The screen in front of me is dark, my hand still resting on the keyboard where dawn pulled me under mid-sentence. Vampire dormancy doesn't care about convenience. When the sun rises, consciousness simply stops, like a switch being flipped. No dreams, no awareness, just forced shutdown until darkness returns.
I went down in the middle of composing a message to Lord Dmitri.
I complete it now, choosing each word with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. Because that's what this is. Political explosives that could detonate in my face if I'm not careful.
Lord Dmitri, I request a formal audience at your earliest convenience. Recent developments require discussion among Atlanta's established powers. I propose neutral ground within 48 hours. The matterconcerns us all.
Professional. Urgent without seeming desperate. The phrase "established powers" is deliberate, a reminder that Dmitri and I have been here longer than Konstantin, that we built this city's vampire infrastructure before he arrived with his ambitions and his army.
I send it. Then I compose similar messages to the others:
Lady Vivienne in Buckhead. Lord Chen in East Atlanta. Lord Okonkwo in West End. Lady Santos in Midtown.
Five lords total, not counting myself or Konstantin. Five potential allies, or five potential enemies, depending on how convincingly Konstantin has been whispering in their ears.
Cyrus's confession echoes in my mind. Konstantin requested a gathering to discuss "matters of mutual concern." That gathering hasn't happened yet. I would have heard. Which means I have a narrow window to reach them first. To present my side before Konstantin poisons the well.
My phone buzzes. Dmitri's response arrives in under three minutes:
Lord Dmitri
Lord Maximus. Tomorrow. 9 PM. The Whitley. Bring no more than two. —Dmitri
The Whitley. An abandoned hotel in neutral territory, maintained by all of us for exactly this purpose. Formal meetings, treaty negotiations, the rare occasions when Atlanta's vampire lords need to sit across from each other without the home advantage. Lord Dmitri's use of my full title even in a text message is characteristic. The man hasn't relaxed his formality in four centuries.
Agreed.
One down. Four to go.
Lady Vivienne responds next, then Lord Chen. Both agree to tomorrow night, same location, same terms. Lord Okonkwo takes an hour but eventually confirms. Lady Santos doesn't respond at all, which is its own kind of answer. She's either already committed to Konstantin or staying out of it entirely.
Four lords are willing to meet. That's enough.
I forward the confirmations to Marcellus with instructions: Full security detail. Compound on lockdown while we're gone. If this is a trap, I want everyone here protected.
Marcellus
Already arranged. Celeste?
She's coming with me.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Finally:
Marcellus
Good. You'll need her.
I stare at that message longer than I should. Marcellus has gone from openly distrusting Celeste to endorsing her presence at the most critical political meeting I've had in decades. The shift happened somewhere between watching her fight off six attackers and seeing her tactical mind at work during the crisis meetings.
I find her in the training room.
She's alone, which surprises me. The space is empty except for her, moving through combat forms with the fluid precision of someone who's been fighting her whole life. Her dark hair is pulled back, and she's wearing simple training clothes. Black tank top, dark pants, bare feet on the mat.
I stop in the doorway and watch.
I shouldn't. I should announce myself, discuss the meeting, and maintain the professional distance I've been desperatelyclinging to since Marcellus interrupted us two nights ago. But instead, I stand here like a fool, watching the way she moves. The economy of motion. The controlled power in every strike.
I had my fingers inside her. I felt her come apart against me, watched her face as pleasure shattered her, tasted her on my fingers while she watched with those dark eyes gone wide.
