Kingmakers, The (Vampire Empire Book 3) (25 page)

She joined him on the settee and watched in amazement as he poured her tea with careful precision. There were even porcelain teacups, which he gingerly handled. “How on earth did you manage this?”

“Pet was no help at all, but it is rewarding just to see you smile.”

“You made tea,” she stated incredulously. “And eggs!”

“I had no idea how fragile they were.”

“How many did you break?” she asked, laughing.

“I'm not answering.”

“Two-minute eggs are my favorite.”

“Two minutes?” he said nervously.

Adele proceeded to grab one and crack it open. The yolk was hard and very firm. The whites were discolored and like rubber. “Well, five-minute eggs are good too. They smell a bit…minty.”

“That's the tea,” he said.

Her mind brought up that same day in the British Museum. “You remembered.”

“Yes.”

Adele lifted her teacup and took a sip. Immediately the musky flavor of eggs mixed with mint and something like coal hit her tongue. She made a great effort not to grimace. She closed her eyes and swallowed, and then smiled at him. “It's wonderful.”

She set the teacup to the side and turned to him. She wanted to live only in this moment and in the warm touch of his hand. Tonight of all nights, she didn't care about policy or species. She only wanted to lie with him forever. She removed his glasses and slowly unwound the scarf from his face. His hand lifted to hold the nape of her neck as she kissed
him. Resting against him she wrapped her arms around his chest, clinging to him. Her eyes closed. Another captured moment frozen in time. She had learned to relish them more than any other. They were fleeting, as was his time with her.

“I don't know how to let you go,” she whispered with a voice broken by soft despair.

Pulling back, he brushed her lower lip with a callused thumb, barely touching her, and then kissed her once more. It was like being scalded with an open flame one second and then soothed with ice in the next. Adele closed her eyes and felt his gentle fingers move to her cheek and temple, ear and neck.

He pulled her closer to him so that their bodies crushed together. Adele's skin was flushed, and his hands were cool and reviving. She heard his scarcely constrained breathing as it drew in and out in a poor imitation of a normal function. Where his fingers were coarse, his lips were soft and firm. The contrast made her sway in his arms. He bit back a moan and pulled away from her again, but she wouldn't let him. There was no hesitation now. She ran a tongue lightly over his lips as if searching out one last taste of him.

He froze and then asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She repeated, “Yes.”

“We will never be parted,” he assured her. “Never.” His voice was soothing, full of a future life that they could only dream about.

Her consciousness fragmented into a dozen separate sensations. She felt as if she were in freefall, her arms wrapped around Gareth's neck as they stepped off the precipice. The soft rolls of the cushion beneath them; the scent of mint on the evening ocean breeze; the cool timber of the settee against her bare thigh; his firm hands across her ribs. Sensations swirled and coalesced behind her eyelids, fading and then surging again.

She would never stop loving him no matter where their paths led them. Never would she have regrets.

A
LEXANDRIA WAS SWADDLED
in black. Windows, doors, shop fronts, and lampposts were festooned with somber drapery blowing in the wet Mediterranean wind. It was the day of Prince Simon's funeral. Men went about with black armbands, and women wore widow's weeds, or mourning robes and scarves.

The city was heartbroken, but there was also a sense of bottled rage waiting to surge north.
Avenge Simon
was the watchword of the day. Broadsheets were plastered on the grand avenues and narrow lanes, as well as the back alleys, demanding the manhood of Equatoria rise up and show their mettle.

In the days since the palace had announced the terrible news that shocked the city, volunteers to the army had increased by thousands. Men from all walks of life crowded recruiting stations in Alexandria, but also in Cairo and Mombasa and Ulundi and Damascus and Shiraz and Bombay and Mandalay and in countless towns and villages across the Empire and associated states. They raised their hands, took the oath of loyalty to the empress and the sirdar, and demanded to be armed and dispatched across the Mediterranean to kill vampires.

The front page of
The Times
brought citizens to tears with a photo of General Anhalt greeting the empress dressed in black. The sirdar was well known to have been a favorite of Simon's, a natural father to both
imperial siblings. And there, in a stark candid photograph, was the stern officer and the sister caught in a moment of shared sorrow. Those who had been present at the touching meeting noted how particularly stricken the empress appeared when the crowd began to chant “Death to Gareth.”

The Greyfriar was not in Alexandria. In fact, he had not been seen since the murder of Prince Simon. His disappearance saddened many who were sorry that he was not present to comfort his empress. The overwhelming belief, however, was that the swordsman was in hot pursuit of the murderer Gareth. Only the legendary Greyfriar could track the prince of Scotland to his lair, and kill him.

