Page 5 of Bitten By the Basilisk

Serpent-folk appreciated ornate jewelry and similar adornments, even more so than humans—although not as much as dragons—so he attached a gold tie bar with snake-shaped pins to the lapels of his matte-black dress shirt, along with matching cufflinks on his sleeves and a white-gold Swiss-made watch worth more than a dozen of his bespoke Italian suit.

Last but not least, he slid onto his index finger the signet ring his father had worn as Basilisk—a thick gold band that widened to an oval setting engraved with an image of a snake and encircled by red beryl gemstones.

Not only was the magic ring a symbol of his position, but it also granted its wearer stonecunning—an ability that he and previous Basilisks had used to extract a great deal of wealth from several mines his family owned.

His polished dress shoes clacked on the floor of his apartment as he returned to the elevator. While it descended to the second floor, he leaned his shoulder against the wall, eyes shut, and took a bracing breath. For the nest, he reminded himself. When the elevator door slid open, he stood tall and composed.

Several dozen serpent-folk were scattered in groups across the warmly lit, wood-toned lounge, drinks in hand and engaged in conversation. The Rhode Island Basilisk, Conrad, leaned against the bar as he spoke with Silas’s father.

Gabriel Stone remained intimidatingly large, regardless of form, but when a rival had challenged him at the mating festival hosted by the New York nest two years ago, he had nearly lost. Had nearly died, in fact. Despite bleeding profusely from a deep gash across his abdomen, Gabriel had managed to sink his fangs into the shoulder of his challenger and paralyze him.

Unlike certain other supes, serpent-folk were not immortal—merely long-lived. His father was past his prime fighting age, his venom losing its potency. The near-loss had prompted him to step down as Basilisk last year, allowing his son to succeed him, though not before Silas took on the nest’s best fighters to prove he was strongest.

Instinct and luck had led him to victory. The former had taken over when he otherwise wouldn’t have fought for a position that, in their modern era, was often ceremonial rather than consequential, as major decisions were made as a collective. The latter had come from having the strongest venom out of all who had competed for the role.

Nic appeared at Silas’s side, whereas Bruno sent him a nod from across the room. “By the window,” Nic murmured by his ear, alerting him to the mating candidate that Conrad had brought along unannounced.

The notably young-looking serpent-folk wore a dark-purple cocktail dress, her neck, ears, and wrists adorned with matching jewelry. She and an older companion, likely a relative, were subtly eyeing him.

As courtesy demanded that Silas greet the Rhode Island Basilisk first, he headed toward the bar, where Conrad and Gabriel were both nursing what looked like straight bourbon, his father’s drink of choice.

“Ah, here he is at last,” Gabriel said as Silas approached, before clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Did you come to an agreement?”

“Eventually, yes.”

One of their local mines, as opposed to the ones they owned on other continents, was worked entirely by a guild of goblins. Whenever the guild’s contract was up for renewal and renegotiation, its foreman—foregoblin?—had a habit of threatening to eat whoever sat on the other side of the table if they didn’t agree to give the guild a steep share of the mine’s output.

Silas never took the threat seriously, as he was several times the goblin’s size, but his HR director, a faun, was not a fan.

“Welcome back to Indigo Cove, Conrad,” Silas greeted, offering his hand, which Conrad took in a firm, friendly handshake.

“Good to see you well, Silas. Your nest’s hospitality has been impeccable.”

Conrad was older than Silas by thirty years, but he was a formidable Basilisk who had defeated a much younger rival at the mating festival his nest had hosted last year.

They exchanged pleasantries while the serpent-folk bartender prepared him a drink. He preferred beer, but his father declared Silas would have the expensive fifteen-year bourbon he’d opened for the occasion. The taste was exquisite, Silas had to admit, its warmth fortifying him ahead of the evening’s inevitable matchmaking.

“Would you allow me a private moment with my son?” Gabriel then asked of Conrad.

“You may have however long my drink lasts.” The other Basilisk picked up his bourbon and took his leave with a nod toward Silas.

“I won’t ask what took you so long,” Gabriel muttered once Conrad was out of earshot. “I know Yetu has to make a show of the negotiation to remain foreman. But now that you’re on leave, the festival has to be your top priority. No more showing up fashionably late.”

“Understood, sir. I’ll be sure to appear as if I have nothing better to do.”

“Don’t sass me,” his father gritted before remembering to look composed in front of their guests. “You’ll appear as though you have no distractions. As though the nest is well managed.”

“Is it not?”

His father ignored the retort. “Conrad brought along a new face.”

“I heard.”

“They want the bride price she would demand, and you need a mate.”

Silas swallowed another sip of bourbon. “‘Need’ is a strong word. What’s the hurry?” After all, serpent-folk lived more than a century, sometimes reaching a hundred and fifty.

“This is your tenth mating festival. You’ve been picky long enough,” Gabriel groused. “As this year’s host, you must set an example, especially as the only unmated Basilisk in attendance.”