Page 43 of Bitten Vampire (The Bitten Chronicles #2)
Chapter Forty-Two
I dress in a navy trouser suit and a pale-pink silk blouse. My hair is pinned just so , and my makeup is flawless. Whenever I do my makeup, I think of House. I need to try to locate her again. Everything just keeps getting in the way.
Valdarr has people looking, but by now, she could be anywhere in the world.
We have no way to contact her. She might be stuck wherever she is for years.
No— with her magic, if she wanted to reach me, she probably could.
House is powerful. So her silence must be part of some greater plan, though that doesn’t stop me worrying.
Once this council visit is over— if we survive it—I will find my friend and help her for a change.
Beryl is warmer now; I’m sure she will be all right. She sits in the magic inside pocket of my jacket. Harrison has had a mage magically modify our clothing. When she wakes, we will have a long talk about boundaries, and I will apologise for outing her.
I just hope the bloodthirsty stake won’t stab me.
Valdarr enters, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit.
Somehow we have coordinated—same colour, same understated elegance—and he looks devastatingly handsome.
He shoots me a silent question, and I shake my head.
He nods. He already knows there’s nothing I can do to summon a vision.
Unless I manage to force one while we are in the car, we have run out of time.
I leave Baylor with security. Roger—the guard who helped me with Theresa—is on duty and delighted to dogsit. The guards adore my boy, and I don’t want him upset when we leave, not in such a fancy house. He hates being left alone.
The drive to the curved, black-glass skyscraper is mercifully uneventful, yet I spend the whole ride gripping the seat, knuckles white. The attacks we faced last time have turned me into a nervous wreck.
Inside, the entrance now resembles an airport.
Extra guards, magical scanners, weapons logged and removed.
Pointless, really, when vampires are walking weapons.
Harrison makes a show of being most put out when a few of his weapons are found, but the rest of us have nothing to surrender.
I’ve seen the clan fight, and they use whatever they seize from their attackers.
They do not find Beryl.
The open-plan atrium gleams, spotless. It’s as if the battle and executions never happened. Every trace has been repaired. So many deaths, and for the vampires, it was just another day in court .
What has changed is that the sweeping bone-white tiers of seating are crammed, as though every clan has gathered to watch my trial. Perhaps my accusation against the Grand Master is the true attraction—some want him to win, most want him to fail, and the rest are here for the spectacle.
The packed, curving white seats turn the hall into a modern coliseum. Once seen, the image won’t leave me. I half-expect a lion.
We wait in silence, the clan at our backs. Valdarr’s expression is unreadable.
I steady my breathing—though I don’t need it—and recall every lesson: be direct, be respectful. James’s reverse psychology advice echoes in my head.
Last time I was here, I listened to hours of council debate to our advantage. Now, the not-knowing is all-consuming, but I did this once, I can do it again.
The Vampirical Council file in and take their seats. The Grand Master settles on his throne, wearing a smug smile.
The Herald of Silence enters in royal blue, ceremonial staff in hand. He bows—first to the Grand Master, then to the assembled Council.
“Order!” he bellows. “The Court is in session.”
The room falls silent as the staff slams down. I brace myself for the bone-crushing wave of magic. Stronger than before, the power booms through the chamber; a fresh ward seals the Hall and steals the air from my lungs.
“I, the Herald of Silence, speak as the voice of the Council. Winifred Crowsdale of Clan Blóevakt, stand forth and be heard.”
We step into the centre.
“Three nights past,” the Herald intones, “you entered a plea of guilty to unlicensed turning and failure to register, in breach of Accord Code 675.3 and the attendant registry provisions. You alleged, under oath and Accord Code 101.4, that the Grand Master was your sire.”
A ripple passes through the tiers.
“ Let the Silence record : Pursuant to Accord Code 101.4: Right of Blood Provenance and Mandatory Sire Verification, the Ministry of Magic conducted a bloodline assay. Result: bite signature—Grand Master confirmed; sire of record—no binding lineage detected. Result inconclusive. In parallel, by Protocol EM-12 under Accord 208.4, an Ethereal Memory Capture was performed. The ocular imprint corroborates the act of fatal feeding by the Grand Master. Your allegation is verified as to the bite and death. The question of siring remains unproven.”
“I have no objection,” the Grand Master replies smoothly. “I was unaware of the turning. Had I known, I would have begged leniency for my son’s mate. Winifred Crowsdale was an unregistered living vampire, and my bite contributed to her death and raising.”
Liar—I lack the DNA to be a living vampire.
I keep my expression neutral. I understand why he says it and why the Council, all nodding along, allow it.
Lander—though I hate to admit it—was right. No one must discover that magic-infused houses can bypass death and twist the change, turning a pure human into a vampire. If they did, every mage on earth would be pressed into service to bottle immortality.
This fiction protects us all.
They forget that true living vampires show obvious signs—heightened senses, strength—but if the Vampirical Council decrees it, the majority accepts it.
Then I realise something else, and relief floods me so sharply it almost brings me to my knees. They are giving me an out, an alibi, explaining everything away. If they are willing to spin this story, we just might survive.
Let them lie all they like, so long as we live.
“As we all know, magic is wild and unpredictable,” the Grand Master continues. “No one is to blame for this oversight. Yet, before my peers and subjects, I admit my mistake: no one is above our laws—least of all me.”
He bows his head, hand to his chest. “My heir and I have reached an understanding: he will assume my role as Grand Master; I will step down and uphold the Accord’s strictures regarding humans.”
The vampires watch, rapt with fascination.
The Herald inclines his head. “The Council will confer on remedy and sanction under Accord 675.3 and on matters of succession noticed this night pursuant to Accord 401.1: Continuity of Office. The Hall will hold its silence.”
A fresh sheet of warding rises around the councillors; sound dies, and the bone-white tiers lean forward to listen to nothing at all.
This time I can’t eavesdrop; like everyone else, I must wait. My anxiety climbs, yet the discussion appears calm—no anger, little dissent. They reach a decision quickly.
Good or bad? I can’t tell.
The ward falls.
The Herald steps forward, staff in hand. His voice rings out?—