Page 6

Maurice

T hat vampire the chieftain, Briar, mentioned…

I need to find out more about just what she encountered.

The odds of the vampire having drunk from a mage are low.

I was up in the Highlands during the mage wars, that being more a matter for the Guardians to handle, but news of it reached us all.

Family against family, and for what? For one mage to try and seize power.

For a high fae to meddle where he did not belong.

A mage would have little to gain from being fed on. And their blood affects vampires, being fae-blessed as it is, but it wears off fairly quickly. All it would achieve would be to expose them, and why would any surviving mage want that?

But with all the fae activity we’ve seen recently… The chances of a vampire accidentally feeding from one of them seem more likely, at least to me. They’re mischievous by nature, and it would amuse them. Expose them too, but not all are shrewd enough to care.

And if they figure out they can get away with it, then that only heightens the danger for these vampires.

I trail Njáll around for the rest of the night—much to his chagrin—and then, once he tells me tersely he is going to spend the final few hours in his rooms, I seek out someone else.

The vampires are suspicious of me, but the donors are easier to befriend. They’re more used to being around the unknown; they’re living with vampires, after all.

Bel is just where I expect to find him. This clan house has a huge library, and I found Bel sitting in one of the comfortable armchairs on my first night here. After the party, in fact, which he did not attend.

He glances up when I walk in but otherwise does not react. There are other people in here—other donors, other vampires, and all eye me warily, attuned to my every movement.

Several leave when I take a seat. Bel hums and turns a page of his book.

He’s in his late forties, to my eyes, grey streaks in his dark hair. His eyes are dark, too, and always moving, always finding something to focus on.

He is also far more level-headed than I ever was at his age—though at his age, I think I was going through the first few decades of my vampire transformation and therefore was full of bloodlust.

“What’s it to be tonight, Maurice?” he asks, tone light. He closes the book and sets it aside, then huffs in amusement when he realises the library is, aside from us, now empty. “You always leave me in such silence.”

“It’s hardly my fault.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” I say and try not to fidget in my chair. The matter of the suspected fae is something I can—and will—deal with alone.

Njáll’s calendar is another matter altogether.

“Then what is it?”

“Do you have a phone?”

“A…” Bel smiles and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a device that looks like the one Njáll was holding earlier. “Yes, I have a phone.”

“Can you call Asher?”

“Asher?”

“The… He is watching over the alpha.”

“Alpha Deacon?” Bel frowns when I nod. “I don’t have numbers for any of them. I can probably email Alpha Deacon, or call the Hunters’ Council, but…”

I sigh. I will have to visit Vlad, I suppose, though I know I’ve been putting that off. “Thank you,” I say and get to my feet.

Bel nods as though he expected no less, and something about that makes me linger once I’m standing.

“Do you know,” I begin and hesitate.

“Do I know what?”

“Nj—The crai. He does not seem to be feeding often.”

Bel’s gaze softens in sympathy. “He was like Vasile,” he says, once he’s certain we’re alone. “He only seemed to have one donor at a time.”

I nod, understanding. “They died?”

“Njáll had sent her to the clan house to keep her safe.” Guilt creeps into his expression. “The night Tamesis came, we were sent back to the donors’ wing. Some of them knew that the door wouldn’t hold, so they took whatever would work as a weapon and said they’d hold them off. She was one of them.”

They all died, the ones who were out in the hall. The donor whose body Rook and Saide absconded with was amongst them. “Thank you for telling me.”

Bel only nods in response. I can’t ease his guilt. Only he knows the decision he made, and there’s no shame in having allowed the others to protect him. If he hadn’t, he’d be dead, too.

“See you tomorrow, Maurice,” he calls as I reach the door.

I toss him a smile over my shoulder. “Tomorrow,” I agree because of course we both know I will seek him out at some point.

Still, now it is time for me to leave the clan house. Only for a few hours, and I am careful to exit the building discreetly, so word is less likely to get back to the crai that I have left at all. Njáll is not likely to leave if he believes I am lurking around outside his bedroom door.

As if. I have other, more interesting things to do.

The London base for the Wild Hunt is in Kensington, in the same place it has always been, though this building, like the others around it, has never looked better.

The other townhouses on this street have plaques out front declaring them to be the business addresses of accountants or solicitors or dentists, but this one is non-descript, though there is no magic upon it.

