Page 6 of Blood & Bedlam

“She and Juliette have been planning this all year, and now, thanks to these degenerates, I’ll miss her debut. We’ll still be in the meeting,” Fleur grouses. I frown, not wanting her to miss something so pivotal. Kendra’s been planning this for so long, her first official act as Grand Marshal of Revelry, responsible for the official Otherworlder events.

“I will handle the Italians,” I insist, but she only bats me away.

“You won’t. It’s security, and that job is mine. You need to be at this event, Papa. The factions in the city are restless. We can’t have it look like you’re spurning a night of Royalty when we’re finally getting back to normal after the Cleanse.” A heavy silence weighs over us all at the mention of the string of murders that rocked through our community only a few years ago, and the destruction of cursed hybrid creatures that caused it. “I will reintegrate the Italian delegation, and you will play nice and dance with the rest of the First Bloods.”

“And Kendra?” I ask. Fleur tilts her head.

“Let me handle my wife.”

The matter all but settled, I push back in my chair to stand, my children rising as I do. We walk together out of the Shadow Council, the doors sealing shut behind us with a hiss.

“Fleur’s right, you know,” Cami offers, leading us out through our private exit. It’s not yet dark outside, and though I can travel freely in the sun, the girls can’t—much like the rest of the vampyrs.

“About?” I ask, sliding into the black town car.

“The First Bloods. There will be many from the old country there, Papa. Perhaps maybe …” she trails off, and I wait curiously as a trickle of embarrassment filters through the link.

“Perhaps you can meet someone?” Claire’s cheeks go pink.

“Are you trying to sell me off?”

Fleur laughs. “Not yet, but it would be nice to see you happy.” She crosses her arms, and I sigh as I settle into my seat, ready for their meddling. We’ve had the same conversation every few years since I made the decision for Cami to ascend. I’ve contemplated telling them why their attempts to match me away never work, but it’s been nearly seven hundred years since I’ve even said her name out loud. That love is woven into the fabric of my being, the marrow of my bones. And that brand?

It can never be erased.

Something must flash across my face because suddenly Claire moves, sliding closer to wrap her arms around me. I let her lay her head on my chest, exhaling as she squeezes me tight.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” she whispers. “I know that it hasn’t been easy to be alone—we just want you to have that chance, now that you’re about to begin a new chapter of your life.”

“I have all I need right here. I am fulfilled. I have you, and your sisters, and I have watched you all grow into such powerful leaders. I am happy, darlings,” I lie, because I can’t stand to let them worry for me. We haven’t yet set a date for an official transfer of power, though it isn’t a secret that Camille is set to be the next in line for the throne. She hasn’t pushed, and I’m not quite ready to give it up yet, needing to make sure everything is settled before I leave New Orleans to her.

“Just promise us that if you see someone tonight, you’ll let yourself take a chance?” Claire pleads. I press a kiss to the top of her head.

“I promise.”

The midnight hour makes a liar out of me as I sip my blood-laced whiskey from the balcony box. The opera was the perfect choice for this gala, an imposing display of vampyric power and wealth for Hallow’s Eve. Foreign dignitaries are here, mingling with the salt and blood of the Crescent City, and it’s a testament to Kendra’s talent, her exquisite eye for detail that draws all the moving parts of this gala together.

The room is expertly decorated, drawing on heavy gothic themes of lush velvets and the opulence of gold touches to draw the eye. Red silks flow as aerial artists drop from the ceiling, sharp fangs glittering in the candlelit chandeliers. The string quartet strikes up a hauntingly beautiful harmony, the ambience elegant and otherworldly in all senses of the word. From my perch, I see Claire and her mate, Drake, dancing close, the chords and Bonds of love so entwined it’s nearly visible as they sway. He holds her with such reverence, such love and care that I have to look away, giving them the privacy their connection deserves.

I scan the floor, seeing many that I’ve encountered through the years, commanding pockets of space.

The aristocracy, known as First Bloods.

Arrogant and entitled, these vampyrs are cursed from seven bloodlines, sired and born over centuries of deadly struggle. They see themselves as the rightful leaders of our world, superior in every way to those turned. While on the surface we appear the same, they never miss an opportunity to remind us that we don’t share the deep, nearly purple ichor of their blood, which, in their minds, makes them pure. And yet—I enjoy all the power of their immortality, with hardly any of the drawbacks. It has always been a point of contention between them and me, a threat to their established hierarchy because my power isn’t limited to the night. The blood of my house is hot and warm, a stark contrast to their cold. Our bodies are able to enjoy food and drink as well as blood without getting sick. All of that could be forgiven maybe, if my family weren’t also bestowed with Dark Gifts, unique powers the First Bloods can only achieve through extreme age.

And I cannot be killed, not that they haven’t tried over the years.

Repeatedly.

We’re three hours in without incident when the ballroom doors open with a flourish, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room. A small contingent of the Italian delegation strides in, six deep and full of swagger. It seems that Fleur was able to come to an agreement to lift their sanctions, after being banished from the city after a particularly brutal bloodrage led to the death of dozens in the 1940s. My gaze tracks each face, cataloging them to memory as a deep sense of unease settles over my bones. They’re loud, relishing in the attention as they make their way to the rest of their already-present party. I’m just about ready to turn from them, when a glimmer catches my eye, a haunting tether I can’t look away from. There’s a flash in my mind as I turn my attention fully to the woman with them, dressed in red. Her body pulls at my memory, her skin delicate, the curves of her striking me deeply. Her hair is dark in cascading waves, and I swear to the Fates my mouth starts to water.

My eyes track her languid movements, and there’s a tightness in my chest, bolstering the unease. I stalk them through the crowd as one of the entourages pulls her tightly against him, twirling her around the floor in jerky strokes. It’s clear that he’s got her in thrall, and it’s forced. She isn’t claimed by him, and the weight of his thrall is an anvil, pushing her psyche down with his will alone. I can practically taste her fear from here and, knowing he has her locked in her own mind, powerless to stop his whims, sets me on fire. Feeding on a willing participant is legal, but a forced thrall by an Otherworlder is against the law within the boundaries of my domain. My pulse roars in my ears, the spark of memory clawing at the walls of my mind, and I smell it then—blood. Her very human blood.

Human blood in a room full of vampyrs.

In an Otherworlder event where we freely show our power, the presence of humans is strictly fucking forbidden. The insult to our customs doesn’t go unnoticed, pulling the attention from witches around the room, hisses from the other vampyrs, low growls from the shifters. My fingers sharpen to claws as he twirls her around the floor, breathing ragged in my lungs as the smell of her fear chokes me, even from the distance. When they pass below my balcony, her head falls back as she spins, pale blue eyes wide, body rigid.

“Mina.”