Besieger

Prelude

MY SON’S BODY went into flames like a parchment effigy.

They built a pyre behind the mansion when they saw how the skin peeled off. Where their hands touched, the meat shrivelled and the bones crackled, splitting the skin. The corpse was starting to fall apart, disintegrating into dust without the Blood.

I breathed in and felt nothing. My lungs filled with the smoke and cinders.

The small group gathered at a safe distance from the flame and their empty eyes devoured the light of the pyre. There, in a shallow grave, the fire cracked, taking with it the last pieces of the oldest living vampire—their Master. My son.

In their minds I saw the emptiness, outweighed by the quickening realization that they needed someone to replace him.

Appointing an heir was a prospect vampires hardly entertained.

They made others by giving them the Blood, they chose companions and lovers, but why choose an heir when you were meant to live forever?

Ingenuar had ruled over his Coven of chosen few for centuries.

One might say he was older than the continent they stepped upon, had they thought to ask.

He had grown tired and weary. He did not want the immortals to spread in other corners of the world.

He dreaded how Scandinavia and Asia beckoned, an echo of a past empire.

Over the years Ingenuar had sired countless blood-drinkers.

One of his last remaining kin stood closest to the fire, holding onto a woman.

I could see in her mind the want to let go and walk forward; walk until her legs burned and crumbled with the remains of her lover.

Ingenuar had chosen Scarlett as his consort—a companion to sit beside his throne and help him govern, never ruling herself.

There in the shadows with ashes and soot in her hair, stood the fledgling—cardinal daughter of his bloodline—Mihaela; her dark eyes were following the smoke as it disappeared into the night sky.

She had helped carry the body outside—blood barely dried on the soles of her shoes and on the front of her jeans.

Neither she nor Scarlett had stepped forward when the Council began their quarrels.

The Berlin Coven must have a Master, they said.

Whether Ingenuar had taken his own life or if it was taken from him was of little importance.

The throne stood empty. The Council needed balance and order.

They needed someone they could control but also one capable of ruling without their guiding hands.

And who better to lead them than the very immortal who wanted the throne the least?

The Regent of the French domain was a vampire with ambitions the Coven could not nourish, and he stayed away from their intrigues and feuds.

The Regent was a recluse, living in an ancient watchtower in Béziers, visiting the Coven only when called upon.

His lover followed him when necessary, but the eerie powers he was wielding made him unwelcome in Berlin.

The other immortals dreaded what he could do if he put his mind to it.

But Ingenuar liked the Regent; liked the potential in him.

A relationship I watched flourish over the years, as if to spite me.

It was the Regent’s maker, the scarlet widow, who had long ago suggested the master of Béziers. It was she who whispered poison into the Council’s ear—that they should banish his lover to France, while the Regent ruled in Berlin. The Council listened, eager to right the scales of power.

They saw the possibilities in bowing to the Regent.

Though arrogant, he had a sense of decorum and abided by the rules.

He had been an immortal for millennia, having only created a single vampire, leaving his Blood strong and pure.

The vampires in Greece and Turkey liked him.

Some believed he had even seen the Sultana’s face and lived to tell the tale.

The members of the Council entertained this scheme, their pleasure poorly masked.

Some were dimly aware that there were those who could easily trespass into their thoughts, and read these ploys.

Others cared little—grief clouded their judgement.

The sun was slowly rising in the East, the sky ready to burst in colour and light. Satisfied with the ashes on the ground, the vampires carved their way inside, not knowing that a traitor walked among them.

That I had killed my son, their Maker.