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Romy’s head snapped back and forth and refocused on the center of the ruins and her mother’s response to the pack’s disorderly conduct. Cassia had never been one to overreact or raise her voice to get her point across. She preferred quieter methods of management.
On cue, Cassia pursed her lips and a frigid blast of ice shot from her fingers, landing on the offending members. Each one of them froze mid-action, including the two girls draped on the lycan’s arms. After a shrug, he twisted to remove himself from their grasp and sauntered over to an older man with long black hair. Flanking their sides were two men and three women who looked so similar they could be closely related.
“Asa, you know the rules about numbers.” Cassia’s timbre remained even. “Three to seven. That is all.”
He bowed. “Yes, ma’am.”
The pack snarled, minus the frozen and the six next to Asa.
“You heard her. Move,” Asa bellowed. “Now.”
Chunks of ice fell from bodies, and as the stationary members came back to life, a hole opened in the fiery parameter for them to exit. When they were gone, only the seven remained.
“My apologies, High Priestess.” He took another bow. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice. The pack has suffered a great loss tonight, and we demand justice. Earlier in the—”
“Asa.” Cassia interrupted. “You also know the rules aboutallpreternatural representatives being present.” She pointed to her right and an empty spot. “I cannot hear your complaint without Monsieur Marchland.”
He dug his heels into the boggy ground and kicked up a clod of dirt. “The cause of every last one of my damn problems.”
“Because they fucking killed Claude!” Romy’s lycan exclaimed.
“Son,” Asa sighed, frustrated. “Take a step back.”
The lycan’s face reddened, and he seemed to grow half a foot. “Why should I? Why’d we even come here? We should’ve found the cunts ourselves and wasted their black blood for the world to see.”
“Silvan,” Cassia said calmly. She turned to Asa. “One more outburst from your son, and I’ll hold him in contempt of my authority. Regulate him, or I will.”
Silvan.
Silvan.
That was Romy’s lycan’s name. Silvan. In her studies of Roman mythology, she recalled the name meantman of the woods. How fitting for the son of a pack leader.
“Yes, ma’am. Absolutely. He’s upset.” Asa patted Silvan’s back. “Sil, come on. I know it’s hard, but Uncle Claude wouldn’t want it this way.”
“You know what Claude would want, Father? To live. That’s what the motherfucker would want.” Silvan wiped his face with the back of his hand. “That’s what Claude would want.”
“I know. I know he would.”
Unable to be consoled, Silvan stormed off behind his family. Romy observed her mother’s grimace in obvious disapproval, but Cassia remained quiet. Clearly, the Rincewind Pack was distressed about a deceased member named Claude. Vampires—or the lack thereof at High Council—were another thing upsetting the pack. Despite the truce and the rules both sides abided by, Romy deduced there was no love lost between vampires and lycans. In fact, they still seemed downright hostile.
“Who exactly are we waiting on again?” Romy whispered to Loren.
“Bastian. Bastian Marchland. He’s kinda the vampire king of New Orleans,” Loren gushed.
“Vampire king?” Romy didn’t remember hearing anything about any sovereigns other than Cassia’s position as head of the High Council. “Really?”
“No, not really. But he’s the oldest vamp in town. Mom said he’s been around since before the Hundred Years War, but I’m not sure. Nobody knows much about him, and I think he likes it that way.”
Mysteries intrigued Romy. Hell, vampires and lycans and other preternaturals intrigued her, and this only amplified the intrigue. “Is he always this late?”
“Mm-hmm.”
The fire dimmed until it was nearly pitch black, and the thick fog outsideTuiteam feòil is fuilseeped in. Asa’s cigarette fell from the corner of his lips, and his family gathered in a circle and crouched. Were they protecting him?
Whether consciously or unconsciously, every preternatural took a joint step back except for Cassia, who rose from her seat and moved to the center of the ruins.
As quick as Romy could blink, a man dressed in a dark-brown frock coat glided past them.Bastian. In all her twenty-one years, Romy had never read the emotions of someone so obviously, so glaringly. His pain, his joy, his fears, and insecurities—she absorbed each one as if they were her own. Though she’d been told vampires had no heart, Romy saw that too. His heart. Could all witches see vampires in this way?
