Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
ROMULUS
As I wake, I realize I’m still myself—still in control of our body. A small victory.
I hear a gentle knock at the door and, moving quickly so Lauren won’t wake, carefully unwind her body from mine.
She’s wrapped around me like a vine—one leg thrown over my hip, her arm across my chest. I lay her gently on the pillow beside me, arranging her carefully.
She stirs slightly, making a small sound of protest, but then her gentle snores continue.
I smile despite myself, then hurry toward the door before whoever’s there can knock again and wake her.
I quickly throw up the glamour—feeling the magic settle over my features like a mask—then open the door to find Abaddon hulking in the hallway beyond.
It’s strange to see his usual lion’s face shaped into that of a bearded human man. Wrong, somehow. Yet it’s still recognizably Abaddon—those fierce golden eyes, that commanding presence, the way he fills a space just by existing.
“Romulus?” Abaddon inquires, eyes narrowing as he studies me.
I nod curtly.
“Good,” he says with satisfaction. “The gathering’s about to start, and I need my strategist.”
I grab my shoes from beside the door, tugging them on quickly. I take one last glance over my shoulder at Lauren sleeping peacefully—dark hair spread across the pillow, face relaxed—and follow him out, closing the door with a soft click.
Layden hovers behind Abaddon in the dim hallway, tapping his foot impatiently. “We need to get going. Now.”
Hopefully, if the meeting goes quickly enough, I can be back before Lauren even knows I’m gone. Before she wakes and finds herself alone in a vampire’s nest.
“Kharon’s staying behind to watch over the women,” Abaddon whispers, obviously sensing my anxiety about leaving Lauren unguarded.
I breathe a little easier at that and follow my brothers down the darkened hallways. The fortress is even more oppressive at night—or is it day? Hard to tell with no windows. Stone walls press in from both sides, lit by those fake torch sconces that cast more shadow than light.
Layden takes the lead, moving with confidence. Obviously knows where he’s going.
Abaddon and I exchange meaningful glances as we walk. Our little brother has some explaining to do, and soon. He’s spent time here—that’s abundantly clear from how the granddaughter looked at him, how he knows the layout. But he also managed not to reveal the secret of who and what he is?
Grandpa Vlad doesn’t seem like the most welcoming sort of fellow. Or the forgiving kind.
Finally, Layden pushes through two massive double doors into a large, vaulted room. No windows here either—of course not. The décor is the same suffocating black broken up occasionally by gold accents. Heavy velvet curtains that go nowhere. Dark wood paneling. Oppressive and deliberate.
Several dark, lush couches are arranged in a circle—staging for a performance. And in the center, on a small raised dais, sits Grandpa Vlad in a golden wing-backed chair positioned like a throne.
He’s obviously used to being the presiding power in any negotiation. Expects deference. Demands it.
Already calculating advantages and weaknesses.
“Have a seat, gentlemen,” he says coolly, notable lack of welcome in his cultured voice.
To his right sits his granddaughter, Phoenix, whose eyes immediately warm when they meet Layden’s. She leans slightly toward him—unconscious body language revealing connection.
I clock that immediately. And the position of all the other players in the room.
Several of Vlad’s apparent “sons” are positioned around the perimeter at strategic intervals—hands held loosely by their sides and within easy reach of the bulges at their belts. Firearms, I can tell by the shape. Modern weapons.
Which tells me they’re used to dealing with human rather than supernatural threats. Interesting. And likely good for us.
I prefer to be underestimated in any potential conflict. Let them think guns will help them.
“Tell us the situation,” Vlad instructs his granddaughter, looking at her pointedly after we’ve all taken our seats on the couches. His voice carries command—expecting immediate obedience.
“We’re still waiting for—”
“I said to begin,” Vlad snaps, voice cracking like a whip.
But then the door opens, and another young woman scurries inside. She looks around at both the room and the assembled vampires with wide, alarmed eyes—prey animal recognizing predators.
She only calms down slightly once her gaze catches on Phoenix, who half-rises out of her seat as if to welcome her before Vlad places a hand on her elbow.
Stopping her. Controlling her.
“Sabra,” Phoenix breathes out, obviously relieved.
I wonder again at the dynamics here. It’s clear Vlad has some kind of hold on Phoenix—psychological, magical, political? And yet she, amongst all of his kin, is the only one seated beside him. Clearly she’s a favorite. Or holds some other sway that makes her valuable despite his obvious disdain.