I lean against the iron railings and stare up at the door. Not a lick of magic, now that I reach for it. I suppose that would only draw attention. And if we cannot protect ourselves from a threat, what business do we have pretending to protect others?

Once I am certain I can put it off no longer, I drag myself up the steps and to the glossy black door.

Vladimir will be here, I hope. Perhaps Asher will, too, though I would prefer not.

Jeremiah? It depends where the Huntsman has sent him and Paxton; they have no need to be trailing wolf packs around anymore.

I rap on the door and then take a step back, pushing my hands into the pockets of my trousers. They’re too heavy for these summer nights, but I like the thick green fabric and the way they look on me.

Someone ought to like the way I look.

The door swings open and I blink in surprise at the young man standing there. He appears even more surprised, dark eyes flaring wide. He can only be in his twenties, sun-kissed and vibrant and…

A vampire.

His expression clears before I can open my mouth and ask just who the fuck he is. “Oh. You’re Maurice?”

I bite back a growl. “You should not—”

He rolls his eyes and turns his head, looking back into the darkness of the house. “Vladdy!” His voice is singsong and ever so smug. “It’s for you.”

I choke on air.

Vladdy?

“He’ll just be a minute,” the young vampire says. Apparently, he knows enough about me to know my name but not enough to be wary. “You know how old age is, right? Everything starts slowing down.”

“Grant,” a familiar voice says. His tone makes me want to shiver. This young vampire, Grant, merely aims a winning smile over his shoulder, not flinching at all as Vladimir moves into his space. “You could have let him in.”

“Wondered if he was gonna lose it and try to snap my neck,” Grant says with a careless shrug. “You really oversold him.”

I do growl at that, and Grant lets out a delighted laugh before he shoves the door fully open. He moves further down the hall, but Vladimir remains where he is, face expressionless as he takes me in for the first time in decades.

He hasn’t changed much at all—at least visibly. Dark hair still falls in a tangle about his pale face, though his beard and moustache are neatly trimmed. Pale eyes move over me in turn, and I fight the urge to shift from foot to foot.

Of course Vlad knows just how intimidating he is. He exhales heavily after a moment and turns to go down the hall. “We should move to the sitting room.”

Grant scampers ahead of him. In contrast to Vlad’s muted tones—he’s wearing dark trousers and a loose grey shirt—Grant wears a coral-pink shirt, unbuttoned to his pecs, and a pair of long white shorts that might not be out of place on some kind of summer holiday.

By the time I follow them into the sitting room, Grant is already curled up in one of the armchairs, chin resting on a bent knee as he watches me closely.

I want to ask about him, but I don’t particularly want whatever smart answer is likely to fall out of his mouth. I know a terror when I see one. Still, I take one of the other armchairs, and Vlad sits on the sofa, back straight, feet flat on the floor.

“No one else is here?” I ask. I can’t hear another heartbeat, and I can’t feel anyone who’s fae-blessed when I reach out with my magic.

“Asher is with his charge,” Vlad says with a shake of his head. “The rest are hunting. I have not seen the Huntsman for a month or more.”

“Oh.” My eyes flick to Grant, then away again. I don’t think he’s blinked since we came in here. “And you, you’re…”

“Grant,” Vlad says, and Grant sits up immediately, all his attention taken from me in an instant. “Would you fetch us all something to drink?”

Grant wrinkles his nose. “I don’t want—”

“ Grant. ”

“Oh, fine,” Grant says and gets to his feet. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just go bitch the pot.”

He waves a careless hand in our direction and leaves the room. I blink at Vlad. “Bitch the pot?”

Vlad sighs. “Grant has recently become enamoured with a book of slang he found,” he says. “It has been… trying.”

Okay, an opening. “And he’s your… lover?”

“No! No, I turned him.”

It’s my turn to gape. Turned him? If there’s any rule that has been consistent during my time in the Hunt—and Vlad has been a member about as long as I have—it’s that we vampires don’t turn people. Not anyone. Not ever.

“How are you—Why did you—” I don’t know the question I want to ask first, and they all jumble up in my mouth.

“The Huntsman was angry,” he says slowly, “but he has allowed Grant to survive. I apologise, Maurice. It is why I was not permitted to watch over the crai.”

Of course, because he has to—Wait. “When did you turn him?”