Heldridge Ellington opened the small crypt door from the inside of the musty hole that served as the Wirt family’s final resting place. Although not a unique place for a vampire to shelter for the day, it did not suit Heldridge’s particular taste. But as it had been raining and dawn fast approaching, the place had met his specific needs at the time.
Cold rain spattered his blond hair as he emerged. The vampire swore under his breath.
Making every effort to keep his clothes clean, he wriggled free. If his luck held, he’d soon be meeting with the Excelsior—the highest authority in all of the Vampire Executive International Network—to reveal the immense secret Menessos and his court witch were hiding. Heldridge didn’t want to be discredited by arriving covered in cobwebs and grime. It was bad enough that he would smell of moist earth and old death.
He trudged toward the Congressional Cemetery gates. Washington, D.C.’s persistent rain had made a monstrous marsh of the ground—it sucked at his every muddy step.
Heldridge soon traded the mucky path for a solid sidewalk. He couldn’t meet the Excelsior with filth on his shoes, so he stopped and kicked a homeless man curled in a storefront alcove. When the man groaned and sat up, Heldridge showed him a twenty-dollar bill. “Get the mud off my shoes.”
The homeless man twisted onto his knees and shrugged out of his jacket. He tugged off his shirt and wiped the shoes with it, exposing his emaciated body to the rain and cold. When he’d finished, Heldridge inspected the job and walked away with the money still in his hand.
“Hey,” the homeless man cried, scrambling to his feet.
Heldridge wadded the cash and tossed it over his shoulder. He laughed as the man scampered into the rain to claim the paper before it was swept down the gutter and into the storm drain.
Hunger gnawed at him, but he dared not try to feed at the local blood bar; that was exactly what the area vampires would expect him to do. Instead of risking recognition and capture, he would feed unlawfully.
In an alley a few blocks away, Heldridge sated his hunger with a mesmerized donor in a dapper hat. It was illegal and dangerous, but this risk was necessary.
As he thought of how easily he had fed for the last decade at his own bar—the Blood Culture, which catered to the vampires of Cleveland—his outrage swelled.
Menessos had transferred his headquarters to Cleveland! Heldridge had barely gotten away from him, barely established himself as a legitimate vampire lord, and his night-father had followed him to measure his every move.
He thinks he’s found his Lustrata. His witch queen. If I can’t have autonomy in my own haven, then he can’t have her. If I can’t part them, once I tell the Excelsior what I know . . . VEIN will.
Heldridge wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve, immediately realizing the mistake. The scent of blood would linger. He shuffled his small packets of home earth from his coat to his pants pockets, then traded overcoats with the unwitting donor. This new coat reeked of cheap cologne, but that would be a benefit. Snatching the man’s fedora as well, he fled.
He flipped the collar up and lowered the hat brim so it mostly hid his flaxen hair. Hopefully, this was enough to conceal his distinctive features; Heldridge could have modeled for comic book artists. His chiseled jawline and broad-shouldered body had brought him much admiration.
Tonight, however, being easily recognized was a problem.
On K Street he strode directly toward the massive building where VEIN was housed.
With an easy gait he passed the building, examining the security. Two vampire sentries stood under the awning on either side of the revolving door, chatting. Though they scented him, it was a superficial effort. They detected the terrible cologne and dismissed him as a mortal.
Behind them the lobby inside was empty except for the receptionist at the desk. Relying on cameras, they kept the real security forces out of sight. This maintained a nonaggressive appearance in the nation’s capital—where lawmakers would be more than pleased to have an excuse to deem VEIN a threat.
Heldridge snapped his fingers and turned as if he’d forgotten something, then hurried back the way he had come. At the last second, he rushed toward the revolving door with inhuman speed.
He walloped the vampire on the right, grabbed his shoulders, and dragged him into the space of the spinning door. The unconscious sentry suffered a secondary impact with the floor as Heldridge used him as a temporary doorstop to block the other vampire from entering.
