Chapter 3 – REGINA
Chapter
Three
REGINA
T he stone gargoyles perched on every corner of the gothic vampire mansion seem to be staring through me through the fog with their ruby eyes. There's even a wrought iron gate covered in ivy, flanked by stone lions with their clawed paws gripping marble orbs.
There is nothing subtle about vampires.
They've been the drama queens of the supernatural world since before electricity, and apparently, no one bothered to tell them that ostentatious castles in the middle of urban neighborhoods scream "we're not fucking human" louder than a neon sign.
But I'm not exactly swimming in options here.
The flyer I found tacked to a bulletin board at a supernatural-friendly coffee shop promised good terms for a Bonded position with the Crimson Heart Coven.
A little redundant there with the name, but okay.
The word "prestigious" appeared three times in two paragraphs, which should've been my first warning.
My second warning should've been the blood-red cardstock.
But beggars can't be choosers. And if I don't find someone to sever my ties ASAP, that's exactly what I'm going to be.
I adjust my jacket and check my reflection in my pocket mirror.
My glamour is still holding. It's costing extra energy to keep it perfect, but I can't afford to let it slip right now.
Not here. Vampires are vain creatures who delight in physical perfection.
The last thing I need is for them to see what's under the magical mask before I have a chance to properly sell myself.
Ugh. I feel like both a used car and the salesman.
The iron gate creaks open at my approach, because of course it does. Dramatic bastards.
"Name?"
The voice materializes beside me and I flinch, hard.
A vampire, tall and pale with cheekbones that could cut glass, stands closer than any stranger should.
He's beautiful in that undead way, with lips too red against alabaster skin and eyes as black as a starless night.
His Italian suit looks so expensive, I'm afraid I'll accidentally touch it and have to pay for ruining it.
"Regina Cook," I say, feigning confidence. "I'm here about the Bonded position."
His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in those depthless eyes. Hopefully interest, not hunger. "Follow me."
We cross a garden that somehow blooms despite the season, roses climbing trellises in midnight hues. Magic, obviously, but a different flavor than mine. Older. Bloodier.
"The Court has been seeking a suitable magic-user for some time." His voice carries the faintest trace of an accent I can't place. "Few meet our... exacting standards."
Court? There's no way these guys are more than a standard coven, even if they do have a powerful vamp or two in their ranks, but I guess coven doesn't sound flashy enough. And it doesn't distinguish them from witches.
Vampires consider most witches beneath them. Actually, most vampires consider everyone beneath them.
"I have… unique qualifications," I reply, leaving it deliberately vague. No need to show all my cards yet.
He smiles, revealing the barest hint of fang. "We'll see."
The massive oak doors swing open before us, revealing a foyer that could swallow my old apartment whole.
Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, velvet drapes—the complete vampire cliché package.
Do they have a supernatural interior decorator who specializes in "blood aristocracy chic"?
Or does the taste for overindulgence come with the fangs?
My escort leads me through winding hallways to what can only be called a throne room. Because of course they have a fucking throne room.
Three vampires lounge on ornate chairs at the far end—two men and a woman.
The apparent leader, a blond man with chalky marble skin and a face that belongs on Renaissance paintings, occupies the central throne.
The woman to his right has skin like burnished copper and wears a cocktail dress that very well may have cost as much as every piece of opulent furniture combined.
The third vampire, pale and dark-haired and brooding with steepled fingers and black eyes, watches me with naked calculation.
A half-dozen more vampires hover around the room's edges, their stillness unnatural. Guards or courtiers, hard to tell with vampires. The pecking order is always complicated.
"Regina Cook," my escort announces before melting back into the shadows.
The blond vampire rises with liquid grace. "Welcome to the Crimson Court. I am Valerian, First of the Blood. These are my companions, Esme and Dominic."
Esme ?
At first, I think he's joking, but the laugh dies in my throat and I have to pass it off as a strangled hiccup when I realize they're all dead serious. Fortunately, they don't seem to notice.
He descends the dais steps to stand in front of me. Up close, his eyes are the color of aged whiskey, and his smile is practiced perfection with fangs poking out over his lower lip.
"Thank you for seeing me." I keep my voice steady, my posture straight. Showing weakness to vampires is like bleeding in shark-infested waters.