At the funeral, Empress Adele defied protocol yet again by walking in the funeral cortege. As a woman, she should have ridden in a carriage behind the casket. However, she insisted on walking alone behind Simon's coffin carried on a black ammunition caisson drawn by six massive black horses whose hooves clopped loudly in the dense silence as black feathers bobbed with each horse's steps. Behind her trod General Anhalt, leading an Arabian stallion with a black cloth draped over its riderless saddle. A drum beat slowly in time to the shuffling feet moving out the main gate of Victoria Palace.

The wagon carrying the casket clattered into the narrow streets of Old Town, where onlookers hung out windows and overhanging second stories. Following the sirdar came the Privy Council and General Staff. All members of Commons who were physically capable walked slowly behind, headed by Prime Minister Kemal. More than two hundred official mourners flowed south to the main city, where they reached the great crossroads at Karnak Square. Under watchful but tearful eyes, the parade circled the roundabout and went back toward the palace via a different route.

Prince Simon had been the nation's little brother, and they all needed to see the funeral since he would be interred under Victoria Palace, away from access to the general population. To most, the only pretense in the ceremony was that the prince's body was present in the black-and-silver casket. Simon had been lost at sea after being carried away by Prince Gareth before the eyes of his horrified sister. The thought of that brave boy struggling to stay afloat, sinking exhausted into the water, dying frightened and alone, only added to the rage toward the callous vampire assassin.

The procession wended its way back into Victoria Square, passing the mighty equestrian bronze of Emperor Simon I. Those in the crowd bowed their heads, removed hats, and saluted in honor. The empress placed a hand on the back of the casket as she followed her brother through the mob. Tears flowed from everyone.

The horses and caisson passed through the gate and entered a phalanx of White Guardsmen at attention. The cortege halted before the front portico. The empress stepped back to Sirdar Anhalt's side. She watched, idly stroking the empty horse, as a single drum beat out mournful time. Members of her Harmattan led by Captain Shirazi approached the small coffin with slow, measured paces. They reached up and took hold of the silver handles with white-gloved hands. Then, with each beat, they drew the casket back, taking the burden onto their shoulders. When the weight was fully on the soldiers, they wheeled and marched up the steps, again led by the drummer. Empress Adele fell in behind, followed by Anhalt and the rest of the court mourners. Slowly, the recessional disappeared into Victoria Palace. The great entry doors closed. Soldiers moved into place across the portico.

The remainder of the ceremony in the crypt below the palace would be away from prying eyes. Funerals of the imperial family were always private, and the fear of attacks after the opera bombing meant everyone understood the increased need for security.

The crowd began to drift away, their thoughts turning to their own families and the threat from the north. If the vampires could reach out and seize the royal family, there was no one they couldn't grasp. The growing fear and anger over the enemy to the north was tempered by the one figure so notably absent in the funeral procession.

Everyone expected and fervently hoped that when Greyfriar returned home, Prince Gareth would be no more.

Lyon seemed more crowded than the last time Gareth had passed through. There was a frenetic war sensibility, packs moving about, herds being brought in from the countryside and left to wander the city. The stink of close-packed humanity had risen.

Gareth drifted to the Hotel de Ville, and the Lyonnaise watched the stranger with suspicion, another sign of a city at war. Two vampires confronted him as he started inside.

“Name yourself,” one demanded. “What’s your business here?”

Gareth drew up haughtily. “I am Gareth of Scotland. I’m here to see Flay.”

Both guards stepped aside with sneers. “Fine.”

Gareth strode past them, ignoring their curious glances at the canvas bag he carried. He passed through corridors clotted with recently spilled blood until he found Flay in conference with another vampire whom Gareth took for the Lyonnaise war chief. Their tone was not collegial, and the anger was palpable.

As soon as he entered, Flay rose with her eyes locked on the bag. The Lyonnaise continued debating tactics, arguing for an attack on Grenoble to liberate it from the humans. When he noticed that Flay was no longer listening, nor even pretending, he glared at Gareth.

Flay moved toward the prince, nostrils flaring. “So, you have it.”

Gareth tossed the bundle on a nearby table and slouched in a chair with unconcern.

The Lyonnaise war chief raised his arms sarcastically. “Are we finished, then? Is our discussion concluded?”

“Yes, Murrd,” Flay said without looking at him. “I’ll send for you when I require more from you.”

“Oh. Well, fine. I’ll just go then?”

“Yes. Go.”

