as they grab goblets and gulp down their fill.
The hairs on the back of my neck raise. That one has air magic; a fresh scent of air circulates around him. The vampire next to me must have water; the air feels more humid.
“Lieutenant Ferdinand, tell me—” The door swings open, and Galen hesitates with insult.
“I apologize. I was late in getting word from the scouts.” The man stands tall with a note in hand.
Fuck!
It’s Griffen’s father. Everett’s spy/friend/I-don’t-know-what-the-fuck-to-call-him.
He’s not a random soldier if he’s here. And he just interrupted King Galen’s meeting without much concern.
“Vice Admiral Adrian,” Galen guides his crown to fit more snugly. “I would call upon you next. What news have you?” he inquires.
Vice Admiral Adrian Airendale! He’s in charge of Galen’s whole damn army!Gods!
Of course, I know his name. I’ve never met him, but stories about him rushing to battle, laying siege as if death itself could not claim him, are endless. He’s so valuable, King Galen ordered him back to Blackthorn, no longer allowed to fight on the field.
If Galen lost Adrian, he’d be fucked. Adrian knows how others think, where they will attack or retreat. He’s a mastermind.
“I have troubling news.” Adrian hands Galen the note. His eyes lock onto me and lighten, the only sign he’s a friend not a foe. He refrains from drinking, adhering to the warriors’ dietary habits.
“Troubles are nothing more than morning gossip.” Galen smirks. “Go ahead, enlighten us with your tales.” He drops the letter, not bothering to read it.
Adrian must be used to the insults, for he doesn’t flinch. “We found another body.”
“Not this again.” Galen rolls his eyes. “I don’t care about bodies; they offer me no value, Adrian.”
“A body of the creature, not its victim.”
I look from noble to noble; some wear ignorance, like Galen, while others pale.
If I’m part of this council, I intend to use my voice. I clear my throat. “What creature?”
“I apologize, General Titus, for this is a nuisance you must now endure.” Galen waves his hand at Adrian to continue, but the gesture is akin to swatting a fly.
“Nuisances, if not dealt with, can steal crowns, Galen,” Adrian responds, purposely forgoing the title of king.
Galen touches his crown again. Adrian’s disregard for decorum clearly vexes him.
The king’s spine presses into his chair for protection. “Let them try.” He mocks the looming threat of battle, comparing it to mere pages of a story, not real horrors.
I run my tongue over my fangs.