Inside the scarlet and dove gray interior, the lovely receptionist picked up a phone and pushed buttons. Heldridge sped by her, running directly to the elevator in the rear of the lobby, discarding the hat and overcoat on his way.
The doors parted, revealing a sentry vampire in a stark white shirt, black dress pants, and shiny shoes. His collar had been loosened. He was posed to keep whatever he was holding hidden behind his thigh. Smiling, he said, “It must be my lucky night.”
Heldridge was taller and broader than the guard, but vampiric strength was based on age rather than size. With immortals that was never easy to tell at first glance. “Escort me to the Excelsior.”
“Gladly.” The sentry showed fang as he produced a machete from behind him. “Part of you, anyway.” He stepped out of the elevator, advancing toward Heldridge.
Heldridge widened his stance, preparing for an attack. “I am a haven master and I demand to see the Excelsior!”
“Dunno what you’ll see, but I promise to keep your eyes open for you, traitor. There’s a bounty for your head. The rest of you is optional.”
Heldridge hissed, “I want an audience with the Excelsior.”
The elevator doors began to close. Heldridge surged forward. He blocked the vampire’s machete-swinging arm and hit him in the solar plexus, knocking him backward into the elevator car. Momentum carried Heldridge in also, and the doors shut them in.
The guard didn’t have room to effectively swing the long blade and resorted to jabbing with it. Heldridge caught the vampire’s arm, twisted, and felt the elbow break. The machete clattered to the floor and Heldridge slammed the guard’s head against the elevator wall, denting the shiny metal.
When the doors parted on the next floor up, Heldridge wedged the machete in the opening to keep the doors from closing and, more importantly, prohibit the car from picking up reinforcements. There were other elevators and stairs, but he didn’t have to make it easy for his opponents.
He dragged the unconscious vampire by his unbroken arm. The hall was nondescript gray with a slate floor and plain wall sconces for light. At the next checkpoint, six sentries blocked his path.
With minimal effort, Heldridge sent the body sliding to the sentries’ feet. “I want an audience with the Excelsior. He told me no.”
“Do you think our answer will be different?”
Heldridge could have torn both the door guards and the machete-wielding sentry apart, but he’d hoped his restraint would gain him a measure of consideration instead of indicating he was weak. They had been individual foes, however. With six vampires before him, his options were fewer.
He was willing to kill his way through the building if it became necessary, but as it would undermine his claims of acting in the best interests of VEIN, he preferred to consider slaughter only as an emergency exit strategy.
He gauged his adversaries as he calmly resettled his suit jacket. “I do not wish permanent harm to anyone, but the information I have for the Excelsior is worth any risk.”
More sentries burst from a stairwell behind him.
Heldridge was surrounded. Stairs to the rear. Focus to the front and they’ll all think you’re going forward. Let them get a little closer, then make a break for it.
The wall speaker crackled. A voice ordered, “Conference Room Two.” The vampires stepped away from Heldridge.
Minutes later, a sentry opened a heavy black door with a scarlet “2” on it. Heldridge entered with a confident stride. The door shut loudly behind him.
A single forty-watt bulb glowed in the overhead fixture. Beneath it sat a plain stool. An array of video cameras, red lights blinking slowly, all out of sync, focused on the seat.
Heldridge couldn’t confine his irritation. He glowered into the centermost camera. “How do I know the Excelsior is receiving this transmission?”
Five floors up, in a darkened theater with six rows of executive seating, various viewpoints of Heldridge’s entrance played across the many screens mounted to the main wall.
“An imprudent endeavor, coming here.” The deep voice of Meroveus Franciscus thrummed like distant thunder. Except for the plain elastic band restraining the curls of his waist-length black hair, his appearance was that of a handsome thirty-something businessman in a Rolex advertisement—and he did wear an exquisite timepiece with his bespoke suit.
