Giovanni Guistini sat rigidly before the fireplace in his private rooms, teeth clenched, seething.
Franciscus Meroveus and the Excelsior had made a damned fool of him.
He squeezed his hands into fists so tight that his fingernails pierced his own flesh.
Yes, I agreed to assume the Quartermaster’s duties; I took what glory had belonged to Menessos, just as Menessos once took my throat.
His pride had gotten the best of him; he saw that clearly now.
As an advisor to the Excelsior he was a man of wise counsel, accustomed to rank and privilege. He was not a bureaucratic nanny meant to settle childish quarrels between subordinate vampires who should be able to resolve a land dispute on their own. He was not accustomed to preparing paperwork, writing reports, or dealing with the many petty matters of managing a haven, let alone overseeing the havens in a quarter of the nation. It had become swiftly evident that the Quartermaster’s position was one for a businessman, not a warrior.
Giovanni had backed down.
He hated losing. Anything, even death, was preferable to admitting a defeat.
That trait had been with him in life, and remained with him yet.
Presently, drops of blood welled into his palms, but he noticed no pain. Neither did he note the wetness nor the coppery scent.
The Vampire Executive International Network—VEIN—had become weak. Executives. The word left a foul taste in his mouth.
The men of the modern world fight with words, with mandates and policies. The vampires have been lured into the paper power play.
VEIN needs warriors. But how can they have warriors when even the Excelsior himself—the “Supreme” vampire—is nothing but a corporate stiff? He plays their game when instead he should cast off his Italian suit and show himself to be the fearsome monster that all the mortal humans assume he is. . . . Then they would cower at his feet, and he could rule the world.
But he lacks the vision. He has no desire for true supremacy. He is guided by plotting diplomats like Meroveus.
I was a leader among men once, and all I needed was a sharp weapon to wield.
That ended in 1453, when Menessos set his fangs into the soft flesh of Giovanni’s neck, viciously tore it open . . . and left him to die.
It seemed the great failure of his past life had been reborn in his present. Nothing was happening as he’d hoped. The doom he’d envisioned for his enemy—Menessos condemned to a cell, locked in chains with only the corpse of his traitorous witch as company—had not transpired.
His already clenched teeth ground tighter as he brooded over his recent defeats.
Then a noise drew Giovanni’s eyes from the dying embers.
A shadowy figure lurked on his balcony.
He rose from his seat, intrigued.
Because of the lofty position he had held as a man, people often sought to appease him to gain his favorable influence. Even in service to the Excelsior, there were times when a vampire endeavored to befriend him for the sole purpose of leverage. Bitter lessons had calloused his heart, but the emotional disconnect enabled him to rise in rank and power. Suspicion and deception had enabled him to keep it.
Cautiously, he stepped toward the open French doors.
The cloud cover passed and the moon’s glow created an outline of quicksilver that highlighted a woman’s figure, chest heaving as if she couldn’t catch her breath. Giovanni might have thought her an assassin, but she was not even trying to hide her presence, and she was definitely not dressed for stealth. As she posed in a half turn, the lunar light created a satiny sheen across her evening gown.
It had been many centuries since a woman coveted him enough to assert herself—but this was clearly no ordinary woman: His balcony was nine floors above the street.
He yearned to be desired, but he well knew how revolting his disfigurement was. The heat of his longing cooled as wariness gripped him. What woman would come to me for me?
His doubt tripled as the silver-gray of the gown and the raven-black tresses clicked in his memory to reveal his visitor’s identity: Liyliy. The oldest, boldest, and most beautiful of the three shabbubitum.
Daughters of a king, she and her sisters had been blessed with the power of truth-sight, but a curse had doubled their power and turned them into something more harpy than human. Centuries later, according to the legend, their power tripled when they were Made vampires. Bearing substantial power, the dangerous trio had been bound into stone millennia before Giovanni was even born in mortal life. When the idea of freeing them arose as a means to evaluate the loyalties of Menessos, he had pushed for their release, eager for them to bring destruction to his enemy’s door.
For over five hundred years, his rage had boiled, steeping his craving for revenge in bitter spite. He’d come so close . . . and failed. He wanted to wage war upon Menessos and leave everything the vampire had ever built, or ever loved, in ruins.
Now, seeing Liyliy before him, that vindictive need to retaliate reared up as never before. If this potent shabbubitu stood at his side, his vengeance might be possible.
“Come, Liyliy.” He opened his hands and gestured toward the open doors, inviting her into his rooms. Only then did he feel the pain in his palms and realize blood was dripping from his self-inflicted wounds.
He squeezed his hands into fists again, trying to hide the blood. When first he’d seen Liyliy’s human form, he’d desired her. He even admired her true owlish form for its deadly attributes as a swift-moving, sharp-taloned weapon. Beauty, anger, and power in one . . . she was a tantalizing creature. He did not want to appear foolish in her eyes.
