The pattern of disappearances gets laid out like a map of horror – twelve witches in the past year alone. Each name lands like a stone in still water, rippling through the gathering.
But then Alaric rises, surprising me. “While these acts are deplorable, we cannot ignore the concerning development of witch-vampire hybrids.” His gaze fixes on where Mia sits. “Such unions are unprecedented. Dangerous.”
“More dangerous than kidnapping our kind?” Lake demands.
“Perhaps we should discuss how your daughter’s blood allowed a vampire to survive direct sunlight,” Isabella cuts in smoothly. “Soren’s survival defies all known laws of our nature.”
I notice how Soren tenses beside me, his hand finding Mia’s. The whispers start immediately – speculation about blood bonds and curses. The unnaturalness of it all.
As if anything about our kind is natural.
“The Blackwoods have become increasingly aggressive,” Alaric continues. “Taking matters into their own hands, attacking vampire properties without sanction. How many more incidents before we acknowledge this reckless behavior?”
There’s another murmur from the gathering. Words like “vigilante” and uncontrollable” are bandied about.
Kara starts to rise, but her father’s hand on her shoulder keeps her seated. The tension in the room ratchets up a notch. It almost goes through the roof when there’s a shout from outside.
The doors blast open with a gust of cold air, cutting through the rising pressure. Lucien strides in like he owns the place,immaculate in a charcoal suit that clearly was made for him. His face is a perfect mask of concerned innocence.
“My deepest apologies for my tardiness,” he says, voice carrying easily through the theater, an actor about to take center stage. “I was detained by matters that couldn’t wait.”
I watch as heads turn, tracking the ripple effect of his entrance. Isabella straightens almost imperceptibly while Alaric’s hand tightens the arm of his chair. Several younger vampires shrink back in their seats. Astra’s expression darkens further, if that’s even possible.
“You dare show your face here?” Zephyra rises, wind whipping around her. “After what you’ve done?”
Lucien spreads his hands in a gesture of peace. “I come seeking a resolution to our mutual difficulties. These tragic events pain me deeply.”
He has to be fucking joking.
Marlowe is brazen, but this is unexpected, even for him. Then again, he’s raised the bar of unexpected behavior recently.
His gaze sweeps the gathering, lingering just a fraction too long on Kara. My fingers dig into the armrest, wood creaking under my grip. The surge of protectiveness catches me off guard – I have no right to feel this territorial.
“Pain you?” Lake’s voice cuts through the whispers. “You kidnapped my mother!”
Several vampires shift uncomfortably. Isabella actually shrinks back from the fury radiating off the Blackwoods. But others – too many others – are nodding at Lucien’s words, buying his act.
I glance at Arabella, trying to read her reaction. The Grand Elder’s face remains impassive, giving nothing away. Is she truly considering Lucien’s obvious manipulation or merely playing her own game? After a thousand years, she’s mastered the art of inscrutability.
“These accusations are both painful and premature,” Lucien continues smoothly. “I assure you, I seek only to heal the rift between our kinds.”
The raw magic sparking off the witch contingent suggests they feel differently about his peaceful intentions.
“Heal the rift?” It’s Zephyra once more, her expression still dark with the pain of loss. She spins to look at Seraphina. “Are you going to stand by and let him get away with this?” Her eyes latch onto Arabella. “And you? Are you condoning this?”
Our Grand Elder remains silent.
“I’m afraid,” Lucien’s voice carries that perfect note of regret, “that the attack on the coven was an act of self-defense. We had received credible intelligence about another planned incursion into vampire territory.”
The lie rolls off his tongue, smooth as silk. I’ve known Lucien long enough to recognize his tactics – he’s trying to split the clans, create doubt. And from the way some of the vampires are nodding, it’s working.
Zephyra surges forward, a blast of wind whirling so violently that papers go flying. “How dare you! My people would never commit an act of violence. Never!”
The sheer rage emanating from her makes my fangs itch. Even Lucien takes a half-step back, though he maintains that practiced look of concern.
“My dear Lady Skydancer—” he starts, but she cuts him off with a slash of her hand that sends a gust of wind strong enough to move furniture.
“Don’t you dare! They were innocent!”
