Chapter 1
Chapter One
After dark had fallen—early, for wintertime, and doubly so for all the coal smoke and smog that filled the air—a woman swathed in black disembarked from Paddington Station and merged with the foot traffic on the streets of London.
Ignoring the cries of shopkeepers and flower sellers, she moved slowly through the thick, choking fog, heading east towards the poorer districts, the narrow thoroughfares where no one looked up, the alleys devoid of light.
Genevieve walked past crowded omnibuses and cabstands, staring sightlessly ahead. It was cold, but she couldn’t feel it. A part of her not numbed by grief rebelled against the path her feet trod—but where else could she go? What was left for her now?
At her elbow, someone tugged. Her hand clamped atop the grimy paw before she thought.
“Cor blimey, miss, you moved fast,” the urchin said. Two green eyes stared up at her from under a ragged cap. “And you don’t half smell. What is that?”
“It’s the dye,” Genevieve rasped. She had paid a woman in Oxford half of what was in her purse to do the dyeing of her dress. It felt senselessly wasteful now—but at the time, it had seemed like the most important thing in the world.
“Where you been, Miss Dryden? The tykes been missing you.”
“I’ve been away, Fletcher,” she whispered. “A—death in the family.” Her voice caught. Genevieve hurried on, even as the boy called after her.
In a lonely, putrid street with houses leaning crookedly against each other, she held her breath and willed her body to still. See me not, she thought.
Then she passed between two large men who stood at either side of a house’s open basement entrance.
Neither one registered her presence. Inside the basement, she walked to the back and pushed aside a grate that a woman of her slight build should not have been able to lift.
She descended into the bowels of London.
Genevieve trod along a narrow walkway without light.
She followed the path until it met with one of London’s underground rivers that had become a sewer and then took that track until she reached a hidden door in the brick.
Pushing it aside, another feat she should not have been able to accomplish, she passed through.
Several minutes later, she stepped into an underground cavern teeming with people. She moved past the cavern’s inhabitants and staggered down a familiar narrow passageway, fumbling as her vision blurred.
“Genevieve?”
She stopped and braced herself against the stone transom, like it would hold her up.
Elspeth stepped out of a crack in the passage that led to their bolt hole. She reached up a hand and self-consciously patted her blonde hair, making sure she had pinned it to cover the sides of her head. “What are you doing back here? I thought—has he called you back?” Her voice trembled.
Genevieve shook her head and pulled off her old-fashioned bonnet, hands shaking, revealing her short dark hair that just brushed her chin. “It was no use. I was too late.” Her voice broke. Genevieve covered her face with her gloved hands. A whole year too late.
“Oh, no.” Elspeth’s arms came around her. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”
The tears that Genevieve had valiantly tried to hold back escaped.
Blood trickled down her cheeks as sorrow crashed over her in waves.
All her hopes to which she had clung for so long—dashed.
Shattered around her like miniscule slivers of glass, never to be put back together.
Determined to slice her to ribbons if she moved. Oh, Papa.
“Why did you come back, Genevieve?” Elspeth murmured. “I had hoped you would seize your freedom.”
“All I wanted was to find my father. Without him, where could I go? This place… It’s the only home I have left.”
“What an awful thought,” Elspeth said on a broken laugh.
“And I thought you would need me,” Genevieve admitted.
Elspeth pulled back and looked her in the eye.
“Dear, we’ve leaned on you most shamefully for support, and when you were no better off than the rest of us.
You deserve your time to grieve. Let us be strong for you for once.
” She handed Genevieve a fresh handkerchief. “Here, or you will stain your gloves.”
That produced a fresh wash of tears. Genevieve mopped her eyes and stained the cloth red. “But what about you, Elspeth?”
Elspeth shook her head. “I am still bound, but others felt their bonds part as well,” she whispered. “No one really knows what happened. But there’s some disturbance tonight. Sparrow went to see what was happening—here she comes.” They both looked up.
A patter of rapid footfalls announced Sparrow’s arrival. “Elspeth! Elspeth—oh! Genevieve,” Sparrow fluttered. She had taken the name because of her diminutive height and her high voice. “You’ve come back! I didn’t realize.”
The noise from down the passageway grew louder.
“What is it?” Elspeth asked.
“You must come—both of you! They’re saying that the Draugodrottin is dead!” Sparrow exclaimed.
Genevieve exchanged a shocked look with Elspeth. The master of all the vampires in London and much of England, dead?
Rupert, the Draugodrottin, had taken control of the vampires of England for twenty years, coming to power just before Genevieve and Elspeth had been turned.
She had heard that Rupert had taken the chance to kill the prior master, Theron, after part of the prior master’s power base had been slain by another.
Styling himself with the mythic title “Draugodrottin” instead of the traditional “Master,” Rupert had removed strictures on turning new vampires to increase his power base but had exerted ironclad control over everyone else.
Sparrow twisted her hands together. “Everyone is converging in the main hall!”
The old role of marshaler and mother hen felt familiar, even as black despair tried to pull her under. “Well, we must go and see, I suppose,” Genevieve whispered.
