Chapter Six #6
Scarlett had always enjoyed the fledgling’s inquisitive mind.
The Patrikia had written back, pleased with Mihaela’s visit, expressing a willingness to offer her another welcome.
They could teach her so much more; to fight and to hunt, to read the stars, and to honour the Blood as only the ancients used to.
“Surely you jest.” Now Nhalme looked at her, frowning. “She is a child in mortal years, barely a vampire.”
“And Ingenuar did abandon her,” Penelope added, her words stabbing like a knife.
“Aren’t you going to petition on behalf of the Basilissa; your mistress?” Scarlett turned to her, genuinely curious.
“Oh, please.” Penelope all but rolled her eyes.
“And you—” Betül stood up and walked over to the mantelpiece. She jabbed a ringed finger into Raffaelle’s chest. “I have seen you being sweet with the Countess. Has she put you to it?”
“Dulior had ambitions to make Silvio Regent, and we all saw how that turned against her. Silvio as Master gives her nothing, it takes everything from her. He might banish her from the Coven, and Emerick would take Béziers. Dulior holds no favour with him either.”
August made a face. “Ah, yes… The French whore.”
“That whore might become your new Regent, August. Careful.” Penelope sneered, far too amused at the prospect of seeing her brother humiliated.
“You do not want Emerick as your enemy,” Nhalme sighed.
“He can turn Silvio against us. I am sure Suleiman is also waiting for an excuse to sever ties with the Coven. One word from the Comte—the slightest suggestion, even in jest—and you will have Antalya against us. Athens does not care; they are practically their own Coven as is.”
“Silvio as Master could get us Athens back.” Penelope nodded, running a hand over the smooth surface of the table, as if envisioning the outlines of her homeland. “As for Antalya, let that periapt Comte glibber all he wants.”
At the suggestion that Silvio held influence over the Antalya Coven, Betül turned her attention from August to Penelope.
She bit her lip, fighting back the insults she wanted to hurl at the Greek woman.
In recent years, a rumour had spread that Silvio had gained an audience with the Sultana, that he had even seen her.
The very idea that someone outside the Turk Coven might have seen the Sultana’s face was outrageous.
There was no proof, nor could there be. The only one in possession of that knowledge was the Emir.
Yet, Scarlett mused, Ingenuar had favoured Silvio and relied on him to accomplish the unthinkable.
If Silvio wanted it, he could have Emerick scrape the image from the Emir’s mind and see the Sultana’s face for himself; bring the empire of old to its knees and back under the fold of the Coven.
All Silvio had to do was arrange for the two men to meet.
You are not planning on telling Gülsün and Eurycleia, are you? Scarlett leaned in and tipped her head against Nhalme’s ear, speaking in his mind. They have a right to know Ingenuar is dead.
“Not until someone is on the throne,” he whispered low, so low Scarlett had to strain her senses to catch the words.
“Nhalme,” she breathed his name, “what are you afraid of?”
“One of us, then?” Raffaelle offered, moving away from Betül and finally sitting at the table.
Once seated, he began to examine his clothes, frowning at the cuff of his shirt. It was stained with something. He ran his tongue nervously over his lower lip and along the inside of his mouth, and then a recollection surfaced. A strange image flickered in his mind for a moment.
Sister, Nhalme’s voice spoke softly in Scarlett’s mind, halting her before she could delve deeper into Raffaelle’s memories. Would you rule?
I would have walked into the fire with him, if it made a difference, Scarlett replied in her thoughts.
Beside her, Nhalme flinched; his hand found hers and squeezed.
Why didn’t you?
He made me live. He gave me the Blood to live.
“No,” Nhalme almost snarled; he was growing impatient, agitated by their suggestions. “If we are to choose among the Regents, the one easiest to puppeteer is Silvio.”
“What of the Comte?” Penelope leaned over the table.
“We can use this opportunity to create distance between them,” Nhalme explained, a plan beginning to form in his mind.
Someone pulled the chair at the end of the table and dragged it loudly across the floor. August sat down with a thud and crossed his legs. He had suddenly found himself all alone. Even Raffaelle had come to sit close to the All Mother and the vampires at her sides.
