3. Freedom from Politics
Casimir Cimmerian
My brothers and I walked through the grand doors of the vampire palace, trailing dirt, dire rat guts, and, in Zane’s case, a thin string of mozzarella. Gilded chandeliers cast a too-bright glow over the velvet-draped hall, making the three of us look even more out of place than usual. We were weapons entering an art museum, filthy combat boots on marble floors polished to a mirror sheen.
Father sat at the far end of his office, black hair slicked back, wearing a suit that probably cost more than most people’s homes. One leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled, gaze unreadable. He still couldn’t be bothered to stand when we entered the room. Not that I expected it or even wanted it. Better to know exactly where we stood with him. Somewhere below his perfectly polished oxfords.
His silver eyes raked over our disheveled appearance, then he exhaled heavily through his nose.
“I have an entire staff for some reason.”
“Sweet.” Zane wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smirked. “They can clean the floor, then.”
“To be fair, this is better than last time,” I pointed out. Last time being when we’d shown up covered in manticore venom after a very nasty hunt in Arizona. Three servants had quit on the spot. “And you did say immediately.”
Father flicked his gaze toward a line of waiting attendants, stiff-backed, blank-faced vampires holding fresh clothes and towels. The kind of unnecessary luxury that reminded me why we’d chosen a crumbling apartment overanythinghe might offer.
“Go. Clean up.”
I didn’t move. Neither did my brothers.
This moment was critical, a microcosm of our larger relationship. If we jumped at his first command, it set the tone foreverything that followed. Father’s expression didn’t shift, but I caught the minute tension in his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes. He wasn’t in the mood to argue, and neither was I, but this wasn’t about making a scene. It was about reminding him we weren’t lapdogs to be summoned and scolded.
Five seconds. Ten. The silence stretched between us, crackling with a century of his power and twenty-two years of our resentment.
Zane broke first. Not to obey, but to draw out the moment. He reached into the pizza box he’d carried in, grabbed the final slice, and bit into it with exaggerated enjoyment. A drop of sauce hit the marble floor, and Father’s left eye twitched.
Finally, I sighed. The sooner we found out what he wanted, the sooner we could get out of here. Stalking over to the servants, I grabbed a set of clothes from one and turned toward the shower room.
“Come on,” I said to my brothers. “Let’s wash off the peasant.”
Neither Koa nor Zane argued. They knew when to follow my lead, just as I knew when to follow theirs. Three parts of a single machine, calibrated over years of survival.
As I peeled off my gear, the sound of metal and leather hitting the floor rang sharp against the marble. Four knives, two rifle mags, my sword, and six throwing stars.
“You ever consider lightening the load,” Zane teased, his amber eyes sparkling with mischief, “or do you just enjoy sounding like a walking armory?”
That was rich, since his own pile wasn’t that much smaller than mine. Just less sharp things and morebang-bangthings.
“What can I say?” I stepped under the steaming water, slicking my long blond hair back from my face. “I like being prepared.”
“For what? A war?” Zane flopped onto a nearby bench, stretching out like he owned the place. Or didn’t give a shit that the vampire king did.
That made Ko grunt, which was close to communication as he was going to get while we were here. If Zane and I disliked Father, Kodespisedhim. The feeling was mutual, from what I could tell. Our little brother had always been the one to push back hardest, to question orders, to challenge authority. Father had broken bones trying to break that spirit. He’d failed.
I envied that sometimes, Ko’s ability to feel everything so deeply. I’d learned to lock those parts of myself away early, compartmentalizing until I could see every situation as a tacticalproblem to solve rather than an emotional minefield to navigate. It made me efficient. It also made me cold, at least according to Zane.
Father probably saw it as his greatest success in ‘molding’ me.
The thought made my stomach turn.
“What do you think he wants?” Ko whispered, rinsing his hair.
His demeanor had shifted from barely restrained fury to focused calculation. He was gearing up for battle, mental rather than physical.
“Nothing good,” I replied, equally soft. “But we handle it like always. Assess, decide, execute.”
“And if we don’t like his offer?” Zane piped up.
