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“Who is that?”
Stephen hums quietly as he gazes across his father’s round table, where vampires of all ages, abilities, and nationalities start to take their seats and settle down. His father isn’t here now; the seat at the head of the table is conspicuously absent, as it has been for the past decade of meetings. But that is not what William is looking at—no, who he looks at is the man directly across the table, tanned and speckled with freckles that had, somehow, resisted fading in the lack of sun. “That is Tomás Hernandes. He presides over a fairly large territory in Brasil. He hails from a relatively new clan of vampires, but his family is prosperous. He studied here under my father some decades ago.”
“So you know him?” William asks. He is fidgeting again, nearly out of his seat and halfway into Stephen’s, which has gathered the curious eyes of more than a few members of the court. Stephen pays them no mind. It won’t be William, or any attitudes about him, that will throw the court into a civil war. No, that possibility lands squarely on the empty seat at the head of the table, which has taken no small number of resentful glares thus far.
“I did,” Stephen says. He reaches out and takes William’s hands in his, prying them apart and holding them down to cease that infernal fidgeting. He may not care right now, and the court may not consider it their highest priority, but if left to devolve, it may become a habit to grate on Stephen’s nerves for years to come. “We were sworn brothers, as young children, but you mustn’t allow that to lower your guard around him, runt.”
“Why?” William asks, confused. He stops fidgeting with his own fingers, but within moments, he starts fidgeting with Stephen’s own. He runs the tips of his fingers along the sharp, narrow length of Stephen’s claws, tracing over and beneath the point of his nail. “Do you not like each other?”
Stephen chuckles lowly. If only that were the true extent of it, then he truly would have nothing to fret over, but the politics of the court run much deeper than that. He leans down to whisper into William’s ear, “I want you to look at the head of the table, my dear William. Tell me, what do you see?”
“An empty seat,” William murmurs back. His tone is quite clearly confused, though he, thankfully, disallows it from showing on his expression. “That’s where your father should be, isn’t it?”
“Correct,” Stephen says, pleased. William has a good eye, although clearly untrained. “The leader of our forces, the lord of our race, and where is he now? Our coven has come from all over. Lord Tomás from Brasil. Lady Caroline and Lord Patrick from the Americas. Lady Heather from Spain. Lord Jason from Greece. Lady Anzhela from Russia, Lord Argyle from Mexico, Lady Kali from India. They have come here from all over, and now it appears as if they have wasted their time.”
“Your father isn’t coming again?”
“He is not, and likely will not again,” Stephen says, pursing his lips. The energy of the room continues to grow evermore disdainful the longer that the court must wait for his father’s arrival. “I sincerely doubt that this table may ever see my father’s face again. Can you conjecture why?” William shakes his head minutely, eyes wide and curious, so Stephen leans in, grinning humorlessly, as if this were all just some big jest—which, if he is honest with himself, it is. “You see, my father grows bored with this world, and ever more curious about the world of a human woman’s-”
“Lord Harrington.” It is Lady Kali who interrupts him, her eyes narrowed and dark as she glances—quite disapprovingly—at the narrow distance between Stephen and William. However, he has never once allowed himself to be bullied or pressured by the members of his father’s court, and he certainly will not begin now. He stays put, only inches away from William, as Kali’s frown deepens. “Should we expect your father anytime soon?”
“I should hope so, but I cannot presume to know the plans of a man as busy as he,” Stephen says smoothly, leaning back into his chair. He has the attention of the court now; he is, after all, his father’s heir. He is as much a symbol of the strength of the Harrington line as his mother and father are. “Why, Kali? Do you, perhaps, have somewhere more important to be?”
“Of course not.” If she is ruffled by the insult at all, she does not show it. “But maybe we should be asking our Lord Harrington the same question, shouldn’t we?”
It is like blood in the water, the way that her words ripple across the court. Jason straightens up in his chair, and Anzhela’s eyes visibly sharpen. Even Tomás and Caroline, or Tommy and Carol as he had known them as children, glance at him, eyebrows raised in a twin look of interest. Stephen understands, then, that the mutiny that he had been sensing in the undercurrents of the court was much stronger than he had initially suspected. There is not a single pair of eyes that looks at Kali with surprise, or suspicion, or disagreement; no, everyone looks at him, as if waiting to see what he’ll say, what he’ll do.
He thinks that a silver necklace may not protect William for long.
“If you truly wish to ask him, Kali, then by all means, go and speak to him.” This time, the woman who speaks is his mother.
And while the court may question him, nobody dares meet the eyes of Mihaela Harrington as she descends the tall steps of his father’s castle. Her expression is drawn, her mouth terse, and her eyes dark as she looks over the assemblage of vampires before her. When the wooden heel of her shoes click across the ground, a scattering of quiet, reverent greetings of ‘Lady Mihaela’ ripple across the table—including the now solemn Lady Kali, who keeps her eyes lowered in tandem with the rest of the court.
