CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Autumn

The party did not go without a hitch, because the small matter of politics got in the way. For the first time since Queen Carmen of the vamperic kingdom had died, Varnley called an interdimensional meeting.

And for the first time since my own grandmother had died, I found that I longed to be sixteen, so I could take up my place on the Inter.

But, I reassured myself while making yet another kitchen visit to approve of the preparations, parties don’t organize themselves.

Fallon, Alfie, the duke, and the duchess were all gone, and Lisbeth wasn’t returning from London until the afternoon, so I was left in charge.

And that meant bolting around like a startled horse, constantly bumping into Chatwin and finding myself firing off a series of yes/no answers, before moving on to have him ask the same questions ten minutes later, wearing the same rattled expression, carrying the same stack of silver trays balanced with champagne flutes.

If I had known throwing a party Athenean-style was this stressful, I would have offered Fallon a helping hand earlier.

The grandfather clock in the duke of Victoria’s study—which more or less kept time—struck on my way back from the basement kitchens, telling me it was more or less one o’clock, and with an exasperated sigh I realized I had been awake for over thirty-six hours. Initially, I had thought my newfound ability to sleep only half the nights in the week like the rest of my kind was the most wonderful thing to happen to me since Fallon had invented black coffee laced with maple syrup, but now I wasn’t so sure. The London Bloodbath had made rocking a vamperic look very un-vogue.

“Oh my, the place is spotless!” I heard the Princess say from the entrance.

With a horrified look at my midriff, I tore at the apron strings fastened around my waist and threw the maid’s clothing into the hands of the nearest servant. Then I made a dash for the entrance hall, patting my hair and distantly hearing myself snapping something managerial—like “Walk with me!”—to Chatwin when he appeared again.

I skidded into a curtsy to find that, with the exception of the duchess of Victoria’s polite exclamation, my efforts had gone either unnoticed or unappreciated. And coming up the steps with what seemed like no intention of pausing to remove his light tan jacket, at odds with the regalia underneath, was Fallon, who headed straight for me and dragged me toward the back of the house. Edmund followed silently.

“Last night, Kaspar Varn and Violet Lee slept together,” Fallon growled, telling me he hadn’t had much sleep, either.

That explained the pointed expressions of the older Athenea, but I still struggled with the concept. Never mind the fact I had seen such an event no less than three times—the latest, hours before, apparently in real time, fully awake, with a headache that had Chatwin ordering all sorts of spell-infused brews.

“Last night? I thought the Inter met at Varnley? Surely they didn’t . . . right under the noses of . . . well . . . everyone?”

“The meeting moved to Athenea in the evening. The human contingent refused to meet at Varnley and apparently King Vladimir didn’t want Violet Lee out too late,” Edmund filled in from behind us in such a dry tone that his disapproval was unmistakable.

“They took her out of Varnley?”

“The Inter ruled she be kept in the dark, remember?” Fallon retorted. “And they haven’t changed their minds on that. Moreover, my father hasn’t changed his mind. It was about the only thing anybody could agree on.”

He slumped against the arm of a basket chair in the conservatory and I stepped onto the terra-cotta floor to join him, well aware of his condemnation of this particular choice of the Inter’s. I was inclined to agree. Being given the knowledge of our existence is the least Violet Lee deserves. And it could aid her choice on turning, too.

I found a comfortable nook in the plump back of a sofa and eyed both men. They were clearly exhausted—Fallon’s weight was making the chair slowly slide away from beneath him, and Edmund looked hungry enough to reach right down into the carefully regulated indoor koi pond and sample homemade sushi, despite his devout veganism.

“Look, just . . .” Fallon trailed off and opened his mind up, flooding it with images. He didn’t even bother to conjure a picturesque landscape. I slowly made my way among them. It took me fifteen minutes, but there was a lot to absorb. Like how Fallon had met the infamous Violet Lee, and admired her strength; touched her neck. How, with an emotion-clearing shake of my head, the entire Inter had been witness to Kaspar Varn’s outburst. How his father had roared upon learning of his latest bedfellow, forbidden them to touch. How he had sent his son to Romania, decided to punish Violet Lee by making her the sacrifice in their annual Ad Infinitum Ball.