“He’s still annoying.” Giovanni Guistini’s voice was also distinctive, but not for a mellifluous quality. Giovanni’s every word scratched the ear in a painful rasp. Beneath his pointed chin an ugly scar gnarled the flesh of his neck. In life, his throat had been torn open. “Note his stance, his lifted chin. He is our prisoner, yet conceit pours from him. The young masters are always intolerable. They think they know so much.”
Mero countered, “Sometimes they do.”
“Sometimes they’re just overconfident fools,” Giovanni retorted, melting into a pose that might have been an attempt to appear thoughtful in counterpoint to the fierceness his shaven head afforded him.
Mero was familiar with his counterpart’s contemptuousness and had long considered Giovanni a deliberate egotist who dressed in black V-neck shirts and collarless jackets so no one would ever miss seeing his scar.
Both provided advice to the Excelsior, but Mero often found himself choosing words and opinions that would balance Giovanni’s typically stubborn and pitiless claims. The trick was guessing what opinion the other advisor would choose, then expressing his own opinion first, so that Giovanni sounded like a squabbling child.
On the screens, Heldridge cried, “Do you hear me? I demand to speak to the Excelsior!”
Speaking of children, Meroveus thought.
Sitting in the back of the theater, where the gentle radiance of the screens could barely reach, was the Excelsior. He wore an ink-dark suit, and the matching shirt and tie both had the sheen of polished obsidian. His black hair was loose and hung straight, framing his angular face with ferocity. Despite the pallor of his skin his hairstyle imparted a Native American quality, but Mero knew the vampire was descended from ancient Franks—indeed, from mortal kings.
The Excelsior touched a button on the arm of his chair, which activated a microphone. “I hear you,” he said crossly. His words echoed, slightly delayed, into the room with Heldridge. When he finished speaking he released the button so anything his advisors said would not be piped into the conference room.
“You will put a bounty on my head but you won’t meet with me directly?”
Giovanni chuckled. “Please let me kill him for you, my lord.”
The Excelsior pressed the button. “You attempted to strike down your superior. You’ve brutalized two of my sentries. Why should you not be drained to a husk?” The accented lilt of his voice did not soften the iciness of his words.
“On these premises I have only defended myself. As for the other matter, you have received misinformation. I did not attempt to strike down my Quarterlord, but his Erus Veneficus.”
The Excelsior triggered the microphone again. “You freely admit to this crime?”
“The witch has hexed him, bound him by witch-mark into her service.”
“Ha!” Giovanni laughed. “Never!” He paused. “Unless . . .” He cast a glance toward Mero beside him, then over his shoulder toward the Excelsior.
Mero had to concede that fact. “The Quarterlord made no secret of his long search for the Lustrata.”
The Excelsior did not respond.
His silence, to Mero, was a sign. “Do you have information about this?”
Nonplussed, the Excelsior said, “She claims to be the Lustrata, though the witches remain divided in this matter. She must not be slain. At least, not yet.”
Why didn’t he tell me this? Mero wondered.
Heldridge paced impatiently away from the camera. He spun back. “Do you still hear me? A witch has sway over your Northeastern Quarterlord.” His countenance was a confident mask, but his pacing and tone belied apprehension. His arms spread wide. “You do understand that my actions were merely to protect my Quarterlord and release him from her grasp?”
“He would have us see him as a defender, and be blind to his lawbreaking,” Mero mused.
“He would prefer,” Giovanni added, “advancement of his position. Exposing a weak Quarterlord who begs replacing creates a chain of repositioning.”
On-screen, Heldridge shifted his weight nervously. “My Lord Excelsior?”
Mero could see that Heldridge was about to do something desperate. Or stupid. He opened his mouth to make his own suggestion—
“I beseech you!” Heldridge blurted. “Release the shabbubitum. Send them to the Northeastern Quarterlord. You will find that my claim is true.”
