Page 33 of Bitten Vampire (The Bitten Chronicles #2)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Had I not seen him countless times before, I might have dropped to my knees. In earlier visions, I have been paralysed by terror.

It is not that he cannot hurt me—he can—but this is the Council’s arena, and even monsters have rules, rules he has broken whether he intended to or not.

I meet his gaze. The burgundy ring around his dark grey eyes has widened, the irises shading towards red, as though whatever he is has started forcing its way to the surface. He licks his crimson lips, tongue sharp, almost reptilian.

I can smell iron, ash, and rot drifting from his skin; the stench turns my stomach.

It takes everything not to sneer or scream. No one should have to lock eyes with their murderer. Rule number one: do not antagonise. Rule number two: do not show fear.

I bow my head instead and as though rehearsed, Valdarr mirrors me.

“Father.”

The Grand Master’s mouth curls. “My son,” he replies, thick with disdain. “What abomination do we have here?”

Me, the woman you drained and killed, who lacked the decency to remain dead. Surprised we survived your many assassination attempts? I keep my mouth shut and my expression vague.

Standing together, they share an unmistakable family resemblance, yet I can also see how character etches itself onto a face. How sustained evil warps even a vampire’s features.

Before Valdarr’s father can spew more vitriol, the rest of the Council arrives: twelve clan-less elders—male and female—draped in royal-blue capes trimmed with fine gold thread bearing the Crest of the Vampirical Council.

The Grand Master strides away, his regal black robe sweeping the floor, and settles on a polished stone throne at the very centre of the council’s raised white marble platform.

Scowling, eyes fixed on me, he waits as the court officiant steps forward with all the pomp you would expect from a man wielding a staff taller than himself.

The officiant moves to the centre of the chamber, red robes rustling, and bows—first to the Grand Master, then to the assembled Council, who have now taken their seats. Raising the ceremonial staff high, he slams it down.

The boom ricochets off marble and glass; magic whips across the hall, prickling my skin and lifting every tiny hair. So this is what always snaps vampires to attention. It is not pleasant.

A small grunt escapes me. Valdarr’s little finger brushes mine with a whisper-light reassurance. He is already watching me, trust and certainty blazing in his eyes. Humbled, I swallow, lift my chin and manage a confident smile.

“Order!” the officiant bellows. “The Court is in session.”

And the trial begins.

A ward seals the gallery in silence as the charges are read.

“I, the Herald of Silence, speak as the voice of the Council. Winifred Crowsdale of Clan Blóevakt, you stand before this Hall charged with the following articles:

Unlicensed turning and failure to register, in breach of Accord Code 675.3 and the related registration provisions;

Unlawful feeding and assault upon a claimed human of Clan Nocturna, contrary to Accord Code 561.0;

Trespass into a sovereign clan’s warded territory without leave, in violation of Accord Code 421.9, as recognised under Accord Code 302.1;

Final death of Accord-recognised persons, absent protection under Accord Code 765.0.

How do you plead?”

Valdarr opens his mouth, but I step forward.

“I thank the Vampirical Council and the Court,” I say, my words riding the ambient magic. I bow once more. I recall the vision in which I pleaded not guilty to every charge—a tactic that ended matters swiftly.

They cut my throat .

“On Count One, the unlicensed turning, I plead guilty—on paper—but I will show extenuating circumstances.”

The ward blocks all sound, yet I watch the vampires in the gallery shift in their seats; some even lean forward, eyes gleaming with glee. They think I have just signed my own death warrant.

“On Count Two, the alleged unlawful feeding, I plead not guilty. The donor wasn’t a registered thrall at the time, and I never fed.”

Crystal was only a human blood donor, and although that makes no difference to me—since taking blood unwillingly is evil—to the Court, it means everything.

“On Count Three, trespass, I plead guilty, with mitigation: I crossed to save a human life. On Count Four, so-called murder, I claim immunity under Accord Code 765.375: Right of Self-Defence. Every act of violence was in response to an attempt on my life.”

The Herald’s eyes gleam with interest at my responses.

Vision me must have died a score of times before stumbling upon his office and the cache of Accord law books and articles I needed—conveniently open on his desk with notes for today’s trial.

In this court, every defendant is set up to fail.

Yet, no one can claim the Herald does not do extensive case preparation.

I have never been so grateful that the memories from my visions come with near-perfect recall.

“The Court records your pleas as tendered: guilt with mitigation reserved, trespass admitted, assault denied, and self-defence invoked under Accord Code 765.375. So entered. The Council will confer under seal. Raise the Veil.”

The staff strikes, and a sheet of noise-cancelling warding rises from the floor, encircling him and the Council. He steps back into their midst, and they begin to confer.

The Grand Master argues with the Vampirical Council. The vampires are told the Council is impartial; they are not. Each has an agenda.

I have stood on the other side of that ward, listening to their deliberations, gaining valuable information, and today I have planned my words, chosen my targets—the ones who might listen.

I practised my plea, honing the phrases that carry weight: clear, concise, honest speech.

Begging never works on them, but precision often does.

Even so, it may not be enough. I may have misjudged them—misread the moments. Hope is a dangerous thing.

In the visions it was easier, events unfolding out of sync with reality. Now there are no second chances, no redos, no margin for error. I am here now. And I pray I have judged correctly.

I can see into the future—but I cannot go back.