Upon this image, I withdrew. This was not a good development. I had witnessed what the entire world would now learn of, but what I had seen had been something that could give us all hope: Violet Leeshowing affection for a vampire. This wasn’t just him seducing her; she had willingly gone to bed with him, I was sure of it, and that meant she might consider turning.

I told Fallon and Edmund this.

Fallon seemed uninspired. “I don’t think we’ve got time to wait for her to fall in love with him.”

I stood a little straighter. “Why not?”

Edmund left the pond and stared straight at the prince. The latter shook his head. “She’s seen it already.” I folded my arms. “The meeting was called because the vamperic council suspects that Michael Lee has gained an excuse to essentially launch a war against the vampires in his daughter’s name.”

Hence the middle-of-the-night, three-hour (and, frankly, rude) warning everybody had been given of the meeting. Varnley were probably terrified. I raised an eyebrow. “And the excuse is . . . ?”

“Prophecy. One of ours, to be precise.”

“Which one?”

Fallon threw his arms up in an exaggerated shrug with the same sudden burst of energy he had used to drag me in. “That’s what they hoped we could tell them.”

“There have been rumors about the Prophecy of the He**ines,” I prompted, otherwise drawing a blank.

Fallon shrugged.

“And it gets even worse,” Edmund sighed.

Fallon looked utterly surprised, like the idea of things getting worse was as ludicrous as that of a human girl being held political prisoner by creatures she had grown up thinking were mythical.

“I talked with the head guard at Varnley this morning. Kaspar Varn and Violet Lee were pursued by two slayers on their return, and there is reasonable evidence to suggest those two slayers were Giles Randa and Abria Pierre.”

I stopped leaning against the sofa. The slayers who had been with the Extermino! One look at Edmund’s face told me I was right.

But Fallon picked up on something more. “Pierre?” He said it with such venom that I felt the need to find support for my back again.

“Yes. Abria Pierre is the fifteen-year-old daughter of John Pierre and, since the killing of Claude Pierre in the Bloodbath, the next leader of the clan. She no doubt seeks revenge on the Varns for her brother’s death.” Edmund took a long breath to replenish the one he had expended in his, as always, thorough explanation. “More importantly, this signals that what we experienced at Kable was definitely no fluke. The slayers were not rebels who have joined the Extermino. They are the flesh of Pierre, and are involved in Lee’s efforts to return his daughter. They answer, it seems, to more than one master now.”

“So it’s like a . . .” I searched around for some way of summarizing what I thought he was suggesting. “Interdimensional factional conspiracy?”

Edmund raised an eyebrow. “Catchy. That is exactly what it is. Pierre, chri’dom, Lee, the rogue vampires, and probably this shady Crimson family have united. United while we are weak, divided, and in crisis over Violet Lee.”

I wanted to tell him he was doing an extremely bad job of being a protective surrogate uncle at that moment. Putting all these worrying theories in my head was not going to help me organize a party effectively. Except they weren’t theories anymore. Someone in one of these breakaway groups had clearly discovered the maxim “the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” and was exploiting it.

Edmund, perhaps realizing that he had just horrified his two teenaged charges, hastily added: “But I can think of no more competent man to deal with this than your father, Fallon. He and your mother got us through two world wars, remember, and that’s just to mention the last century.”

Comparing this to world wars wasn’t exactly reassuring, either, and Fallon chose that moment to excuse himself for a few hours’ sleep.

Edmund did not move. Instead he placed his weight on one polished black loafer, folded his arms, and stared at me.

“You’re too young for what is happening. You won’t be able to deal with what is going to happen to you—to us.”

Before I could process those words, he was gone, fleeing down the long white corridor, lined with servants’ doors, back to the entrance hall.

“Edmund, come back! I demand you explain that statement!” I yelled in his wake. The entire staff in the kitchens could probably hear me through the doors, but I didn’t temper my anger. “If you are referring to my visions, I’ll—”

There was no point in continuing. He had disappeared. Instead I turned back to the conservatory and had barely crossed the threshold when a waxy leaf belonging to a white lily, so vast and heavy its stem drooped to the floor, caught fire. Making surprisingly efficient tinder, the entire leaf was engulfed. The single white lily did not survive, either. I left the pile of ash I had created.

“Damn it, why won’t anybody explain anything to me?!” I hissed.