Chapter 1
Aspen - Present
D ressed in all-black tactical gear, my family and I sit in the main chamber’s gallery. My father, siblings and I are wearing hooded balaclavas to hide our identities. An image of pure dominance and the force behind the Syndicate.
To the left of us, sits the American government factions. On the right sits other nations’ high politicians. Both sides are mostly human.
In front of us sits the most heinous crime lords in the world. Some human but mostly a mix of werewolves and vampires.
Mom called an emergency meeting with the Syndicate to address the incident in Texas. The southern Mexican Cartel was caught illegally transporting goods at the Texan borders. Not only was the transportation illegal but it was the goods that raised concerns.
“President Sofia Perez, are you stating on record that you had no idea what were in those containers?” my mom asks with false confusion.
“Madam Regina, I swear it on my life.” Sofia places a tawny manicured hand across her chest. “I don’t even know what’s in the containers,” she responds with bewilderment.
My mom presses the clicker in her hand, and a collage of pictures is on the projector screen next to us.
In the images, there are cargo containers with humans strapped in individual pods.
They look malnourished and are being pumped with red liquid in clear tubes.
Tubes in their noses, throats and veins.
Blood.
“I-I,” President Perez stutters, scrambling to find words, any words to explain what we are all seeing.
Silence.
Utter silence as my mom continues to press her clicker and new images are shown on the screen. Each image gets progressively worse until we reach the end. We all collectively move closer to make out if we are all seeing the same thing.
Fangs.
“I-I don’t know what this is,” President Perez defends, sweat glossing her temples.
Mom leans forward in her seat, looking down at the president with her fingers interlinked.
“I have a hard time believing that the President of the great country of Mexico, is clueless of the human trafficking within her borders. And it’s not just human trafficking but genetic mutation testing to those being trafficked. ”
“Madam—”
Mom raises a perfectly arched eyebrow.
My mom is the perfect image of sweet but deadly. Her pretty face will fool someone into thinking she can be controlled, that she can be someone’s puppet. Yet under all that softness is a viper with a venomous bite that can and will kill anything.
“Sofia, lying and pleading never looked good on you sweet girl.”
President Perez swallows.
“Now, according to the ordinances of the Syndicate, this act is punishable by death. For you, since I watched you grow up and your parents were dear friends of mine, I’ll just take your position.
You will address your nation and tell them you are stepping down and that a new election will take place.
At that time, I will appoint Gabriel Sanchez.
He’s your cousin and you will still have power by proximity. ”
This is my mom’s version of reasoning.
Her version of fairness.
“Madam Regina, you can’t!” President Perez protests, walking up to mom’s high seat, clutching the railing in front of her.
“I can. I will. I did,” mom states matter-of-factly. “There’s always the second option,” she muses. “Death.”
Sofia’s hazel brown eyes with red flecks burn with hot rage. Looking straight into my mother’s eyes she commands, “slit your throat.”
Mom’s eyes dilate and she stands extending out her retractable katana sword.
Onlookers suffocate with their curiosity, but they sit still in the silence. They observe with widen eyes of interest of the performance before us.
The corners of Sofia’s lips curl up with satisfaction, as though she’s winning something grand. As if she’s accomplishing something off her long bucket list. She smiles with glee with a pinch of greed.
My family and I remain still and unbothered.
“Your reign is over Regina. We will all watch you fall and then we will watch your legacy crumble next,” Sofia says confidently before chuckling hysterically.
Unfortunately, Sofia didn’t know that my mom is one of the ancient ones. My mom is a direct heir to an original, such power can’t be used on her .
Regina Saint-Claire embodies all powers of vampire descent. If she could be enthralled, she wouldn’t have been reigning over the Syndicate for the past six hundred and eight years.
Prior to that, she was my grandfather’s executioner for two hundred and twelve years. She was placed in that position when her older, and only, brother died of the Great Flu. Before her, he was the executioner for four hundred and forty nine years.
My mom is one thousand, two hundred and ninety-one years old. You couldn’t tell by her looks alone. Besides the stern yet gentle facial expressions, she could pass as late forties in human years. There are barely any wrinkles in her warm maple skin and her ombre eyes are sharp as ever.
When my grandfather died, he passed his seat to my mom, his last living child. Through her, she was only able to pass down the Obsidian Drifter gene to the twins, Roman and Raevyn. It could be because she sired with my dad who is a siren.