She balled up the bloody handkerchief and put her bonnet back on before she and Elspeth ventured out into the hubbub of the main hall.
Sparrow nodded to the group approaching the cavern’s makeshift dais, one that the Draugodrottin always used to sit upon in a great chair he had styled as a throne to look upon his thanes and thralls.
“They arrived not long ago, gathering all the loners and far-flung ones. They’re about to make an announcement. ” Sparrow pressed a hand to her throat.
Elspeth seized Genevieve’s hand, holding it tightly.
A tall man with long hair unbound around his shoulders and a blond beard stepped onto the dais.
His face was set and resolute. Though he could not be older than middle thirties physically, something about his eyes looked ancient.
In his hand, he held a naked sword, its long blade gleaming in the scant light.
Genevieve had never seen him before.
Most vampires had a distinctly feline look to them, thin and whip-like. If they were cats, this man was a lion. He was broad-shouldered and well-muscled. A warrior in a frock coat.
Strange. Most strong emotions in vampire eyes showed as red. His eyes glowed yellow.
His voice rang out, silencing the whispers in the cavern.
“The man you called ‘Draugodrottin’ is ash now. I killed him. He forfeited his position long ago. The missing ones among you he sold to humans in exchange for gold. He violated any trust you had in him.”
If Genevieve’s heart had been able to beat, it would have pounded.
“Is that what happened to Otto?” Elspeth whispered. “Here one day and gone the next?”
Whispers circulated. Out of the crowd, a thin, wavering voice asked, “Who are you?”
“Some know me as Kendrick. I have watched the decline of leaders over the centuries, and I say to you no more. I lay claim to the throne of the Ossuary. Are there any here who would challenge me?”
Genevieve and Elspeth looked to Sparrow in confusion. In a whisper, Sparrow explained, “In order to become the next Master, he must defeat any challengers in single combat, or the title will not be truly his.”
That made sense. From what Genevieve had seen, vampire politics were brutal and bloody. But centuries of leaders? “Could he really be as old as all that?” Genevieve murmured.
“None of us have ever seen him before,” Sparrow said. All across the chamber, murmurs spread.
Kendrick gestured to himself. “Are there none among you who will challenge me?” He scanned the assembled vampires, then turned around to stare at the crude runes behind the dais that the Draugodrottin had set in stone to pontificate about his power and might in poor Anglo-Saxon grammar. Kendrick made a face.
He can read it, Genevieve realized with a start.
Out of the crowd, a figure flew forward, a knife outstretched.
Kendrick pivoted faster than the eye could follow. In one smooth motion, his sword thrust pierced the heart of the vampire who had tried to stab him in the back. The knife clattered to the floor.
The room fell silent.
Kendrick frowned. “In the back? Is this the sort of honor that the vampires of London possess?” He pulled the sword free. The body fell to the floor. He brought his sword down once more to part the head from the shoulders, and the body slowly crumbled to dust and bone.
“Who else covets the throne for their own or thinks me unfit to rule? Who will challenge me, face-to-face?” Kendrick demanded.
There was no answer.
“Do you then acknowledge me as ruler of the Ossuary?”
All around the chamber, vampires knelt in obeisance. Genevieve and her fellows did the same. “Master,” the London vampires whispered. “Master of the Ossuary.”
A grimace flashed across his face, there and gone so fast, Genevieve thought she might have imagined it.
“For too long,” he said, “the Ossuary has been ruled with fear, intimidation, and dishonor. I will make you a vow to be different. Keep your faith with me, and I will keep faith with you.”
Genevieve swayed under the nearly physical impact of his voice. It rolled over the crowd like a wave, and she could see the effect on the faces around her. His words flowed like hot butter, rich and thick, assuring them of his good intentions, swaying them into acceptance.
The people around her stared in awe, murmuring in amazement and disbelief.
Genevieve’s eyes narrowed. He sounded like a vampire accustomed to getting his own way. As if true transformation of a broken and corrupt system could be accomplished simply on his say-so. What did he know about what London’s vampire Ossuary needed? Who was he?
“Now what?” she whispered to Sparrow.
“Now he’s the Master,” her friend said.
“That’s it?”
Sparrow stared at her, her brow furrowing. “What else is there?”
“An indication of how his rule will be different?” Genevieve suggested.
Sparrow just blinked at her.
Kendrick turned. He dug his fingers into the stone behind the dais and with one large hand, he wiped out the crude runes. With his finger, Kendrick dug into the rock and began to write.
Genevieve’s lips parted in shock. He was writing new words into the stone. Ones that made her throat tighten with emotion.
Sceal teodna gehwylc teawum lifgan,
eorl aefter otrum eele raedan,
se te his teodenstol geteon wile.
How did he know that phrase? And did he mean to live up to it?
“Genevieve,” Elspeth whispered, “you’re crushing my fingers. What does it say?”
Genevieve swallowed, belatedly releasing Elspeth’s hand. “It’s from an Old English poem. It says, ‘Let every leader live aright, earl after earl in honor rule, who thinks to thrive and his throne maintain.’” Her shattered hopes sliced like a knife.
“We shall know a man by his fruit,” Genevieve murmured as Kendrick finished the phrase.