"The pleasure is ours." Valerian circles me slowly. "You're a witch, obviously. But there's something... different about your energy."
I tense. "I'm a siphon."
The quiet murmurs around the room confirm that I've captured their attention. Good.
"A siphon?" Esme rises now, joining Valerian. Her accent is faintly French. "How extraordinarily rare."
She says it like she's just been offered a new designer bag that isn't even on the market yet.
"And valuable," adds Dominic, remaining seated but leaning forward.
"I can channel magical energy and amplify it," I explain, though they certainly know what a siphon is. "I'm currently seeking a new coven arrangement."
"Currently seeking." Valerian stops in front of me, too close for comfort. He smells of blood beneath the expensive cologne. "That implies you were previously... attached. Why the change?"
The question I've been dreading. I weigh my options. Lies would be detected instantly by their heightened senses. A partial truth, then.
"My previous coven and I had a difference in philosophy."
"Philosophy," Esme purrs, gliding around me. "Such a delicate way of putting things."
"You're running from someone," Dominic states bluntly from his throne. "I can smell the fear on you."
Damn vampires and their sense of smell. My jaw tightens. "I'm seeking mutually beneficial arrangements with a new group. My personal circumstances are irrelevant."
"On the contrary." Valerian gestures, and a servant appears with a silver tray bearing crystal glasses of dark red liquid. "Your circumstances are entirely relevant to our interests. Please, drink."
I take the offered glass out of politeness but have zero intention of consuming anything in a vampire lair. The liquid inside is too thick to be wine.
"We should discuss terms," I suggest, steering the conversation back to business.
Valerian smiles as if I've said something charming. "Of course. Please, join us in the parlor. More intimate for negotiations."
The "parlor" turns out to be a luxurious sitting room with plush velvet furniture and a roaring fireplace that provides the only light.
The shadows dance across ancient tapestries depicting unnecessarily violent scenes of war and death.
Every streak and droplet of painted blood is the brownish rusty color of the real deal.
Esme pats the space beside her on a crimson chaise lounge. "Sit, little witch. Tell us about your powers."
I choose an armchair instead, maintaining distance. "As a siphon, I can draw energy from various sources and redirect it into spells. I specialize in protective enchantments and illusions."
"Daylight spells?" Dominic asks immediately, revealing their primary interest.
"Yes. I can create amulets that allow limited sun exposure, but sigil tattoos that can be re-enchanted are better for longer-term daywalking."
Valerian leans forward, eyes fixed intently on me. "And what do you require in return for such valuable service?"
"Protection. Accommodation. Access to magical texts and components I need for work." I pause. "And a formal bonding with your coven that would sever my previous ties."
"Previous ties," Valerian repeats softly. "It sounds more like current ties. To whom, exactly?"
No point hiding it now. "The Crescent Hollow Coven. Led by Kyle Evergreen."
I expect some reaction—Kyle's coven is well-known in magical circles—but Valerian merely raises an eyebrow.
"Evergreen. Yes, we've crossed paths." His tone suggests those paths weren't friendly. "A competent witch with delusions of grandeur. Nothing we can't handle."
The vampire arrogance is almost comical. Kyle's coven is powerful, but vampires never admit to fearing anything younger than several centuries.
"He won't let me go easily," I warn them. "I was their Thirteenth."
That gets a genuine reaction. Esme's eyes widen fractionally, and Dominic sits up straighter.
"The Thirteenth position is sacred in traditional covens," Dominic murmurs. "You must have been exceptionally valuable to them."
"I amplified their magic," I confirm. "But the arrangement became... untenable."
"How fascinating." Valerian slides closer, predatory interest sharpening his features. "And now you offer similar services to us? What a generous proposition."
His tone makes my skin crawl, but I push through. "A mutually beneficial arrangement. You gain a powerful magical ally. I gain protection and a new bond to break my old one."
"And what else might we gain from you, Regina Cook?" Esme's fingers trail along the back of the chaise, her blood-red nails unnaturally sharp. "Siphons are known to require energy sources."
Here it comes.
"I can draw from natural sources," I say carefully. "Or from the ambient energy of a bonded group."
"Or from individuals?" Valerian suggests, his eyes fixed on my throat.
"That's one possibility," I admit reluctantly.