Power and resentment intertwined. Fascinating and dangerous.
“Sit,” Vlad’s voice cuts through the room like ice on glass.
Sabra sits nervously at the end of the couch nearest Layden. The two of them briefly exchange a glance—recognition, familiarity, something more?
Ah. So she too knows our secretive little brother. The plot thickens.
“Now, as I was saying—” Vlad sounds irritated, looking back to Phoenix with narrowed eyes, “—begin.”
Phoenix takes a deep breath and sits up straighter in her chair. She inches slightly closer to Layden and Sabra—subtle positioning, probably unconscious. Seeking allies against the authority figure.
“Sabra’s mother was a powerful mage who worked with my grandfather,” she says, looking back toward Vlad.
I keep my face carefully neutral, though Abaddon’s eyes widen slightly beside me. A tell he needs to work on.
Vlad’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “She was a madwoman.”
“Maybe,” Sabra speaks up, her earlier nervousness apparently evaporating as her eyes harden. “Or maybe you just didn’t like what she was telling you anymore.”
Bold. Either foolish or confident in her protection.
A hissing noise comes from Vlad—inhuman, threatening.
Phoenix jumps in quickly, mediating. “She sometimes saw visions from other planes when they intersected with this one. Visions of the future.”
“And what her mental state was like at the end of her life isn’t the point,” she hurries on, leaning forward as if to block her grandfather’s view of Sabra.
Protective. “The point is that you know she saw true things at times. And one of the visions we suspect might have been true was when she foresaw that all life on Earth as we know it would be threatened by spirits from the other realm.”
Vlad makes a spitting noise—contemptuous. “Nonsense. Spirits cannot traverse realms.”
I force myself not to look at my brothers, but I feel Abaddon shift beside me. Another tell.
Vlad catches it immediately—sharp, observant. “Do you know different?”
Layden speaks up, though I register he does so cautiously. Choosing words carefully. “We have some experience with spirits who can cross realms. Usually it’s only a one-way journey, though. To a very specific realm.”
It’s a half-truth. Clever. He’s talking about Kharon, who carries human souls to the death realm when they die.
But we all witnessed what his newborn daughter did on the helicopter—tearing open portals to places that shouldn’t exist. Lauren shook with real terror as she described that dragon dimension, and I saw the damage to the aircraft myself from whatever they’d encountered there.
“But it proves that realm-crossing is possible,” Layden concludes.
Phoenix looks her grandfather boldly in the eye—unusual courage, considering his obvious volatility. “And my mother told me she’d witnessed it before too.”
“We do not speak of that,” Vlad swipes a hand harshly through the air, face contorting with anger. Old wounds there.
“I’m just saying we know realm-crossing is possible,” Phoenix presses. “So Sabra’s grandmother’s vision is possible if something unforeseen changes the variables.”
“Nothing ever has,” Vlad says stubbornly, glaring. “Short-term possession is not true crossing.”
“Until now,” Layden interjects quietly.
“What?” Vlad demands, attention snapping to him. Then to all of us. “What does your family know?”
Again, Layden speaks for us—taking point. “I know that I’ve been watching the world’s computer systems, and something alien has been infiltrating government AI. Soon the humans will lose control of their own technology, and they won’t even see it coming.”
“How do you know if they don’t?” Vlad demands, leaning forward. “What makes you so special?”
Good question. I’m curious myself about how much Layden will reveal.
“I have a certain connection to the spirit realm,” is all Layden says. Vague. Diplomatic. “I recognize the runes in the AI algorithms as a language of spirits from another realm. It’s invisibly interlaced on top of the humans’ code—driving and directing it toward the spirit’s ends.”
“Which is? What do they want?”
“We don’t know,” Phoenix says, “but they knew enough to realize Layden was watching them. They could sense him and his family and used the human military to attack them.”
She pauses for effect.
“Whatever they’re trying to do, they don’t want to be stopped.”
“Even if I were to believe any of this nonsense—” Vlad waves a dismissive hand, “—why should I care about what computers in some other country are doing?”
Phoenix’s mouth actually drops open—shock at his willful blindness. “They’re infiltrating Russia and China, Grandpapa. And you know enough of the world to realize anyone who starts with those powers won’t stop there.”
She leans forward, passionate now.
“You have a good life here. You have control and power.” Her last words are said through her teeth, as if it’s not something she’s entirely happy about. Resentment bleeding through.
Vlad shrugs his shoulders—unconcerned.