My poor father’s genes didn’t get passed down to anyone.
A whooshing sound cuts through the air before there is a loud thud.
Sofia’s laughter was cut off by the slicing of my mom’s sword, along with her head. It rolls a few times before her lifeless body falls on top of it.
Sofia is— was— a thraller. Her power, like most with red flecks in their eyes, can compel people with commands.
“Word to the wise,” my mom says smoothly, cleaning her katana with a black cloth before retracting the blade.
“If anyone of you foolishly tries something like this, let the late Sofia be your reminder of my mercy. There is none. Any form of human trafficking or harvesting humans for nefarious experiments, will be crimes punishable by death.”
Mom snaps her fingers and my brother, Roman, grabs my arm to step into the shadows. We drift, reappearing moments later in my parent’s upstate New York mansion.
“Honey, you overdid it today,” my dad fusses over my mom as they walk in from my mom’s shadow. He pulls off his hooded balaclava and lightly grabs her wrist. “Did you sprain anything? I spent hours teaching you how to swing and cut with the least resistance.”
She waves him off. “Aslan, there was no resistance. Please stop the nagging, you’ll give me a headache.”
She secretly loves when he nags, prods and fusses. We know it and so does he. Which is why he keeps doing it.
We all make our way into the great room next to the open kitchen. I take my hooded balaclava off, breathing in the fresh air. It’s too fresh, not a note of seafood gumbo and rice. “Dad, I thought you said grandma was visiting us this week?”
Whenever I’m in New York, my grandma makes it a point to travel up from New Orleans, bringing me my favorite southern dishes. Yet there are no hot pans on the kitchen island of an array of any kind of food.
My face turns sour.
“About that,” he starts. “Apparently, she and your Uncle Marcel are preparing for his daughter’s arrival. He’s waiting on the tides signal since he isn’t certain of the actual day she will be in the undercurrent archway.”
Oh, that’s right .
Uncle Marcel, dad’s youngest and only brother, has been preparing for his daughter, Jorah, for years now. His daughter is not from this world and honestly his life’s story is too much to even comprehend. Every time I try to piece things together, it spurs on a major migraine.
Since I never presented siren abilities, I never delved deeply in the culture. It’s too… complex.
“Pen, if you want southern cooking, I can whip you up something,” Roman says tugging me in a light headlock, his long locs obstructing my view. “I can make you some fried chicken—”
“No, make country fried steak with white gravy,” Raevyn interjects. “Honestly, as long as you make fried scalloped potatoes, I don’t care what you make.”
“No, this is for Penny. What do you want?” Roman peers down at me, still holding me in a headlock.
“Mm,” I tap my fingertips across my lips. “I want Nashville Spicy Fried Chicken, roasted brussels sprouts and creamy mac and cheese.”
“Hell no,” Raevyn cuts in. “I was with you until you said brussels sprout. That will have you gassy for days. Pen, I don’t want to be blown to bits when you decide to light this house ablaze.”
“Brussels sprout soured my stomach one time, and you just won’t let it go,” I push Roman away, embarrassed.
“It’s mainly any green foods that sour your stomach. Do y’all remember when she was sixteen and she ate that kale balsamic salad in the Philippines?” Raevyn teases.
“She had explosive diarrhea,” Roman grips and stomach laughing. Extremely hard, extremely loud.
Alright, it’s not that damn funny.
Stomping further into the kitchen, I can hear their chuckles taunting me from behind. Annoying. Pulling a bar stool from the kitchen’s island, I sit and drum my fingers across the countertop.
“I need to get my nails done,” I murmur looking down at the gap between my bubble-pink painted stiletto nails to my nail bed. “Roman if you’re done laughing at my precious expense, I’m ready to eat any day now.”
***
My stomach is stuffed. Roman outdid himself today. We were limited on ingredients, so he made fried chicken, corn on the cob, seasoned green beans and gouda mac and cheese. I ate every bite. Like Mikhail, Roman has a knack for cooking.
He gets it from dad. Dad likes to think it was his cooking that won mom’s frozen heart over. He wooed her with constant home-cooked meals. Mom is always on the go when it comes to the Syndicate. Dad helps her slow down. His favorite saying is everyone has to eat .
That we do.