Scarlett fought back the smile threatening to overtake her whole face.
This is why we need a Master, someone outside the Council’s bickering and petty fights.
They were not elders; they were children given too much freedom, drunk from the sweet vein of power their station had given them, mistrustful and hateful of their fellow playmates.
“We vote,” August announced. “And I vote for Nhalme as Coven Master.”
“Silvio!” Penelope’s voice rang out, not even waiting for her brother to finish speaking.
“The Sultana,” Betül added, ever faithful.
“Nhalme,” Raffaelle uttered the name with slight reluctance.
He is the oldest, Scarlett thought. With Ingenuar dead, Nhalme was the oldest living vampire that they knew of.
He would make a good and just successor to their father.
He was not going to be the All Father, but he would work tirelessly to replace him, not letting the Coven and territories fall into ruin.
Nhalme would not be able to reunite the mistresses, but he would make them keep their distance; keep this illusion of peace and unity between them and Berlin.
Nhalme, who was holding her hands still, having stopped the tremors.
Nhalme, who had helped carry Ingenuar’s body and had stood by her until the last flame died out.
Scarlett did not need to look at the faces of her kin around the table. She had already made up her mind.
“Silvio,” the All Mother said.
“Silvio,” Nhalme repeated as an echo.
They had summoned the Marquis to the library. Alone. The Comte was to follow later.
Silvio had changed into a dark brown tweed suit the colour of bark, with high-rise trousers that made him appear taller than he was.
He unbuttoned his jacket and took the chair Nhalme had placed a little aside from the table, where the rest of the Council still sat.
Scarlett noted that Silvio was dressed like a human, suited to the weather; the burgundy polo under the jacket looked cosy and warm.
The leather of his shoes was recently polished, and his short hair was brushed back in a way that suggested a lover running their fingers through the curls.
And a lover might have done just that, as the Marquis had spent most of his time before and after Ingenuar’s death in his room, with the Comte.
Probably feeding on the help, too, Scarlett regarded Silvio’s flushed cheeks, a sure sign that he had drunk blood before coming here. Usually, his mind was abuzz with images and scattered thoughts, but now, seated among them, quietly taking them in, Silvio’s mind was blank. He was unreadable.
For a moment she was full of pride for him.
How far Silvio had come since the first time he had visited the Coven; how easy they had peeled his secrets and fears, desecrating everything he was.
Now she could only feel the unease and frustration of the others at how they were unable to read the Marquis’ mind.
Having no taste for preambles or overtures, Nhalme cleared his throat and turned to face the Marquis.
After the vote he had grown silent, letting go of Scarlett, and avoiding talking to the rest. The Council had chosen another, someone outside of Ingenuar’s direct bloodline to take on the mantle, and yet they still relied on him to lead, to take the initiative.
The pressure receding, Scarlett took the opportunity to observe her kin more closely.
Nhalme, her elder brother, looked like he came from Ingenuar’s part of the globe—where the Blood had found him.
He could have been in his thirties or forties as a human; the Blood had erased every scar and line from his cheeks and eyes.
He had a light stubble, which defined his jaw and gave him a rougher expression; his short dark-blond hair must have shone golden in the sun.
His eyes, now focused on the Marquis, were blue and ever-shifting, like the ocean.
Nhalme preferred to dress in simple clothes, relying on their practicality, as one used to working with his hands—swinging an axe or riding bareback.
He rarely talked about his mortal life: how Ingenuar had found him, or what the All Father had said to make Nhalme ask for the Blood.
At the other end of the table, the youngest of the group—August—was Nhalme’s complete opposite in stature and appearance.
Hailing from western France, he had chosen Berlin as his residence.
He was closer to Scarlett’s age, his skin a rich dark-brown set against his cream-coloured shirt and the fabric of his suit, the shade of Calla Lillies.
Tonight, August had left his hair in its natural length, the curly locks twisted around his scalp.
A few times he leant in and tried to get Raffaelle’s attention, but the other man seemed transfixed on Silvio.
“We have a proposition for you, Monsieur Bracci,” Nhalme announced, purposefully foregoing the Regent’s title. “Our Coven needs a Master, and the seat is yours—if you choose to accept it.”