But as she limped into the light of his chamber, he saw she was grievously wounded.
The acrid smell of charred skin and feathers wafted on the night air. The left side of her face sagged. Her eye was imperceptible under the swollen mass that stretched across her cheek, perhaps missing altogether. Her mouth had been re-formed into a gruesome sickle-curve, and, as if her chin were merely wax, bloody globules of flesh dangled from it.
Her shoulders were no longer flawless and pale. Patches of raw redness ringed blisters the size of his fist. Her left forearm was twice as thick as it should have been, and rows of singed feathers protruded from it. Her ring finger and pinky were elongated and rigidly held in a painful twist.
In shock and disgust, Giovanni’s mouth fell open.
Liyliy growled. “Have you not seen your own grotesque countenance?”
His hands jerked to touch the mottled scars that marred his throat, but he stopped himself.
Despite her ruined face, Liyliy’s voice remained a sweet alto. Shamefully aware that his own voice was a sickening croak, he replied, “It haunts my every waking minute.”
“That is why I’ve come to you.” As she spoke, a large blister on her cheek burst. Viscous fluid oozed out and dripped from her chin. She seemed unaware of it.
Giovanni could not keep the revulsion from his features. “Who did this to you?”
“The witch.”
She meant Persephone Alcmedi, the court witch who had marked Menessos. She was said to be the fated Lustrata as well. She hadn’t seemed like much, but to have mutilated a shabbubitu like this, she was clearly not to be underestimated.
Liyliy eased forward. “I want her dead.”
I bet you do. He understood how disfigurement could feed the need for revenge, but he was not a novice at negotiation. “So?” he asked, then remained silent, confident that she would make her offer.
The breath of magic crawled over his skin. He thought to retreat a step, but she clasped his wrists, lifted his hands, and began licking the blood from them. Though still wary she might seek to bespell him, he remained steadfast.
“Relax,” she whispered. “Let me clean you up.”
As her mouth moved along his skin, he had to shut his eyes so he would not see her ravaged face. He concentrated only on how her warm, soft tongue felt. And it felt good.
As she switched to his other hand, he felt a flare of magic again.
Her injuries were still fresh; she had not had time to adapt to the loss. That was the magic he’d felt. She was using her aura to help her see, to guide her movements—the lost eye would leave her otherwise struggling.
With this understanding, he relaxed and he gave in to the sensations created by her mouth, her lips. He shivered when her tongue flicked between his fingers and gasped as she sucked each finger, knuckle to tip.
“I know what you want,” she whispered.
Women always said that. They always meant something sexual. They never really knew. “And what is it that you think I want?”
“To see Menessos suffer, to watch him grovel at your feet before he dies.”
Giovanni opened his eyes.
“Seeing him in agony in front of his entire haven, torn and bleeding on the floor before his own throne . . . that only scratches the surface of what anguish I wish for him.”
“He will feel great pain if the witch dies.”
Giovanni lifted his chin, but said nothing.
“We have enemies in common,” she said. “Enemies made stronger by their union. So we must forge a powerful alliance of our own.”
The possibilities tempted him, but he was well aware he was no match for Menessos’s wizardry—not that he would point out his own weakness to another. And—quite clearly—even a shabbubitu was inferior to Menessos’s witch.
“You and I cannot do this.” He pulled his hands away and let his arms drop to his sides.
“Don’t deny me,” she said crossly.
“We can’t defeat them!”
“Of course not. But there must be others who would rally to our cause. You, with your position, with your hatred for him, you know who they are. You know where they are.”
Giovanni considered it. A few ideas sprang up. All of them were complicated at best.
Liyliy must have taken his delay as a precursor to refusal. “Don’t you dare hold your tongue. Speak! Tell me who we need to aid us”—her misshapen hand rose toward him—“or I will draw the names from your mind.”
He gave her a flat stare. “Threats are no way to begin a partnership.”
“We must act quickly.” Her fingertip stroked his cheek lovingly. “They grow stronger with each passing day.”
Giovanni was disgusted by her touch but wanted it to linger all the same. He turned and paced away. “We do not.”
“We will overcome any current disadvantage by increasing our numbers . . . if you will but give me the names.”
He stopped before the fireplace and grabbed the poker to jab irritably at the embers. Holding it made his injured hands ache, but he felt better with something solid in his grip.
Her undamaged hand encircled his arm. “There will never be a better time.”
She was right about that. If Menessos was ever to be brought down, it had to be now. It would be sweet to deliver the blow that knocked him from his pedestal. Then Giovanni would follow it by robbing him of what glory and success he sought with the witch and the Domn Lup. That would truly be perfect.
Giovanni faced Liyliy, and even though her wounds were hideous, he saw something very desirable. All I need is a sharp weapon to wield. Her need to retaliate had forged her into a shrewd weapon—one with a razor-sharp edge.
“We begin with your sisters,” he said.