His mother comes to a stop at the head of the table, and no one questions it when she pulls out his father’s seat and lowers herself into it. Jason is the only one to stir, quick to stand up and push her chair in for her as she settles down. She nods her head in his direction even as her eyes continue to watch Kali, while Jason returns to his own seat and waits with the rest of the coven for her to speak.
“I hear word that is all the rage in the Americas,” Mihaela says mildly. “The women fighting like rabid dogs to lead. Isn’t it true, Caroline?”
“Yes, my Lady,” Caroline says, smiling demurely.
Mihaela hums, and gives a soft, muted nod. “Mmh. Well, Kali? Have you anything else to declare before we might be allowed to continue on to business?”
“Not at all, my Lady,” Kali murmurs.
And maybe the order of their world could be like that, if it were his mother’s seat at the head of the table instead of his father. His father never cared much for leading—oh, sure, he liked the war parties well enough, and could coordinate a battle, but settling dissent? Leading by example? Sniffing out mutiny and assuaging it before it could come to life? Those were never the concerns of his father, but his mother… Lord, his mother. She was the guiding hand behind every one of his father’s decisions, and everyone knows it.
This is a woman who is meant to lead, and yet she suffers the idiocy of his father while he holds the proverbial whip.
The soft brush of William’s fingers against the back of his hand interrupts his train of melancholy thought, and Stephen finally looks away from his mother and down to where their hands are joined, raising an eyebrow in silent question.
“Well, then,” Mihaela sighs. “Business. Heather, I hear reports that you have activity in Southern Europe.” Heather nods silently, and so Mihaela casts a hand out, motioning for her to elaborate. “Speak, girl.”
“Yes, my Lady,” Heather says. “I speak to you in conjunction with Caroline and Patrick. There is a band of humans currently traveling their way across Spain. They have with them the, um. Pardon me, my Lady, but they have your niece in their entourage.”
His mother’s eyes bleed red. Stephen curses. The court gasps and whispers.
God damn it all.
-
“You have a cousin?” Though he has recovered well, William is not quite able to keep up with strenuous exercise, and Stephen can tell that he is nearing his limits. His breath comes out in a wheeze, but even that doesn’t shake him off of Stephen’s heels.
“You should return to our bedroom, runt,” Stephen says shortly. He cannot afford the time to stop and fill William in on his family tree, or the politics involved in doing so. If it is true that his cousin is coming to Romania—and he very much doubts that Heather would lie about such a thing—then he has to prepare. They don’t know her numbers, or her reasoning, and the lack of knowledge weighs heavily on his mind. “You will be hard pressed to find the court tolerating your presence today, and I’d like not for all of my efforts in your recovery go to waste.”
“I want to help!” William protests.
Stephen stops short, and William must have been following too close behind, because he collides with Stephen’s back and stumbles backwards a few steps before he steadies himself. When Stephen turns, William is quick to take his hands and squeeze them.
“I want to help. Let me help. Please,” William pleads.
“You cannot even remain on your feet for more than a few hours, runt.”
“I’ll get better!” William says, squeezing his hands ever-harder. His eyes are alight, set ablaze by the torch light that flickers across his expression. They’re alone on the path, with little else for company save the torches and the bushes surrounding them on all sides. No wildlife dares to take residence around the castle, save for softly creaking crickets and the wild moth or two. “I’ll keep eating, and I’ll keep exercising, and I- I learned the sword on my father’s estate. I can fight for you. Please.”
“Why?” Stephen asks, bewildered. “Choosing our side means opposing humans, William. Do you realize that?”
“I don’t care.” William shakes his head, scowling. “Humans have never done a damn thing for me, but you- you saved me.”
“It was not done selflessly.” He pulls his hand free from William’s grip, loose enough that he doesn’t have to use any real force. William’s eyes visibly soften as Stephen holds a hand to his cheek; he leans into it, eyes fluttering closed. “You must know that, do you not? I am not kind.”
“You gave me a home,” William murmurs. He reaches up to cradle Stephen’s hand, holding it in place against his cheek as if he were afraid that it would be taken away. “You gave me a second chance. You gave me a purpose. Let me repay you, please.”
Stephen smiles, fondly exasperated. It is sad, in a way, that William is so deprived of attention and kindness that he would seek it out in the first creature of the night to spare him a second thought. William will not be remembered kindly in history for it—he will go down in infamy, his name will be cursed for generations to come, and he will never again find a home in the world of humanity. This isn’t a decision that he can come back from, and yet he chooses it, regardless, but Stephen will not fool himself into believing that his ward does not understand the severity of it.
“Alright,” he acquiesces. “This will be a difficult road for you, runt. Death waits for you at the end of it.”
William looks up at him, eyes bright and smiling tentatively.
“As long as it’s with you.”