After a somewhat silent but lively debate, the ward drops and the Herald moves to the lectern. “The trial shall proceed.” He turns a page with ceremonial precision. “You claim justification for your turning?”

“Yes.”

“ Let the Silence record : the Council will dispose of the ancillary counts first. On the allegation arising from the so-called assassination incident, the Council has reviewed the evidentiary bundle submitted by Clan Nocturna, together with the defence materials. Civic CCTV confirm that the accused extracted and conveyed a human donor who, at the material time, was not a registered thrall within the meaning of Accord Code 302.1; no compact had been signed or sealed.”

He glares at the Nocturna delegation. “Clan Nocturna’s submission is therefore defective in law and in fact. The count is dismissed with prejudice; judgment is entered in Winifred Crowsdale’s favour.”

A ripple moves through the room.

“On Charge Three: Trespass,” the Herald continues, “ let the Silence record: the Council finds the accused newly turned and non-indoctrinated, a mitigating factor recognised under Accord Code 402.3, of Novitiate Leniency. The evidence shows her incursion into Clan Nocturna’s demesne was in aid of a human life and not in interference with clan prerogatives, thus falling within the humanitarian carve-out of Accord Code 211.

9c, Territorial Integrity and Wayleave—Good-Faith Rescue.

“Ordinarily, a compensatory levy would issue; however, Clan Nocturna acted in bad faith, instigating unlawful force and subsequently escalating to a daylight assault upon Clan Blóevakt, in breach of Accord Codes 118.2 and 703.4.

“Accordingly, no further action shall be taken against Winifred Crowsdale. Clan Nocturna, be formally censured: cease and desist. A second violation will trigger sanctions under Accord Code 910.1.”

The Herald waits for the gallery of vampires to settle, then turns back to me.

“On Charge One: Unauthorised Turning—in contravention of Accord Codes 101.1 and 203.7. You have entered a plea of guilty with mitigation. Let the Silence record it so. The Council will now hear your justification. Speak it plain, and let the record hold you.”

Now for the hard part.

“I was assaulted and killed. I am an unwilling product of the turning. The vampire who fed on me did not intend to sire me, he believed I was dead and discarded. I rose alone—unregistered, untrained, and without guidance.”

“Assertion noted,” the Herald’s tone edged with scepticism. “The Court does not sit on sentiment nor accept naked allegation. Accord Code 214.2 bars hearsay without substrate. What proof do you tender?”

“Test my blood and memory. They will name my sire and show the turning lacked intent. I exist only by mistake.”

The Herald frowns. “Blood will name your sire; it cannot divine their intent. Tread carefully, Winifred Crowsdale, if this petition proves frivolous, the Council will consider sanctions under Accord Code 12.2, Contempt of Tribunal. Proceed, if you still wish.”

I pause, letting the moment stretch.

Valdarr’s father smirks.

I draw a deep—though unnecessary—breath and steady myself.

“The vampire who broke our laws, who fed from an unwilling human, killed her, and turned her by accident…”

I raise one hand and point at the throne.

“…is our revered Grand Master.”

Chaos erupts in the gallery as vampires leap to their feet, shouting.

Down here, silence.

The Grand Master does not protest at first; for a second, his eyes flash red. He inclines his head a millimetre towards the Herald. When he speaks, the temperature in the hall seems to drop .

“Strike that from the record. A rogue mistake dares to spit slander at this court. Have we sunk so low that any unregistered aberration may level a charge at the Crown without evidence? Herald, you will silence her, or I will. Sanction her for contempt. Tear her tongue out if you must. I do not answer to gutter-born lies.”

His gaze spears Valdarr. “And you, you bring this thing into my hall to bark at your betters? You disgrace your blood.”

“You will stand down, Grand Master. The Council—not you—decides what is stricken,” the Herald replies.

“Then decide quickly, before I decide for you.”

The Herald ignores the Grand Master’s threat and narrows his eyes at me. “That is a grave accusation, Winifred Crowsdale.”

“I stand by it, and I invoke Accord Code 101.4, the Right of Blood Provenance, and Accord Code 212.3, Ethereal Memory Capture and Admissibility. Let blood and memory speak.”

A hairline crack appears in the marble arm of the Grand Master’s throne.

“So entered. By authority of this Court under Codes 101.4 and 212.3, the Ministry of Magic will perform bloodline verification and an Ethereal Memory Capture?—”

“When her blood speaks and fails, will you cut her head off here or drag her through the streets and make it… poetic?” the Grand Master snarls, interrupting.

“The Council withholds judgment until both attestations are complete and places Clan Blóevakt under Court protection pending sentence,” the Herald continues.

We have won, for now. I betray no relief .

There’s no chance the bloodline verification will succeed. House turned me—at best, she borrowed a little magic from the nearest vampire.

The Grand Master knows he didn’t sire me, so he may hesitate to kill us while he seeks vindication before the Court. No one enjoys being accused of a crime they didn’t commit. I can practically see steam rising from the heat of his temper.

The Grand Master’s fingers twitch—a signal too subtle for most. But I have seen this before—he is about to run and he needs a distraction.

Gripping Valdarr’s wrist, I signal the clan with my other hand, held low behind my back.

Five—my splayed fingers mark the countdown.

Four—I drop one finger and squeeze Valdarr’s wrist.

Three—another finger, another squeeze.

Two.

One.

I clench my fist.

The wards collapse. All hell breaks loose.