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Cooperand his friends are called away while Gabrielle circles the room like a puma on the prowl. I slink farther from her, not wanting to be on the receiving end of her terrifying glare.
The recreation hall is nothing like anything at my old school. A goth would be happy here—Laila loves it, I’m sure—with the bloodred walls and ornate ceiling rose. A stunning chandelier hangs from the centre of the room. It looks like it’s made of rubies, with droplets of scarlet glass hanging down like strings of jewels.
I should be in awe, but all I can think about is the pool of blood I found in Jenny and Gabrielle’s bath.
I wander over to a cluster of portraits on the wall. Pale-faced men and women stare back at me in their finery. There are rubies here too. And emeralds and sapphires and diamonds. I’m not the best at history, but these portraits look old to me. Victorian times or older, maybe.
“I see you’ve met the Draculs.” When I turn, Damien isstanding behind me, smiling. He has great posture, his hands clasped behind his back.
“The original owners of the castle.” I look back at the paintings.
He nods. “Yes. The family of vampires who terrorised the other circles. Vampires used to form the sixth circle, but the problem with vampires is that they like to rule. Whenever challenged, they turn to extremes.”
“Oh.” I don’t want to know what those extremes entail. I’ve been involved in enough violence today.
I turn back to one of the portraits. It’s a man, or maybe a boy, with a long face and arresting, dark eyes. He can’t be more than twenty.
“Was it really necessary?” I ask. “Killing all the vampires?”
“That is a very complicated question.” Damien takes a step forward to stand at my side, so close our arms almost touch. “Not everyone agrees that it was. But one of the issues was that the vampires refused to yield. They wouldn’t alter their ways.”
I shake my head. “Not even for a chance to live?”
“Non serviam,” Damien says.
I frown.
“‘I will not serve.’ It’s the vampire motto,” he explains. “Supernatural auras are tribal in nature. We flock to those of our own kind. It’s why there’s such a clear hierarchy in terms of power. The vampires always wanted to be on top. They desire to lead. They desire power. It’s in their nature.” He pauses. “Or it was before the fall.”
“The fall?”
“The final battle. The killing of King Vladimir himself. It was a bloodbath. Witches and werewolves came togetherto end it once and for all. The vampires had ruled for hundreds of years up to that point, but Vladimir was particularly cruel. He took over from his father, the first king, who lived for centuries. Vladimir wanted more power. He enslaved those below him and forced the Reavers to do his bidding as well.”
“King? I thought the royal families didn’t use the words ‘king’ or ‘queen.’”
“They don’t anymore.” He smiles.
“So the vampires recruited the Reavers? How is that possible?”
“Reavers can be manipulated.” Damien shrugs. “They can be trained.”
That’s different from what I expected. I’d thought Reavers were mindless demons, like wild, feral creatures.
My eyes keep returning to the portraits. The Draculs may have been power hungry, but they were a family. They lived and loved and were eventually executed like… well, like Reavers.
“It just seems so harsh to kill them all.” I almost reach out to touch the painting of the boy but stop myself in time. “Why couldn’t they take out Vladimir and let the others live in peace?”
Damien shakes his head. “Non serviam.The battle couldn’t have any other outcome. There’s no way the vampires would live under another circle’s rule.”
I nod. “So, who is who?” I gesture to the line of portraits.
Damien points to a stern-faced creepy dude with a long black moustache. He sits on a gold throne, surrounded by a heavy cloak of red velvet that pools at his feet. The sneer on his face challenges me to defy him.
I get it now. This guy drips with the desire for power. Even this portrait makes me shudder.
“Vladimir Dracul,” Damien says. “And this one is his father.”
Damien points to a portrait of another man on the same throne. The crown is smaller and less intricate than Vladimir’s. This man’s face displays an intimidating smirk, but it isn’t quite as commanding as his son’s. Both wear the same cloak, and yet it looks less like blood on this king’s shoulders. His hair is long and grey, his moustache even longer than Vladimir’s.
