A murmur went through the crowd, then quickly stilled.
“The Blood Compact,” he went on, “is not a promise. It islaw. The law that binds together five great families into one unbreakable Dynasty. The law that holds our world together while mortals burn theirs down around them.”
Soft, dark laughter drifted through the hall as some of them preened at their superiority.
“Every ten years, each member of the D’Immortali renews their oath of loyalty.” My father’s gaze swept the front row, pinning each Pentarch head in place, one by one. “To Venice. To our people. Tome.”
Every word rang against the marble like a bell.
“In exchange for my protection and the power of this throne, you will swear your blood, your lines, your legacies…to me. You prosper under my rule, or you perish beneath my fist. That is your only choice.”
No one laughed.
Somewhere in the back, someone moved, the soft rasp of shoes on stone louder than it should have been. I spotted the offender instantly—a young vamp on the outer edge ofthe Demente’s, eyes wide, clearly overwhelmed. His sire seized his elbow, hissing something in his ear.
My father didn’t look in their direction, but his gaze heated.
He liked fear.
Fear meant the Compact still worked.
Fear was what kept these powerful creatures in line, kept challengers from doing more than simply talking about revolution. Fear meant they all had something to lose.
He gestured to Severin with two fingers.
“Bring the Basin closer,” Marcello commanded. Severin lifted the ancient bowl as if it weighed nothing, carried it to the foot of the throne, and set the thing before my father. Carved runes pulsed faintly, reacting to the latent power lingering in this room.
Not nearly as powerful as the ancient magic stored in that vessel.
Older than us, older than the Dynasty, older than Venice.
“Let the family heads approach first,” my father intoned, “and make their offering. The lesser lines will follow, as is our custom.”
The herald’s staff struck the floor again, the sound like a gunshot.
I scanned the crowd, two Draconi subtly adjusting their positions. One near the left pillar, one near the main entrance. Both covering blind spots.Good.
A tinny voice brushed my ear. “South gallery secure.”
“Keep it that way,” I responded. “Once the ceremony starts, we will not stop until the last member has made their offering. Then we have the banquet to deal with.”
“The DiSangue Order,” the herald called.
From a sea of black-robed priests, Emilia DiSangueswept forward in a rustle of crimson velvet, her sons flanking her until she gave a tiny flick of her fingers and the pair stopped at the base of the stairs like well-trained dogs, leaving her to ascend alone.
I’d seen paintings of her from centuries past, and she’d changed little in the intervening years. These days, she kept to her island with her temple and priests, unlike the rest of us, forced to blend in with the mortal world in order to do business. New lines bracketed her mouth, but her eyes, sharpened like knives, landed on my father, brimming with curiosity as she hunted for signs of weakness.
She’d heard the rumors, then.
That the Don was sick.Dying.
Well, let them look. Let them see Marcello’s strength and the force gathered around them and see if any challenged him here today. If they did, they would be cut down before the final word left their lips.
She drew a blade, slicing the edge across her palm with a sharp, decisive movement. Darker than her dress, blood pooled in her hand before she tipped her wrist, and her blood hit the stone with a hiss.
“I, Emilia DiSangue,” she stated clearly, “head of the DiSangue Family, by trial and shadow, swear my life and line to Don Marcello Dominico. I swear my obedience, now and always, against all rivals, betrayals, against death itself.”
The magic stirred, the runes flickering. The hairs at the back of my neck rose. I paid close attention to the cadence of her voice, to the exact words. Each family’s pledge was slightly different, and one misplaced phrase could alter an oath—my father had taught me that before I’d ever taken my first life.
