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Dominique stared at her. His leashed anger emerged as a growl. “What. Happened.”
When she looked up, her eyes had gone almost full black, a vampire skirting the edge of mindless panic. Very deliberately, she tilted her head aside, exposing her neck. She would not—or could not—speak the words. She would show him.
He struck with lightning speed, grabbing her and driving his teeth far deeper than necessary. Turmoil and secrets spiced her blood, and one of the first things that surfaced was about the human man, Ryan. He was in her mind with her, aware of her and everything she experienced and thought. They had a bond like Dominique had with Cassidy, rare and—in a world where humans were considered servants and food—dangerous.
Dominique saw the other blood-drinkers as she had, beautiful city sophisticates, gathering at a spacious private home overlooking a bay. They all orbited around their host, the regal figure of Adilla Khan. The ancient vampire wore jeweled rings on almost every finger, and an emerald glinted in one earlobe, but in every other way he was the embodiment of a successful Western business tycoon: impeccably trimmed sable hair, a bespoke suit, and a dazzling smile. He turned that smile on Aubrey as he greeted him with a handshake and offered a crystal tumbler of warm blood. He still smiled several minutes of small talk later, when he said, “You say you spend much time in the south. Are you familiar with…Dominique Marchant?”
Aubrey must have known that his subtle hesitation gave his recognition of the name away. “I am.”
“My sources tell me he calls himself our…new lord?”
“You’re sources are well-informed,” Aubrey allowed and took a sip of the blood, his first. “Oh, this is excellent.”
“It is, isn’t it? My own special vintage.” Adilla sniffed his own drink appreciatively. “I’m curious. What are your thoughts regarding this…new lord?”
Aubrey hesitated before shaking his head with an affable chuckle. “Ah, politics. Please, I beg you, let’s not spoil an enjoyable evening with such talk.”
“Oh, but why not? It’s what you do, isn’t it, Aubrey Wainwright? Convince the more feeble-minded among us of this sheer fantasy? Don’t you want to at least attempt it with me?” At Aubrey’s shocked expression, the glint in Adilla’s deep green eyes turned predatory, belying his easy-going smile. “Your reputation precedes you as much as your master’s.”
“I see.” Aubrey coughed delicately. “Well, then allow me to assure you that my sole purpose here tonight is to accompany a charming new friend.” He turned to Natalia with a reassuring smile, which she returned automatically, hiding her growing unease.
Adilla would not be dissuaded. “Then I’m curious about something else, Mr. Wainwright.” He took a deep drink from his glass, leaving his lips glistening red until the tip of his tongue licked off the excess blood. “What thoughts do you have regarding us?” A slight gesture encompassed the room and everyone in it.
“I have only just met you, sir. But Natalia tells me good things.”
“Has she really?” Adilla’s gaze settled on her like a suffocating weight. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Aubrey did his best to defuse the escalating situation with compliments and good humor. Adilla continued to counter with snide insinuations and increasingly less veiled insults. In Natalia’s memories, Dominique could see how his friend’s discomfort mounted, how he struggled to maintain his steadfast composure, until he had at last been maneuvered into a corner from which the only escape would have been to flee. It was what Adilla wanted; that much was obvious in his darkening eyes and the elongating tips of his fangs. The ancient one was hunting—and Aubrey was the prey.
The prey stood its ground. “Yes, Dominique Marchant is my lord, which is how I know he wishes no one here any harm, least of all you. He is young, as you say, but wise. He would respect your wisdom and welcome you by his side.”
The hubbub of the party faded as though a ripple of disturbance shuddered through the house. What remained of Adilla’s pretended geniality evaporated, his expression turning hard and cold, almost reptilian. “As…his subject?”
Aubrey didn’t hesitate. “We are all his subjects, sir.”
“Not all, you pompous little fool. I bow to no one.”
“He is heir to Kambyses, the—”
“Howdareyou use that name to me?”
Everyone else had gone as still as rabbits sensing a circling hawk. Aubrey forged on. “I merely state fact. Kambyses is his sire. I have seen this in his—”
Adilla leaned into his face and roared, “There is only one true heir to the great Kambyses, and that is I. He chose me, a true prince of my realm, sired me with his blood, mentored me, and bequeathed me his kingdom when and if he so decrees.”
Aubrey fell as silent as the others, as still as Natalia by his side, who was now terrified for both their lives.
Then Adilla took a single step back, his voice almost calm when he spoke again. “You have been sadly misled. The…factis that neither you nor your so-called lord are worthy of uttering the name of Kambyses. You are not even worthy tothinkmine. Your lord is a pretender, a fake. I, however, have worked diligently for countless centuries to prepare for the night that I will rule. I have built a community here unlike any other of our kind. They are thriving together, because of me, as all of us will thrive under my guidance. That, Mr. Wainwright, is inevitable.”
Natalia heard the threat in the calm words, as did everyone else. No one moved, their attention riveted. Even the soft background music had stopped.
Adilla placed his drink on a tray brought by one of the enslaved humans and straightened the cuffs of his jacket as he continued. “You understand, I’m sure, that such a great society does not run itself. There are rules and procedures by which we have all agreed to abide.”
“No,” Natalia whispered into the silence. “No, you—”
Ignoring her, Adilla nodded at Esteban, his chief of security. An instant later, four of Esteban’s delegates rushed in. Aubrey gave himself over to his beast in a fight for his life, drawing more than a little blood, surprising his attackers with a ferocity even Dominique had not imagined possible of his gentle friend. But he couldn’t prevail. Soon he was subdued and bound hand and foot in silver by a fifth man, who carried shackles in gloved hands. A thick silver collar was snapped around Aubrey’s neck, raising boiling blisters on his skin within moments.
Despite the pain he must have endured, he stood straight and defiant in his torn, bloodied clothes and disheveled hair, his eyes still black as tar. “You are making a very big mistake,” he wheezed with unflinching dignity.