Meroveus could not believe his ears. Heldridge had risked his own destruction to plead his case, but making this absurd proposal demonstrated only panic. Mero swiveled his chair toward the back of the theater and made a steeple with his fingertips. “Heldridge is of Menessos’s line,” he offered, “yet the young master has not spoken the name of his Maker. It suggests disassociation between them. Menessos allowed Heldridge to leave him and become his own master, but recently Menessos transferred his haven from Chicago to Cleveland—”
“A matter he told this court of only after the fact,” Giovanni interjected.
“He is now based only a few miles from the location of Heldridge’s haven,” Mero continued. “Perhaps Heldridge seeks distance, as many sons seek from their fathers. It seems a matter between the two of them. I suggest you remove the bounty on Heldridge, set him free, and let Menessos deal with him.”
“Ha!” Giovanni barked. “It was Menessos’s Erus Veneficus that was the target. He will not be impartial if he is to judge Heldridge!”
“Heldridge has admitted his crime. What need of impartiality is there?”
Giovanni cleared his throat, a sound like gravel in a blender. “It has been centuries since anyone has dared invoke the name of the shabbubitum to this court, and according to the old accounts, over two millennia since they walked the earth.” His eyes flicked downward and he frowned thoughtfully.
Mero knew the dramatics were a bad sign. He started to interrupt, but on-screen Heldridge was screaming and waving his arms. The Excelsior had obviously turned the volume down.
“Their truth-finding abilities are legendary,” Giovanni said. “Perhaps we need the rectitude attributed to those three bitches. Perhaps it is time we recover the precision our justice had in antiquity.” He lifted his gaze. “I say send for them.”
“You’re mad,” Mero whispered.
Giovanni spoke, but not to Mero. “Give Heldridge what he wants. Unshackle the shabbubitum. Subject him to their methods, then, if he’s honest, send them to Menessos.”
Mero shifted, uncomfortable in his chair. “Your eagerness gives me caution, Giovanni. The shabbubitum were bound for a reason.”
“This young fool has requested it!”
“It seems overindulgence to exploit their unique skills upon a task such as this.” Mero had to regain the advantage. Nothing good would come of the Excelsior consenting to this ludicrous idea. “Heavy-handed wastefulness would not reflect well upon our Lord.”
Giovanni tilted his head. “This is an opportunity. Heldridge has opened the door, Mero, and I long to see what the great Menessos has hidden behind it.” Giovanni leaned forward. “Don’t you?”
“I do not wish to tread where the shabbubitum run free.” Eager to drive his point home, Mero sat straighter and said, “They are dangerous, sentient beings, not domesticated animals that can be made to perform tricks. Treating them as such would be very unwise. Better to leave them where they are.”
Guistini stood, facing the darkness surrounding the Excelsior. “For long decades Menessos has puzzled us all. He refused the very position you fill so well, Excelsior.” The vampire maneuvered his thin frame between the seats one section closer to his lord. “Do you not want to know why? Do you not want to know if he regrets that decision?”
“You reveal your true motive: revenge against the one who tore your throat.” At that, Mero expected Giovanni would explode in anger, but he did not.
Giovanni mounted another step. “Revenge? No. I am merely thinking of the Excelsior’s safety. If Menessos believes his witch is the Lustrata, he will bond with her in order to unite their power. If he’s found her, the Domn Lup won’t be far behind. A triumvirate of power merging the Wolf King, the Witches’ Messiah, and the vampire who could have been Excelsior . . . what will they seek, once they are united, my lord?”
Mero tried once more to stop the madness. “Your manner suggests guilt, yet you have only minimal facts.” He glanced at the screen again; Heldridge was pounding on the door.
“They could not have yet recognized their full potential.” Giovanni made a fist as he said, “This trio is yet within your grasp, Excelsior. The shabbubitum are at your beck and call. Do you dare keep your hand at your side?”
The Excelsior’s eyes gleamed in the darkness.
Giovanni had won this time. The danger of inaction outweighed the danger of action.
Bowing low before the Excelsior, Giovanni whispered, “Summon the shabbubitum. Let us have all the secrets Menessos would hide.”