Murrd huffed from the room, muttering about how this was Lyon, not London.

Flay lifted the bag and smelled it. The canvas was stained with an enormous amount of dried blood. She then dropped it.

Gareth asked, “Don’t you want to look at it?”

“It’s a hand, I’m sure. You did it. You actually killed the boy.” She smiled broadly as she perched on the edge of the table with an open posture she hadn’t shown to Gareth in very many years.

Gareth posed with a cavalier finger to his cheek, but his gut twisted with bile at the war chief.

“I imagine the poor princess is quite distraught with grief.”
Flay laughed and lay back on the table, her long arms stretched out languidly and her night black hair swirling around her pale face. The long coat from her blue-and-buff military uniform fell open, and her high leather boots squeaked as she twisted her feet together.

Gareth could kill her in this moment. He desperately wanted to do it and wipe Adele’s name from the war chief’s lips. He might never get such a chance again. Her bare chest and sternum lay open as she exulted in her moment of triumph. He sat up and flexed his fingers. However, killing Flay now wouldn’t serve the long-range goals he and Adele had. He needed the war chief if he was to become king.

She glanced at him from her place supine atop the table. “Nothing to say, my lord? You’re not concerned about the princess’s discomfort, are you?”

“No, Flay. I’m only thinking of the future.”

“The future? What’s next for the Greyfriar?”

“Nothing. The Greyfriar is dead. He’ll be seen no more.”

Flay looked strangely saddened. “That’s too bad. I wanted to kill him.”

“You have, Flay. In your own way.” Gareth grew stern.

“Fine.” The war chief sat up, almost disappointed that a grim Gareth had truncated her excitement. Still, there was a sense of relief about her, a calmness that he rarely saw. She picked up the bag with the boy’s hand, swinging it idly. “You are summoned to London for his coven and coronation.”

Gareth laughed bitterly.

Flay said, “Cesare wants you to witness his triumph. He won’t be crowned without you there.”

“Or dead.”

Flay shrugged. “That’s not his preference. Yet.”

He said, “Then it will benefit me to take my time traveling to London.”

“That won’t please Cesare. He’s already missed one full moon.” Flay tossed the canvas bag into a corner. “What is your plan?”

Gareth leaned forward. “Can you still turn the Pale against Cesare?”

She scowled. “My control over them isn’t what it once was. Many of the old members died in Edinburgh at the hands of the butcher Clark.
The newer recruits are more loyal to Cesare than to me. I have specific fighters I can call on, but many of the packs were reorganized by Hallow and Cesare during my exile.”

“It’s obvious that Cesare fears you. Tell me more about Cesare’s allies. Perhaps there’s a weakness there.”

Without hesitation, Flay laid out what she knew of Cesare’s politics. Gareth already knew about his brother’s so-called Grand Coalition of the North—consisting of London, Munich, Budapest, and New York—but there was more to learn. She explained the ties with St. Etienne and Lyon, and the failure to draw Grenoble into the group. Already it was annoyingly complicated with deals on provisions of herds for the packs of allied forces. And Cesare was providing promises to allow his human, Lord Aden, to mine coal in clan lands. Gareth smirked, but didn’t interrupt. Flay was grateful she had little to do with the politics, even though she had to suffer constant bickering from Lyon about receiving compensation for feeding the British packs who came to fight. Fearing an imminent human push from the south, the packs of Draken of Munich were breaking off from the Hungarian front to reinforce Lyon.

Flay concluded, “The key to the future is Paris. The northern French clans will come into the war, but only if Paris does. King Lothaire will only treat with a king. Hence Cesare’s rush to the throne.”

Gareth nodded thoughtfully, considering with silent alarm the wide swathe Cesare was planning. This would be the greatest clan alliance since the Great Killing. It would be a federation of packs likely sufficient to roll back the struggling human offensive. And it would make Cesare king of kings in all but name. However, Paris was an interesting twist.

“King Lothaire,” Gareth said, “was a friend of mine.”

“Was?”

“Well, I haven’t exactly maintained my companionships among our kind for a century or more. But we were quite close once. I lived with him in Paris for many years.” He pointed at Flay. “I think we should pay him a visit on the way to London.”

“We?”

“Of course. We have to coordinate our action against my brother. Is there some problem with you leaving Lyon?”

Flay said eagerly, “No. I’m the alliance war chief. If I have reason to travel, so be it. When should I meet you in Paris?”

“A few days. Keep a low profile, if possible. We dare not let Cesare know that you and I are together. We’ll sound out Lothaire’s support for our coup.”